NorthWord Literary Magazine - Volume 5, Issue 3

In this sacred time of earthly disruption, and intense change, all our relatives: mohsom pîsim (grandfather sun), kôhkominaw (grandmother moon), okâwîmâwaskiy (mother earth), nôhtâwiy kîsik (father sky), kanâtisiw nipîy (pure & clean water), têpakohp okiskinwahamâkêwak (seven teachers) commune in a great collective vibration for humanity to return to a relationship of being

northern lights by Nicole Cormier

cover art by Sara Loutitt metoni oti ᒣᑐᓂ ᐅᑎ -

northern canada collective society for writers

president Dawn Booth

secretary Hanna Fridhed

treasurer Sundas Shamshad

member at large Alisa Caswell

public relations director

Kiran Malik-Khan

e-mail northwordmagazine@gmail.com

web www.northwordmagazine.com

This Issue: Volume 5, Number 3

Spring 2023

ISSN 1920-6313

cover Sara Loutitt

design & layout Rachel White-Murray

issue editor Scott Meller

managing editor Jane Jacques

president emerita Jennifer Hemstock

Proudly published in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada

56°44’N | 111°07’W

by kiran malik-khan PR Director community report

our issue 26 launched, and wood buffalo hosts first ever writer’s conference

Another publication is in the books for NorthWord – A Literary Journal of Canada’s North. Our 26th issue was enthusiastically received on October 2, 2022 during a virtual launch event. Poetry and prose lovers spent an insightful afternoon amid beautiful words. Guest edited by Alisa Caswell, the journal’s member at large, the issue has a theme of Space. The gorgeous cover art is by local artist Jessie Levesque.

“It was wonderful to see so many come out for our Space launch! Editing is a lot like writing—you are hunkered down in your own world, reading, sensing, and looking at the artwork. After the final selections are made, there is still a long wait, while so much hard work is done by the NorthWord team to bring the issue to life!” notes Alisa.

Jane Jacques, Managing Editor, NorthWord comments:

“We were delighted to see our contributors and friends of NorthWord at the launch for Issue 26. The "Space" theme called forth multiple interpretations, as guest editor Alisa Caswell explained, and some of the poets present shared their own conception of "Space." We also enjoyed a preview of the visual art that appeared in the issue, and our cover artist, Jessie Levesque, described the inspiration for her fabulous illustration. It's always a treat to see such creativity alive and well in our community and beyond. I'm already looking forward to the launch of Issue 27 next year!”

Speaking of which, the next issue will be guest edited by Will Collins, local writer/communicator and musician. Deadline is May 30, 2023. 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.

In other news, shoutout to Arts Council Wood Buffalo

for hosting Wood Buffalo’s first-ever writer’s conference in December 2022. The event brought together best-selling Indigenous and non-Indigenous authors to the community with youth and adult sessions held over three days.

Free copies of NorthWord, published by the Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers 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, Avenue Coffee, and the Fort McMurray International Airport.

Follow us on Twitter: @NorthWordYMM. Like us on Facebook: NorthWord. Visit our website: northwordmagazine.com.

Issue #26: Attachment digital launch event.

recently my children started piano lessons , and because of that they are much more attuned to all things music now. We watch a lot more programming that is music centred, or has a music theme, and in one of those programs the characters broke down the elements of music to Melody, Harmony, Timbre, Rhythm, and Intensity. This may be a simplification of a much more complex form, but I was intrigued by the intersectionality of the word “Intensity” and how it has so many applications in the arts. Here, it is the conveyance of emotion.

Visual artists might use light and colour to vary intensity. Musicians might use tempo, embellishments, and articulation. Performance artists might use tempo, and visual cues like body language, stage position, and facial expression, but the commonality of intensity in delivery of artistic expression is a lifelong exploration. I have challenged our community of the written word to display a literary expression of intensity. The results have taken some elegant and amazing twists and turns, as you’ll see, and it was no small feat to cull through the submissions looking for pieces that spoke to the theme of intensity!

I want to thank everyone who shared their work with us. If your work was not selected, it was not for a lack of effort or talent. These particular works caught my attention in the moment, but I would share them all if I could!

Please, enjoy a journey that is eclectic, diverse, but most of all… intense!

Scott Meller | issue twenty - seven editor

intencity

veronica wood

Aaden had made a point to never set foot, let alone breathe the air, of IntenCity. “IntenCity is a crime against humanity,” he had said to his coworkers during multiple debates about its morality. Yet, here he was, assigned to investigate a month-old homicide in the last place he would ever want to go. They were definitely getting a laugh out of this down at the precinct.

It was the latter half of the journey, and the shuttle was in full view of the only city that orbited Earth. The large space station had screens that looped around it, flashing words and phrases such as, “Indulge!- Feel EVERYTHING ALL AT ONCE!- Welcome to IntenCity!- Indulge!…” Aaden looked away from the window and reached into his pocket. Despite how bad the pollution made the air smell in some districts, he was thankful that nose filters were readily available. 100% filter or 100% money back guarantee! the package read. He barely noticed the passenger beside him gasp. The passenger asked, “Why would you bring that? The air is what matters, man!”

Aaden glanced at the suave looking man, shocked that someone who looked like him talked so casually. “I’m going for business, not pleasure.”

“F man, I feel sorry for you, the dragon is what makes it.”

Aaden shrugged, and replied, “To be honest, I feel sorry for you.”

The young man ignored him and said nothing else, hiding behind his straight shoulder length hair. Aaden continued to apply the breathing apparatus, resisting the temptation to see how funny it looked. May as well get used to it, he thought.

in her brain the way she used to, the extra dose of the vaporised opiates eased her up. She couldn’t help but dwell on her guilt, after how her last date had ended. That had been a month ago. She stopped putting on makeup, staring into her mirrored eyes. They looked the same, but didn’t feel the same. The image of a dead man flashed into her mind. The man that she had killed. She began to brush her long black hair, trying to ignore her concerns. She was desensitised, so accustomed to the dragon-infused air that she no longer felt the intensity for which the city was named. So accustomed that she had sought an alternate source, one she would never have imagined.

Desiree continued to push the memories away, ignoring the guilt. Ignoring the fact that she had gone too far, that there was no turning back from what she had done. Leaving IntenCity was not an option, not with the state of Earth. Her phone went off. It was her date, messaging her that the shuttle had almost arrived, that soon he would see her. You could always cancel it, her mind said, and she said aloud, “I shouldn’t let this happen again.”

Despite it all, half an hour later she arrived at the shuttle station to meet him. The man swept her off her feet, and for a while the worries went away. The gentleman even watched her sing for her entire gig; she was sure he did not shift his attention even once. His eyes reflected the stage lights like two bright stars in an empty sky.

Desiree took a deep breath. It was four o’clock. That meant night was starting. Night time was when the engineers increased the concentration of dragon in the air, fueling passion and pleasure. Though she didn’t feel the buzz

Everything you experience at IntenCity is felt to the highest degree, and Desiree had learned what a man’s eyes looked like when his brain was firing up with dopamine, and when she got off stage to be with him again, he had it. Seeing him like that, she thought, I will let him have his fun. I won’t take this away from him. She was determined to make that the truth, until he invited her to his hotel room afterwards. Her heart rate increased, and for a moment, she stopped breathing. She nodded, silently, and with a nervous grin followed him in.

The morning after he arrived, Aaden ordered a gigantic cup of coffee from the nearest shop. He would need it, now that a fresh crime scene had appeared out of nowhere the night before. He hoped he could find a strong lead for his investigation, as the files collected by security from the previous homicide were a cache of useless evidence.

The victim’s hotel room looked untouched, except for a small suitcase and the dead body lying on the bed. Deputy of security gestured for him to join her and a photographer. She said, “We haven’t found anything left behind, the man himself only had this small suitcase. Looks like he wasn’t staying here very long.” He turned to examine the body. Aaden felt his face harden as the man’s familiarity struck. It was the young man that had sat beside him on the shuttle. His clothes had been thrown to the floor, except for a belt, which had been left around his neck.

“It looks like a crime of passion,” the deputy said, her gaze trailing off. Aaden couldn’t help but feel for her. She was remembering reality, probably for the first time in a while. Remembering that we can’t always feel intense sunshine and rainbows.

His breathing apparatus itched, and he discreetly scratched his nose, then guzzled the coffee. It was strange seeing a dead man that was only alive the day before. Aaden’s eyes opened wide as he remembered the man leaving the shuttle. He had met someone, a woman. Perhaps there was footage he could find. It wasn’t a guarantee, but a picture of her could be the lead he was looking for.

The bar, The Chased Dragon, was not as underground as she thought, and was set behind a modern art exhibition that was usually less busy. She avoided looking at the grotesque pieces as she was escorted to the doorway. Behind her was an older man that stared at her in a way that made her nervous.

Oddly enough, the place was like most clubs on IntenCity. There was a bar and a giant dancefloor covered with flailing bodies bouncing to electronica. She didn’t join them, suddenly feeling out of place. A drink, she thought. She ordered a cocktail and sipped.

She was thinking of ordering another when a man offered to buy her a drink. His name was Raqi, and he was very open with her. The conversation started light, and then Raqi began drinking his third beverage. He said, “I’m going to be honest, I’m looking for some real fun before I go back home tomorrow.” She chuckled, and he winced. “I don’t want to go home,” he said. “Of course you don’t.” she replied. Raqi took a sip of the lime green drink that had appeared on the counter and explained, “My wife on Earth is making me.” He has a wife, she thought. She realised that she had, for a moment, felt like they were on a date. Not wanting it to be weird, she replied, “Yeah, sometimes real life sucks.” She too sipped her drink. That’s probably enough… I should get out of here. She thought, then, with another sip, she countered, Maybe not.

Days later, Desiree had come to terms with her desensitisation, and that she had to find a way to make it stop. She knew of places where they infused dragon with the drinks, but they were harder to find if you didn’t have some connections. She had lived and worked on IntenCity for years, and had just the place in mind. She prepared herself, applying colours to her face that she usually avoided. She really wished she was singing, but she seldom had gigs anymore, not since her first year here. The new club would be fun, and she thought, Something new is always thrilling. Again, she remembered her transgressions, and again, she pushed the memories away.

A man sitting by them interrupted their conversation. She almost dropped her glass. It was the man that had been behind her on the way in. The man said, “You should be glad to leave, this place is a cesspool.” Desiree was startled. People didn’t usually talk like that here. “You take that back!” Raqi cried. The man laughed with his deep, raspy voice. “I don’t like to pretend that any amount of this air, or these drinks, will erase my misery.”

“You crazy old man, you wanna go?” Desiree was a little shocked by Raqi’s reaction but too overstimulated to form her own words. She mumbled, “Raqi…” and began to pull him towards her, but he resisted. No doubt the adrenaline paired with the thick air and drinks was beyond euphoric.

The old man stared with large brown eyes, and shrugged, saying, “No, not really.” Raqi punched his shoulder, saying,

“Come on, I’ll erase your misery, by kicking your ass!”

“Fine; but if I win, I get your date.”

I’m not-” Desiree wasn’t able to speak in time, Raqi shouted, “It’s on, grandpa!” She felt that she should be horrified but, with her pulse beginning to jump, she couldn’t help but feel exhilaration.

Raqi waved his arms a little, punching his palms as he hyped up. Raqi’s aggressive swing was sudden, but the old man was surprisingly quick and dodged, matching with an uppercut. Raqi doubled over. He looked back up with wide eyes and barreled into the man. The grunt that came out of the old giant sounded ugly, but everyone standing at the bar whooped, somehow drowning out the loud music. The old man was still momentarily, and Raqi stopped for breath. Then, Raqi shot up. “I feel… alive!” he yelled, looking up to the cheering patrons who were watching. At this moment, the old man punched Raqi square in the face. Raqi’s head doubled back, and his neck cracked from the impact. He fell. Another patron was quick to check, his sweat dripping onto Raqi’s face. “Unconscious,” the stranger said. So Raqi hadn’t died. But, he hadn’t won either. The old man turned to her. He gestured to the door and asked, “So, how about we go for a walk, and tell me; who are you?”

The man, who had introduced himself as Aaden, eventually walked Desiree home to her apartment. Desiree hesitated before opening the door. “Should I join you?” Aaden asked. She bit her lip. Don’t do it. Her mind whispered. Her teeth formed together as she was about to say no, but she suddenly said, “Yes!” The volume and tone of her reply startled her as the word echoed in her brain. Did she sound suspicious? Suddenly she had thought, what if people had gotten wind of what she had done? She hadn’t checked the news, and she’d been avoiding coworkers… Wasn’t the fight enough excitement for one night? She shut her eyes briefly, breathing deep. Alas, no. Enough was never enough.

Once inside, Aaden sat at her small table, which was in the corner opposite to her bed. “How about some tea? If you have any.” She nodded. Tea sounded comforting. She

turned on the kettle setting for her water dispenser, and had two cups of rooibos in a moment. She sat down with the cups, and Aaden said, “Now that we’re here, I have some questions for you, Desiree.”

“Questions?”

He pulled out a small tablet and showed her a photo. She could not stop herself from gasping. It was a photo taken at the shuttle station the other day. He flicked the screen over, showing her a picture of her first victim, a photo of them at the reception desk at his hotel.

Aaden asked, “You know what happened to these men, don’t you?” His gaze wasn’t hostile, but still pierced her heart. The guilt of what she had done was too strong, and she began to weep. “Yes- yes, I-”

“Desiree, I am going to have to put you under arrest, unless you tell me everything you know and prove your innocence.” She couldn’t do anything but cry. He handcuffed her and led her to sit on the bed.

The tears stopped by the time he had called security for assistance. He sat next to her. She didn’t make eye contact, and ignored the screams in her mind that this was a confession. She cleared her throat and said, “There was a time when I wasn’t like this…”

“I know,” he said, adding, “I know what this place does to people.” His hands gripped his tea cup, despite the steam billowing from the mug. “The capacity for us to feel intensity is useless if it is not fleeting,” he said solemnly.

“I miss it,” she said, hunching over.

“What?”

“Feeling—something, anything.”

Aaden sighed. “There is no excuse for what you did, but you’re human, so I am willing to do this.” He came closer to her, and wrapped his arms around her in silence. And for the first time in a very long time, in the warmth of his genuine embrace, Desiree felt something real.

a letter to my boyfriend's ex

meghan whitmore

I don’t wish you ill, I actually want to thank you Thank you for not seeing how amazing he is. I appreciate you not fulfilling his needs and painting his world grey.

I thank god every day for creating the man you chose to misuse because I now get the chance to show him every single color this world has to offer.

Just know that when his darkness comes creeping in, I am there with a torch keeping his bad days away.

When he thinks he’s alone, he can reach for me and I’m right there. I will treasure every body part you brushed off. I will plant trees in his creativity that take roots to dreams come true. I will continue to captivate his imaginations with concrete solutions. I will love him in all the parts you couldn’t.

Addendum:

Thank you to my ex, for breaking me in ways I didn’t know I could shatter. Because if you didn’t, I never would have known how his soft hands can hold me together.

conflicting intensities

tineesha mckay

Feeling deeply is a paradox. One moment, you would set yourself on fire to feel alive— The next, you would take back every ash…that burned you deep inside.

hairy baugala (bah-ew-gala)

zachary wood

Joe was walking through the woods when he happened across a path he didn't recognize. He had no other plans that day and decided to see where the unfamiliar trail led.

After about a mile Joe exited the dense wood and came to a small clearing. There was nothing in the clearing but a set of stairs that was only about 5 steps, going down into the ground. Stuck into the ground was a sign.

Do not enter! the sign read.

Do not enter! Home of the Hairy Baugala

There was a giant ornate door at the top of the stairs, and Joe, being of the curious sort and having no idea what a Hairy Baugala was, decided to see if the door would open. Joe pushed on the door and it smoothly swung inward. Past that door was an iron gate which had a wheel connected to a chain. Joe gingerly turned the wheel until the massive gate opened.

There was another sign. "TURN BACK!" the sign read.

Joe, slightly unnerved, collected himself and proceeded to the next door. This door was made of pure steel and required one to slide a giant bar out of the way so the door could open. These doors also swung open with ease.

Another gate, another door, even a drawbridge followed, and Joe became weary that this was some sick prank. Joe finally came to a door with another sign that read "PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH THE HAIRY BAUGALA."

Joe pushed on that massive final door, and without so much as a squeak the door swung open, revealing a dark room with a cage. The bars on the cage had to have been about a foot thick, Joe estimated. He couldn't fathom what could be inside such an intimidating cage. There was a torch on the wall, which Joe grabbed before slowly approaching the cage. Silhouetted by the flicker of the torch was a massive, brown shaggy creature, asleep on

the ground. Its hair was thick and long, and its hands the size of his head. He looked closer and saw that each claw was bigger than his hands, and the thing’s fangs -- they were terrible.

Joe stared for a long while and approached the beast. Another sign came into view. “DO NOT TOUCH THE HAIRY BAUGALA.” As if in a trance, Joe neared the so-called Hairy Baugala. What seemed like hours went by, and the torch flickered as Joe stared in awe, transfixed on the Hairy Baugala.

The beast snored deeply and rolled over, coming flush against the massive cage closest to Joe. Unable to control himself any longer, Joe ignored all the warnings and reached out a pointed shaking hand. He stroked the creature ever so gently.

Nothing.

Then, an ear-piercing growl emerged from the creature’s mouth as its eyes opened, staring directly into Joe's eyes. The Hairy Baugala stood to its full height of over 8 feet tall and shrieked. The torch went out.

Joe backed from the cage in fear as the beast smashed the bars. Once the bars held fast, twice the bars groaned and on the third strike the bars shattered like glass. The beast howled so loud the chamber shook.

Joe turned and ran in fear. He crossed the drawbridge, went through door after door, closing what he could as he went. Behind him he heard pounding, groaning and doors exploding open as the monstrous beast slathered and howled. The steel door shut, then the iron gate shut. He reached the entrance, shut it and ran up the stairs into the clearing. Joe huffed and puffed, momentarily hearing nothing. At last he was safe.

BANG BANG BANG SMASH!!!! The door smashed open and the beast emerged. Joe screamed and ran towards the woods, the beast right behind him. Trees cracked and

exploded from the sheer force of the beast as it continued in pursuit. Joe looked back in terror, hit a stump and fell.

The beast was on Joe in a moment, towering above him. It knelt over Joe, drool dripping onto his face. The Hairy

Baugala reached out its long massive arms with its razor sharp claws, and touched Joe.

The Hairy Baugala spoke, "Tag, you're it," and took off.

the warrior and his spirit

sorina doiculescu

Stars are piercing the darkness of the night, intensifying the void between the earth and the creator. You can see a face, tired, muddy with a red mark shaped like a hand. After so long even he does not know if it’s paint or if it’s blood.

With intense gaze, the majestic eagle stands beside the warrior, facing the last part of his journey. Sending courage and compassion for his next steps in the circle of life.

The warrior breathes deeply into the cool air of the red sky. He gets up on a hill, watching the sunset away towards the other side. His vigour is fading, but his hope is always rising.

The Eagle and the Warrior are one.

With his golden beak, he pulls out from his right wing a feather gifting it to the warrior. “I bestow this blessing to protect your spirit and your honor, to guide you and give you the power and understanding of the talking feather.”

“It was a good ride my friend, you brought me bravery and strength on the battlefield where I defeat with honor my darkest fears”, the warrior voicing out his thankful thoughts.

The eagle turned to him and with a flap of his wings he whistled:

“Fear is like a worm that eats the rusted armor from the warrior’s flesh and leaves it rotten in the mud. For if I wasn’t there you would have seen the other side of the blade with ferocity dismounting your heavy head around your shoulders.

Now go, go back to your village and teach others about the power of the spirit, teach others to look up in the sky and make one with the creator, tell your story to your children and grandchildren, guide them through the circle of life and show them the light of every pathway that they take. Now this is your burden to carry on for generations, as my entity has come to an end on this earth and I will be watching from the stars.”

the man who lived in the lake

john siiro

A young girl disappeared in 1925, then a boy in 1940. These were the first two in a string of recorded disappearances all occurring at the same lake, despite being at different locations. Most disappearances occurred around campsites near the beach. All of them happened in the warmer months of the year, usually in the late spring, sometimes in the late summer or early fall prior to the lake icing up for the winter. Most families waited for years to see if their children would ever come home. All families waited in vain, for none ever returned. Fathers turned to drink and mothers turned to insanity. Siblings grew up in a state of bewilderment wondering where their brother or sister had gone. As the years rolled into decades and the decades into generations, the only constant was the inconsistent disappearances of young children. The local police were left without answers to give to families. There was never a clue left behind. Not a drop of blood, a scrap of clothing, a treasured toy or teddy bear. It was as if the earth had swallowed them whole, or the waters of the lake had dissolved them like sugar in water. It was assumed that the lake had claimed the first few as drownings, but even after extensive dragging of the lake bottom, no human remains were ever discovered. Not so much as a single shoe was ever found in that lake.

The lake was deep and cold, but not so large that it could not be thoroughly searched. As the years went by and technology advanced, divers were sent down to search among the mass tangles of dead trees and weeds that covered the bottom of the lake. All that the divers could report was that the visibility was poor and the lake seemed mysteriously absent of life. Most divers interviewed could not even recall seeing so much as a single fish during their searches. Sonar searches also did not uncover much more than the divers had in the murky sub-surface of the lake.

Older, long-term residents in the area could not remember their fathers or even their grandfathers fishing at the lake, despite it being the closest and largest body of water around. They always seemed to fish in other nearby lakes. Nobody could offer an explanation why, nothing even as simple as: “The fishing is no good.” or “There’s no fish in that lake.” They just didn’t fish that lake.

Boaters felt the same way. Despite the unusual calmness of the waters, even when the weather was foul, boaters rarely got out on the lake. There seemed no reasonable explanation. When the boaters were asked why, they appeared confused and stated, “I’m not sure why we never put the boat out on that lake. We just don’t and it’s always been that way.”

Though very few people ever ventured out onto the lake, many more people did find their way onto its shores for recreation and camping. It was a popular place for families and young people to gather during the summer. The camp-

grounds surrounding the lake were renowned for their beauty and the freshwater springs that fed the lake provided excellent drinking water. Cold enough to chill your favorite beverages or keep your food from spoiling. People would swim in the lake for short periods, but the exceedingly cold temperature of the water kept all but the most adventurous out. Small children - who normally revel in splashing in the shallow water of fine sandy beaches - would tip toe into the lake, then race back to their mothers, refusing to look back.

What could anyone say, other than it was a strange body of water? It was not so strange that anyone outright commented on it, even with the increasing number of children disappearing as the years went on. It was almost as if one generation forgot to pass the news on to the next: that kids were disappearing from the shores of that lake.

There was nothing about the lake that exuded outright fear or menace. It was, after all, a rather unremarkable lake, despite its irregularities. When they spoke of it, most people did not refer to the lake by name. It was likely that many people did not even know the name, or even if it had been named in the first place.

Some people knew this lake, though. Some people would always know this lake - what it took from them and what it gave them. It took their children, their future, and their souls. In return, it gave them a lifetime of sorrow, fear, and loss.

Anyone that has lost a child can agree that when that child is gone, so are the parents. Lost forever with their child, wandering aimlessly in their own minds, wondering what happened to their little boy or girl. Often, parents were reduced to a child-like state, unable to function as normal members of society. As children disappeared, more than one parent, and at least one investigating police officer, also disappeared without a trace. It is believed they committed suicide, unable to cope with the loss, the mystery, of the disappearing children.

1950’s that makes this tale interesting.

The young constable, Larry Olsen, worked at a police station just a short drive from the northern shore of the lake. He had gone out one morning to look around the lake for a clue to the disappearance of a four-year-old girl who had been missing for two days. A large search party had failed to turn up any trace of her. Although he was off duty at the time, the young constable, who had children of his own, could not bear the thought of a little girl lost in the woods, scared and alone.

Off he went one cool, clear morning and he was never seen again. That is, until the late spring of 2017, when the young constable was found sitting on the pavement outside the very same police station, wearing the same clothing he had been reported wearing at the time he went missing. The same wool hunting pants, the same green flannel shirt and brown leather hiking boots. The same cap on his head, covering the same haircut he had in 1957.

When the Watch Commander showed up for work that morning and saw a man sitting outside the door, he did not immediately notice anything out of the ordinary. However, on closer examination, he realized the man’s clothing seemed out of place, like something his grandfather might have worn. The young constable was wet through to the bone and he had an odd, distant look in his eyes.

When asked for his name, the young man stated “Larry Olsen.” The Watch Commander thought that name sounded familiar. It took him only a minute to realize that this was the same name that belonged to the constable who had disappeared some 60 years ago. Of course, the Watch Commander could not believe that this was the same person, and he thought the man shivering in front of him was likely suffering from some kind of mental illness and may have wandered away from a home, or a hospital. He could not explain the odd clothing, but he could only handle one mystery at a time.

It is a young police constable who disappeared in the

The wet and disheveled young man was ushered into the police station and offered a cup of hot coffee, which he

indicated he would like by quietly nodding his head. He was given some dry clothing to wear and his clothes were hung out to dry in the vehicle bay. When one of the other policemen examined the young man’s clothing closely, it appeared it was older in style with department store logo tags from businesses that no longer existed.

After nearly an hour and four cups of hot black coffee, the dull light seemed to subside from the young man’s stare and he became more animated, asking for food. His voice had as strange pitch to it, a low and guttural sound, almost a gurgle. After he was given a breakfast sandwich from the local coffee shop, he began to speak in a hushed voice, slightly louder than a whisper. When asked how he had arrived there, the young man said he could not remember, all he could recall was his name and that he had been looking for someone at the lake.

The Watch Commander - who was somewhat familiar with the story of the missing constable - asked him if he had found who he had been looking for.

“Oh yes,” the young constable replied, “I found her. I found them all.” With this utterance, all three assembled policemen felt a violent shiver run through their bodies and then a simultaneous feeling of nausea so intense - that one of them hastily left the room while the other two sat down heavily in their chairs.

“I found all of them,” he said, with a sob, “I found every single kid ever lost near that lake.”

“How many could that be?” asked one of the policemen. “There are hundreds of children down there. Hundreds.”

His words struck all of them dumb. No one seemed to think it strange anymore that they were talking to someone who had been missing for 60 years and yet didn’t look as though he’d aged a single day.

“There’s nothing in that lake!” exclaimed one of the policemen. “It has been dragged more times than I can count!”

“What you were fishing for, can’t be caught,” said Larry quietly, and the policeman found himself staring into eyes that felt as if they would burn right through his soul.

Eyes that had seen things that the minds of mortal men could not fathom.

“Will you take us there, Larry?” asked the Watch Commander, “Will you take us to the lake?”

“Yes,” he replied, looking blankly at the floor. “Yes, I will take you all there.”

#

They drove in two trucks down to the western shores of the lake, right up to the beach at the end of the most popular campground. It was early enough that the few campers out during the mid-week were not yet awake. Constable Jim Wilson, the young policeman who earlier had been so confident about the lake being dragged, did not want to approach the water, so he volunteered to stay with the trucks and start writing his notes. He watched as Constable Olsen took his fellow police officers down a narrow trail into the woods towards the beach. He stayed in the truck and dropped his eyes to his notebook, suddenly unsure of what to write.

Jim’s head jerked up suddenly and he felt a sinking feeling as if he had fallen asleep in class. He looked around quickly to see if anyone else was around. He glanced down at his watch and noticed about an hour had passed since his fellow policemen had made their way towards the shores of the lake. The sky had an odd hue to it and he realized that it had not been just an hour since he had last seen his companions. It had been more than 12 hours - and the sun was starting to set.

Frantically, he grabbed his radio and called for his partner and his Watch Commander. The radio was dead. So was the portable on his belt. He tried his phone, but there was no signal. There was no wind in the trees and the loons were not crying as they usually did at this time of the evening. He felt the silence like a resounding pressure inside his ears. It was deafening. A fear unlike anything he had ever experienced crept through him.

Jim got out of the truck and looked towards the campground. There was no movement and it appeared as though the campground was completely vacant. As he

turned toward the trail, it took every ounce of strength in him to take his first step toward the shores of the lake.

As he got closer to the water, he started to hear faint sounds, as though his ears had been plugged and were slowly clearing. He could hear the water lapping against the shore and the breeze in the birch trees surrounding the lake. Then the lake appeared before him, as calm as ever, like a pane of glass reflecting against the sky.

He could not see any of his companions, nor could he see the mysterious young constable they had found that morning. Jim turned to walk the trail back to the trucks, and as he did, he suddenly felt distinctly alone and very, very, frightened.

Then, looking back one last time over the lake, he saw a ripple on the surface, like a fish coming up to grab a fly, but this ripple was spreading towards the shore. It was then he realized that the ripple was not caused by a fish. Something was coming up out of the water and towards the shore - towards him.

He desperately wanted to run away, but he was frozen in terror and unable to do so, standing rigid as though in a trance. He watched helplessly as the young constable, Larry Olsen, lost for so many years, walked out of

the water, onto the fine sandy white beach, and straight towards him, a dull light emanating from his eyes. Jim’s knees locked up and began to shake as the lost constable, his wet black hair matted against the porcelain pale skin of his forehead, his wet clothes hanging from his gaunt body, reached out for him. He watched himself involuntarily extend his own hand like a small boy to his father at a fairground. He felt the lost constable’s cold, wet hand envelope his own.

He could hear his own voice growing fainter in his ears as he spoke his last words.

“Why? Where are you taking me?”

The pale young constable looked at him and smiled.

“They need us,” he whispered, “The children, you see. They need us to watch over them. They get scared in the dark without their parents.”

As the water rose over his eyes, the last earthly thing he could see were the white birch trees lining the shore, with their bright green leaves swaying in the wind. As his vision dimmed in the murky water, he could hear the waning sound of the breeze whispering through the leaves, and children laughing through his screams.

pieces of me

robin elson

Pieces of me

Scattered to the wind

And in this chaotic awareness of misplaced self I breathe.

Trying to regain a sense of what is missing.

Life in pieces

Strewn seemingly to the edges of the universe And within this vast sense of loneliness, I breathe.

I only need a foothold to start again

What lies within me is not the answer, But it is the course to discovery of so much more than just myself. Questioning, doubting, learning, exploring. Mistaking, trying, expanding, dismantling.

In the essence of discovery, the ultimate lesson is to, Just. Be.

ravens

marty rempel

failed trade

kiran malik-khan

Couldn’t have predicted Your death would make me a better poet Capturing eternity in succinct verses—filling a void— But I will trade it all

just to get you back for one more day

I’d embrace eternal mediocrity

For just one more day with you.

Gliding in groups above wheezing garbage trucks, like derelict seagulls winging over a seaward ferry, the ravens perch on street lights at sub-zero temperatures. They cackle and caw their midnight melodies and defy the elements as northern lights splendidly ply the night sky.

amarty rempel

Today for some reason I pulled the green sweat shirt with the gold letters, UNIVERSITY OF ALBERTA, off the top shelf and wore it for the first time in a very long time. It was a little tight. I kept looking down at the lettering and touching it to make a kinetic connection with it and

maybe the past.

I attended there several summers while getting my Master’s degree. I was away three summers enjoying myself with my studies missing my kids when I thought for the first time, while touching the letter A for Alberta that this was the time she continued her adultery that started in the Bahamas, continued through the marriage, so naturally it happened when I was away those three summers. It was a sunny day so I went inside and took off that sweat shirt and slipped into something more comfortable.

love storm

tineesha mckay

A perfect storm

All the pain we mourn

You are rain

I am a hurricane

You make me weep

I drive you deep

you wouldn't think it...

kiran malik-khan

You Wouldn’t Think It…

But dead people leave

too many clothes hangers behind… You wouldn’t think it until you are forced to.

Maybe it is not about the weather but about how we blew apart… and back together.

There was nothing

There is nothing Darkness

Nothing

It seemed a stifling matter to others, but everything to me. It was nothing, but everything.

I see my family celebrating at Christmas Hugging and laughing

I see my wife sitting alone on the couch Silent

Unimportant was my pain, inadequate was my fight, unyielding were the demons.

Simply a statistic

The pain grew

Secluded, silently stinging strikes sliced so slyly, sewn steeply.

The pain grew. And I knew But felt alone.

Birthdays, laughter, love, growth and forgotten. she still sits there alone. Sad. Alone

Awaken. Alive. Dreams. So real Intensity. Change.

home

kimlyn stanyon

I picture throwing the glass at him. If it hit him just right. If I claimed that it was self defense. I close the tap, put the glass to my lips and take a sip.

“Do you not have fucking hands?” I say.

“Woah,” he says.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” I say.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, long day.”

“Okay, well, I’m going to play PC for a bit then. Love you. Just bring the coffee up to me, but don’t make any noise. I’m on open mic.”

“Alexa, play the Beatles.” I say.

I hate cleaning. It is an endless nonsensical loop that feels like an evil social experiment designed to slowly chip away at a person’s will to live. I turn on the oven. I take out pork chops and a salad bag from the fridge.

DINNER

“I just saw an ad for this company called Attune,” he says. I look up from my plate.

“They are redefining couple’s therapy,” he says.

“Okay, so you want to do therapy now?” I say.

“Just hear me out,” he says. “Basically, you get to explore each other’s mind in VR. It sounds better when it’s said all sciency, though.”

“Sounds intrusive,” I say.

“Do you have something to hide, Dr. Jekyll?” he says.

“Is it expensive?” I say

“They are calling for test subjects. We would get paid for doing therapy, lol.”

“Ah, you aren’t actually interested in fixing anything, then.”

“Could you not?” he says.

“Mm-hmm.” I say.

“Why do you always have to be so difficult?” he says.

“I’m not being difficult.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Okay, on the condition that we use the money to do something fun. You don’t get to blow it all on outfits for your character.”

ATTUNE

“You don’t even have the slightest interest in me anymore,” I say.

“What are you on about now?” he says.

“Well, just look at your feet.”

“My feet?”

“Yeah, they aren’t even pointed at me.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s basic body language. A guy points in the direction of what he wants.”

“Well, my feet are literally pointed at nothing, Maya.”

“I didn’t say you wanted someone else.”

“You realise that you sound insane right? I honestly don’t know how to deal with you females.”

“Don’t.”

“Can you try to keep it together when we are in public, please.”

A man walks into the room. He turns on the projector and pulls down the screen.

“This video explains everything you need to know about the tech.” says the man. “Once it is done, we will move on to the capture pods. There we will do a scan of your brain and map out your mind.”

The video has the tone of a children’s science special from the 90’s. The music is fun and vibrant.

“Stop tapping your feet,” whispers David.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Why did you have to wear the light up sneakers?”

“They make me happy,” I say.

“It’s like you go out of your way to embarrass me sometimes,” he says.

“I didn’t really think about it.”

“Well, they make you look like an idiot. It’s hard to take you seriously when you’re walking into a room putting on a lightshow, and that’s a reflection on me as well.”

“Right. Sorry.”

The man switches off the projector. “Do you have any questions?”

“I think we are good,” David says.

“You can follow me then,” says the man.

The lights from my shoes bounce off the cold vinyl tiles and dance about the hallway.

“I love your shoes,” says the man. “They are so fun.”

“Thank you,” I say.

We stop in a large white room. At the center of the space is a dentist’s chair. A team stands around it. Their faces are eager.

“Who wants to go first?” the man says.

“You go,” says David.

I take in a deep breath and nod my head.

“Don’t worry, I know it looks a little daunting, but the process is relatively quick and completely painless,” says the man.

Multiple hands strap me in and stick sensors onto me. The machine beeps ominously at random intervals.

“We are going to ask you a series of questions. You just have to close your eyes and think the answers,” says the man.

PREPARATION

“You can take off your clothes now.”

“What?” I say

“You must be naked for the sensation suit to work properly. They are impossible to get on yourself, unfortunately,” the man says. “I can arrange for a female attendant if you would prefer.”

I undress whilst keeping my eyes fixed on the floor. I can feel them staring at me. The team quickly covers my body in a gel and helps me into the suit.

“It feels like I am suspended in water.” I say.

“Good,” says the man.

The idea of crying comes to me. I feel that knot in my throat. I feel my eyes well. Something always prevents the tears from falling.

THE SESSION

“If you feel claustrophobic, disorientated, nauseous or unsafe say ‘stop’ immediately. The program will shut down and you can have a quick break.”

“Okay,” we say in unison

“Do not feel bad to say stop. It can take participants a few tries to adjust.”

The helmet is constricting. The VR system boots up like an old PC; a blue screen, an array of code, the Attune logo followed by a loading bar.

“Maya?” says David

“Hey!” I say. “Can you see me?”

“No, I am in this fancy old timey lounge area. There is a game menu.”

“It’s just dark for me,” I say

“Hold on,” says the man. “Can you see anything now?”

“Yeah, I am in the lounge.” I say. “Hey, I see you.”

“Yeah, I see you now. I’m going to press start,” David says.

“Okay, cool,” I say.

A loading bar comes up. The room transitions. Stone walls are delicately lit by medieval torches. In the center of the room there is a statue of a nymph holding a mirror.

“Step up to the mirror and look at yourself through the eyes of your beloved,” says a voice.

“Do you want to go first?” he says.

“Okay,” I say.

I stand in front of the mirror. My reflection looks at me. She is a perfect image. My body is flawlessly curved without one extra pound. My face is wonderfully smooth. My eyes sparkle. My smile is radiant. My hair is healthy and vibrant. I am the best possible version of myself.

“We are so loved,” says the reflection.

I look back at David. He smiles at me.

“You are my special one,” he says.

“Stop.” I say “Stop, stop, stop.”

I remove the helmet quickly.

“Is everything okay?” says the man.

“I need a minute,” I say.

“Okay, just let me know when you want to go back in. David should be done with the mirror any second now and then we can move on to the open worlds.”

“It didn’t stop for David, too?” I say David takes off his helmet. He stares at me. His tears fall.

grief by Tineesha McKay

the meaning of intensity

kevin thornton

In Physics, never my favourite, it is ‘time-averaged energy flux.’ I attempt to pronounce the phrase, savour it; pretend it means something some more than ‘it sucks’.

It’s also the ratio of power, to area, to density flow. I think I heard that from an arithmetician, who struck me as someone who’d know, as truth was his permanent predisposition.

It’s a way to assess how an earthquake quakes, unless that is merely the magnitude. The one has to do with how hard the ground shakes. The other’s a measure of amplitude.

In the arts it can be an exaggeration. It’s also a word hard to rhyme. This sonnet’s additional concatenation suggests that I needed more time.

It seems I have no propensity, to write a poem with intensity.

bubble pop by Lasha Barbosa

seeing you sick

tineesha mckay

If I could take away the pain

I would steal every tear

Eat them up and demolish all the fear

Holding on tight

Watching the oxygen dip

Felling your little hand losing its grip

I would fly you out of this sick little bed

Do all the magic you create in your head

I will love you first as your mom and then as a friend Mommy is here and with you till the end.

rfe - request for extraction

kiran malik-khan

Has someone discovered? invented? A process…

you startled my heart

juanita barrett-breen

You startled my heart when I realized you were beside me

My mind had pictured you a million times Hoped a million times too

Just to see you

And now here you are In front of me

And I’m frightened my heart is frightened

Because one word from you

Can break my heart into as many pieces as the number of times I wished for you

To extract grief from the soul?

marginalia Intensely Complicated!

A column by douglas abel

“Intensity.” It is one of “those words.” We can use it in a sentence. We are fairly sure we know what it means. But we would be hard pressed to define it exactly or to encompass all its meanings and nuances in our definition. Its significance is shifting and slippery—like so much of language.

“Intensity” certainly seems to involve some kind of large size or quantity. Something cannot be small in every respect and be intense. However, exactly what is big varies with the nature of the intensity. If we speak of intense heat, the temperature is high. If we speak of intense emotion, there is a large amount of love, or hate, or fear—however we might attempt to quantify those feelings. Intense competition, whatever else it involves, requires a significant amount of activity. Intensity, whatever it contains, or implies, or involves, is extreme. Indeed, there is a sense that something has to be close to the excessive to be “really intense.” Intensity does not just point to a great deal; it indicates almost too much. If there is a lot of room to spare, or a fair way to go, then the situation is not intense. However, this “size” of intensity does not mean breadth or extent. We somehow have big, but not large or wide. We probably would not talk about an “intense” hurricane, although you might talk about the intense winds in it. The hurricane itself would be “immense.” Intensity is limited in scope, but not in quantity of . . . something. It is energy and size confined or contained. With intensity, big things come in small(er) packages.

But what is the . . . something . . . that can be intense? It is not a thing, or an object. You can’t have an intense cow, or an intense rock. You can have an intense individual, but what does that mean? The intensity of or in that individual is perceived through what the individual does and how s/he does it.

Intensity, then, is a quality, or a set of qualities, that applies to actions, events, or situations. It is dynamic, even if temporarily motionless. It might be a tiger ready to spring, or a standoff with two fingers on two triggers. Silence can be intense, depending on what has just happened, or what is about to happen. But whatever intensity is, it is not calm, or serene. There may not be frenetic motion or action at any particular intense moment. Intensity can take the form of potential energy, not yet unleashed but ready at any time to burst into kinetic activity. And that bursting will happen in a very “intensely” focussed and determined way. Intensity has an aspect of fierce concentration. A laser beam is intense not just because its energy is high, but because that energy is directed onto a small area. Sunlight focussed through a magnifying glass is at its most intense when the focus of the converging beams comes to a pinpoint—and the paper starts to burn. When the beam is “out of focus,” the light energy is the same, in total, but the intensity is not there, and the effect is diminished.

Allied to this idea of focus is a sense of direction and/ or intent. Certainly, when we are talking about intense human actions and situations, there must be purpose. In an intense argument or battle or election, the intent of the intensity is to win, to change things. Somehow focus and purpose turn mere energy and size into intensity. An unfocussed gaze into the middle distance cannot be intense—although it can become so.

In keeping with the tendency to extremity, intensity implies the possibility of danger. All that energy in a confined space or restricted situation can explode, or burn up, or bore through if unleashed. For this reason intensity is often uncomfortable or discomfiting—especially if you are the person at whom it is directed and upon whom its pentup energy is concentrated.

In intense situations, the stakes are high. Intensity and importance are related. If nothing is at stake, and nothing really matters at the moment, it is difficult to generate or recognize intensity. In this sense, the concept of intensity seems to drift toward that of urgency. Intensity cannot be put off or ignored. A situation of “much ado about nothing,” is comic or ridiculous because there is energy and intensity with no reason for them. It is easy for such a situation to lose all focus and purpose and become a case of “madly off in all directions.”

So, intensity is not a single quality. Rather it is combination of two or more qualities or states, drawn together but not necessarily mingled. High energy and focus, for example, somehow remain measurably distinct, even though they happen, and work, together. Intensity is multi-layered, multi-faceted, multi-dimensional.

With this complexity, how do we show what we mean, or how do others know what we mean, when we use a word like “intensity”? Of the many possible meaning combinations, what reveals—or creates—the meaning we intend?

The answer usually given is “context.” But that word is in itself as difficult to pin down as “intensity.” What fac-

tors or variables are involved in context—which again is a situation or event, and not a thing? First, there is everything that has been done and said immediately before the word is used. Then, we have the con(text)notative factors: tone, pitch, volume, range across phonemes and syllables, melody of expression, emphasis—which involves all of tone, pitch, etc., rate of speech, overall quality or resonance of voice, and physical gesture, distance and positioning. All of these “delivery” factors are coloured by relationships, history and expectations. Some of these elements may be manipulated deliberately and consciously; others may take shape without our conscious awareness, and may even be opposed to our conscious intentions. With all these factors shaping the “meaning” of a word like “intensity,” a word which already has multiple “dictionary” definitions, it is amazing that we can make sense and make our meaning clear at all. And all this must be weighed before we start to consider all the specific variables that may independently be affecting the listener as s/he receives our word, “intensity” and our other words in their complicated context.

The complexity of “intensity” shows us that, however abstract or formal or theoretical or algorithmic we try to make it, language is not an abstraction, or an objective set of things, or a mechanism, or a list of rules detached from use. Language is activity, action and reaction, interaction. We say—or write—the word, “intensity,” along with other words at that moment, with a purpose. We want a specific response, a resultant action. If our language action fulfils the purpose by producing the desired response, or at least generates a response that makes sense “in the context” of our use of the words, then we have defined the word correctly. If the response is not the desired one, then we need to re-define and try again, by acting through speech.

The human activity called language is undeniably complicated, and immensely interesting! It is the marvellous, almost impossible activity that makes us most intensely human.

douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, theatre historian and voice and speech teacher. He finds writing for NorthWord intensely satisfying. He hopes you find the result equally so.

lasha barbosa is a proud Northern Canadian Artist, who slays brain tumors and mental health on the side. "Bubble Pop" represents the ups and downs of life. Sometimes, life can get so intense it feels like it's blown up in your face.

juanita barrett-breen writes, “I am a long time resident of Fort McMurray with childhood roots from NF. I am a mother of 3 boys. Writing for me is a blessed outlet.”

nicole cormier has called Fort McMurray home for 22 years and is intrigued by the natural beauty the region has to offer. Through photography, Nicole has been able to capture the colours of the northern lights which are blind to the naked eye. As well as photography, Nicole enjoys painting with watercolours, acrylics, and oils.

sorina doiculescu was born and raised into an artistic family in Europe. In her early age, after passing her second grade, she began writing poetry and prose while she was doing her homework. With a Bachelor’s degree in Design and Visual Art, now she is a dedicated artist in the Wood Buffalo community.

robin elson has lived in Northern communities for most of her life and enjoys all that comes along with it. Along with a passion for her family and community, she enjoys reading, writing and painting.

sara ordena loutitt, a nehiyaw âpihtawikosisân kîwêtinohk ohci (CreeMetis from the north), has worked as an educator for many years, teaching in rural and urban communities within Saskatchewan, Alberta, and the Northwest Territories. Her love for the land, language, and lifestyle of the North combined with a rock-solid passion to enhance the education system for all learners, Indigenous and non-Indigenous. To her, ê-cîhkêyihtâkwahki (these are very important/vital): Indigenous language revitalization, creative expression for truth-telling, and renewing the relationships with okâwîmâwaskiy (Mother Earth). Whether she is painting,

beading, writing, singing, dancing, playing, and working, Sara expresses her love for the land, language, and life kâkikê (always). Mistahi nanâskomowin ekwa miyo-wîcêhtowin kahkiyaw awiyak (much gratitude and harmony to all).

From Fort McMurray to Florida—kiran malik-khan is a national award-winning communicator, a TEDx speaker, and a social media specialist. She loves her family, words, poetry, and books; and is a strong advocate of diversity, equity, inclusion, and women's rights.

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, Tineesha originally found artistic inspiration through movement. The evolution of her work has been inspired by her diverse heritage and adverse life experiences. Through writing, photography, design, and dance, Tineesha uses art to connect with herself and others.

anastasia meicholas writes, “My exotic color palette and subjects are strongly influenced by my Bahamian heritage where constant sunshine and the bright blue ocean was never far away. Art has always been my outlet to cope with the stress and uncertainties of everyday life and at the same time, I use art to express some of my deepest joys. Art provides me with a safe and comfortable place to express myself and as I am constantly trying to interpret my world, exploring different ways of presenting my observations and interpretations without limiting myself to one medium, one style or a single process, I am constantly evolving. The pieces I create are drawn from inspiration and experiences and lessons learned, sprinkled with influences from the land of my birth an if anyone takes the time to peruse my work and pauses long enough to be stirred in some way, to wonder, to question, to simply feel... then I have succeeded in my work.”

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 outdoors often staring at the night skies and wondering about the origins of it all!”

john siiro writes short stories within the suspense, horror and science fiction realm. Originally from Thunder Bay, he is a veteran of the Canadian Armed Forces with several tours in Afghanistan and Africa. He currently resides in Edmonton.

kimlyn stanyon is a local emerging writer who specializes in experimental magical realism.

kevin thornton has over 25 short stories published in books, collections and magazines, as well as poems hither and yon. He dislikes but abides by the practice of third person biography, and is a fan of brevity.

meghan whitmore writes, “I’m a nursing student and a mother and I believe that being creative is one of the best ways to express who lives inside you.”

veronica wood is preparing to embark upon the vast territory of education as a music teacher. She is intrigued in combining faith and science fiction in writing, though at times some casual guitar play takes precedence.

zachary wood is Ontario born but has lived in Fort McMurray for over a decade. He has been married for 3 and a half years and is the son of Dave Wood.

northern canada collective society for writers statement of purpose:

To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.

call for submissions

NorthWord Volume 5, Issue 4

deadline May 30, 2023

theme Humour

guest editor Will Collins

We’re always looking for prose (3000 words or fewer, fiction or nonfiction), poetry (50 lines maximum), excerpts from current projects, and visual art.

please submit as a microsoft word or image attachment to: The Editors, northword@hushmail.com

for advertising and business inquiries, contact northwordmagazine@gmail.com

strength by Anastasia Meicholas