like all good things, it began with a vision. Local writer Jennifer Hemstock and her husband Blair, an English instructor at Keyano College, gathered a dozen people in their living room one autumn afternoon in 2008 and said, “We want to start a literary magazine in Fort McMurray. Are you with us?”
Of course we were. And of course it was a crazy idea from the start. Everyone knew that print magazines were on their way out, a casualty of the online world. Everyone knew that publishing was a money pit, and we had no money. Besides, “Fort McMurray” and “literary magazine” went together about as well as sardines and cream soda. Who would write for us? Who would advertise with us? And above all, who would read such a publication?
Ten years later, we’re still here.
Since the first issue of NorthWord: A Literary Journal of Canada’s North appeared in June 2009, we’ve brought out two issues a year with poetry, short stories, articles, and novel excerpts by over 120 writers. All 20 covers have been by local artists, and we’ve featured the photographs, drawings, and paintings of more visual artists inside. Our guest editors have come from throughout the community. It turned out – who knew? – that a literary magazine was exactly what Fort McMurray needed.
We’re grateful to the writers, artists, guest editors, sponsors, advertisers, and volunteers who have supported us throughout the past ten years. If you’re interested in becoming involved with the magazine in any way, contact us at northword@gmail.com or northword@hushmail.com.
It’s still a crazy idea. But Issue 20 is in your hands, and we’re celebrating the start of a new decade of NorthWord. We hope you’ll celebrate with us.
The Board of the Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers guest editors , issue 20
stella’s chair
carolyn redl
Stella didn’t buy the chair the first time she saw it. In fact, she didn’t buy anything. She and the other two women from work had their regular pay-day lunch in a restaurant and, afterwards, they meandered into Retro Consignment. Who wanted to face books and students on a spring day with the sun seeping down from a robin’s egg blue sky and life bursting euphorically at its seams?
Muriel, who was slightly older than Stella, tugged through the dresses crammed tightly on a display rack. Muriel had a habit of licking one side of her lower lip when she disapproved of something Stella did at the library. As she pulled dress after dress free now, in order to view them, her tongue licked fervently.
Illa held oversized, glitzy drop earrings beside her ears and broke into a dance.
“How do they look?”
“Great!” Stella answered, enthusiastically but less than sincerely. Would Illa ever learn to dress appropriately? She’d seen better jewelry than that on skinheads, for crying out loud. Not that she didn’t live on the edge herself.
Maybe she expected too much. After all, the girl was only twenty, coming on twenty-one in a week and wouldn’t let them forget it. And her tastes? Illa repeatedly reminded them, “I want colors for my birthday. Anything—clothes, ornaments. Lots and lots of bright colors.”
Illa rushed to the cashier, paid for the earrings, and stashed them in her purse. Where in God’s name did Illa intend to wear those gaudy things? Certainly not anywhere Ted was likely to take her. Wouldn’t heads turn when Illa turned up in one of her crazy getups at the Legion or the cattle sale where the couple hung out? It was none of her affair, Stella reckoned. In time, Illa would learn, but, heaven help her in the meantime.
Muriel edged towards the counter to buy something. Stella couldn’t see exactly what because, at that moment, she caught sight of something appealing herself: a neon green chair. Spherical and sort-of egg-shaped. Stella moved closer and couldn’t resist touching. Her fingers moved lightly along the back and then along its arm, moulded to bed the curve of a warm wrist. The fabric was smoother than satin.
“Tom always wanted a Corvette.” Muriel’s statement jarred Stella from her reverie.
Illa stopped abruptly and, mouth agape, looked at Muriel as if to say, “What the? ” Then, she and Stella saw the t-shirt. Sunlight galvanized the red Corvette printed on its front, careening off the black background as if catapulting from a racing ramp. The car’s silver trim glistened like polished chrome.
“I’m going to buy Tom his Corvette,” Muriel announced, “By the time he had enough money saved up, I came along. What he got instead was a pregnant girlfriend and a truck. Practical Tom.” She spread the shirt out at arm’s length in front of her. “He would have died for a Corvette.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet,” crooned Illa.
“Sweet?” Muriel squinted at her. “All he’s had was regret, I tell you. Nothing sweet about regrets.”
What else did Tom regret? Muriel made remarks like that and then left them suspended, the gaps never filled in with details.
This time, Stella sauntered alone toward Retro Consignment. She was set on having another look at the neon green chair. It haunted her, every day since she’d come with the girls from the library. She’d even dreamt about it.
There were dozens of other things still needed to make her tiny apartment a genuine home. She just didn’t know what she liked. After the divorce, she listened to every type of music: classical, easy rock, hard rock. She’d listened to Michael’s country and western for so long, she didn’t even know what kind of music she liked. Now, the chair had caught her eye and buying it took priority over anything else. She’d surprise the royal hell out of Muriel and Illa, buying something impetuous like they so often did with their fancy earrings and gaudy dresses.
She could hear Muriel whisper to Illa, “Without Michael to manage her money, she won’t make ends meet, poor dear.” Well, thank you very much, all her bills were paid.
Not that she wanted any more furniture, what with the chesterfield and love seat, bed, and desk. The dining room suite, too, what had served her and Michael perfectly well through hundreds of Sunday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas dinners with all his folk. When you awaken from not one but two dreams about a green neon chair, you have to consider options.
In the first dream, the neon chair was beside the buffet in the house she’d lived in with Michael. Someone entered and looked at it. Husband of twenty-four years. “Where’s
your wisdom, girl, buying an ugly and uncomfortable chair?” Michael said, before he turned and walked back through the door.
His presence chilled her, in the dream, that is. It was neither here nor there, once she was awake. He’d never been to her apartment. She’d chosen it all by herself after the separation and the house had to be sold.
She thought of the chair placed in the empty space by the buffet. Comforting, yes, very comforting. She would sit on it whenever she jolly well felt like it.
Most important, buying the chair would take her mind off the doctor who simply did not understand. Dr. Phil Hudson. Not his fault. Heaven help him, after all. What would a man know about it all? Caught up in three minute consultations. Even some of her women friends knew sweet bugger all about menopause. Middle aged and long practitioners of birth control, they never worried about missed periods.
Both married, Muriel and Illa at the library were no help either. What did they know of women, the likes of Stella? With them, she would not dare reveal her gravest concerns. Single again at forty-nine. Lonely nights. Horny as Hell. They tried to show compassion. Why even a few months back they’d tried to hook her up with someone.
“Muriel and Tom are having Ted and me over for dinner on Friday,” Illa spouted.
Muriel interjected, “Tom invited Winston, the new guy who’s supposed to improve sales. Would you like to come, Stella? It would be like old times, when we went out with you and Michael.” That was before Illa started at the library.
From the moment she agreed, Stella had a bad feeling about going.
“Did you decide what to wear?” Muriel asked, first thing, the morning of the dinner. She and Muriel stood side by side waiting for the computer terminals to boot up.
Stella suddenly wished for the old fashioned paraphernalia of libraries. Then, you always had something to do with
your hands and eyes. Now, Muriel looked at her, expecting a reply. They hadn’t been at work fifteen minutes. Would she have to put up with questions all day?
“A boa constrictor.”
“Be serious!” Muriel squeezed her arm, as if touching could bridge the gap between married women friends when one husband finds a younger woman. Sometimes, the thought of Michael’s betrayal overpowered her and swept her into black agony. How many months did it take, anyhow, to adjust to single life?
“My beige pant suit?” Stella lifted an eyebrow at Muriel. Michael had always known what looked best on her for every occasion.
“What about those sunshine Turkish pants with the sweater that droops off your shoulder?” Illa winked at Muriel. “You wore it to work once. That outfit’s smashing. ”
At coffee, the two of them were still dressing and re-dressing her. You’d think she was attending Cinderella’s ball.
How did Illa know so much? Maybe marrying a man thirty years her senior had advantages. Illa, hardly out of her teens. She and Ted seemed happy, give them credit.
After a pause, Muriel broke in and looked her in the eye, “For God’s sake, will you forget about Michael and get on with living?”
Stella could hardly hold back her tears to continue on throughout the day. At home, it was all she could do to stop herself from phoning Muriel to call the whole plan off. Panicking, she decided not to answer the door when Winston arrived. She paced and collected her thoughts. Maybe she’d just tell him she was sick.
The date had some appeal, though, she had to admit. Over a year without so much as a kiss. She was victim of celibacy, the curse of separation. Well, not in Michael’s case. He certainly was not celibate. For weeks now, she could have walked, if the truth were out, for miles to . . . what
would a man with a name like Winston, so proper and British, think of a woman with such thoughts? Maybe he’d think she was an old battleaxe and there was justification for her husband’s philandering. She would be witty and light-hearted. Did she look fat? She checked in the hall mirror. Maybe she did like food just a little too much for her own good.
Muriel was into international cooking. One week it was Provencal; another, Thai. Vietnamese coffee was the latest. What would she serve?
“I guarantee, you’ll love it. I tried the recipe already and this entre is irresistible, simply irresistible. Secret though,” Muriel assured her. Sometimes, Muriel confused sexual with gastronomical superlatives. At any rate, Muriel said no more about the menu. About Stella’s hair and makeup, she had plenty to say.
“Oh, God, that’s him,” Stella jumped at the sound of the buzzer and wrung her clammy hands.
“Oh, my, you are one number.” Winston’s glance did not linger but resisted direct eye contact, freeing her eyes to wander downward, too, over slim legs and what? Cowboy boots?
Hornia vanished. Not for her. He could take his cowboy boots and make love on some ranch. This man was definitely not her type.
“My daughter called,” she heard the lie spoken as it evolved, “I`m terribly sorry, but she is working the graveyard shift and needs a sitter. I’ll have to leave immediately after we eat. I’d better drive myself.”
Muriel and Illa seemed to understand. In fact, they said very little about the evening. For a few days, whenever the phone rang, Stella jumped and her heart raced, afraid Winston might call again.
The whole experience made her think about dating possibilities. Where would she meet men?
Quite to her surprise, the problem resolved itself in a totally unexpected manner. She was in the stacks reshelving Canadian literature and, as usual, was captivated
by dust jackets and had to peek inside. Nobody was permitted to read on the job but, alone in the stacks and unobserved, why not?
“Another Alice Munro fan?”
Afraid the voice belonged to Thorpe, the head librarian, Stella clapped the book shut and jammed it quickly between others on the closest shelf.
“Forgive me for startling you. There is nothing shameful about reading.”
Stella felt her face cascade through various shades as she mumbled an excuse. She dared look at the speaker, apparently not Thorpe. Tall. Handsome. Sparkling eyes.
“Everett Saillon.” He extended one hand and, with the other, retrieved Munro’s book from the shelf.
“Stella Hennel. ” What was she doing, revealing her identity to a complete stranger? She tried to maintain dignity. Oh, but he was gorgeous.
Thoughts of making love in the stacks shoved thoughts of books, propriety, and Alice Munro out of her mind. My God, had she finally been presented with an opportunity?
Thank you, Lord, thank you.
Left to her own devices and despite the conclusions you may have drawn from her experiences with Winston, Stella could charm with the best of them. She’d had a few flirtatious forays during her marriage. Nothing harmful. Certainly nothing that posed a threat to Michael.
Before long, she and Everett began to research family patterns in the fiction of Alice Munro. Or was it Munro’s depiction of rural Canada? She couldn’t quite remember the original pretext. Alice, she imagined, would have found their relationship positively fictional.
The morning after the second dream, Stella realized that Everett had left earlier than the other two times when he’d stayed over. To the best of her knowledge, she reasoned, the dream occurred after his departure. She hadn’t told him about her likely pregnancy. But she would soon.
In the second chair dream, Michael wore a grey pinstriped
suit with a red Ascot. He brushed past her, stepping firmly on her right foot as he squeezed between her and the dining room table, this time placed properly in her apartment. He sat resolutely in the chair and looked directly at her.
“If you had asked my advice, I would have told you to get a recliner. This chair is uncomfortable.” Michael spoke each word in a puff of red and sat looking at her authoritatively. With each spoken word more and more red engulfed him. With the word, ‘uncomfortable,’ Michael became obscured. When the colour lifted, he was gone. The green neon chair remained, but the space beside Stella, in bed, was empty. Had Everett really been there? Indisputable nausea reminded her. He existed, no doubt about it.
Conversations at coffee revolved around changes to the computerized library system. Muriel and Illa broke into petty arguments about particular procedures. Stella listened patiently. Surely life had bigger things in mind for her.
She should probably see Dr. Hudson. She could only imagine how he’d react when she told him there was cause for possible pregnancy.
“We won’t need to do a complete examination,” he’d told her last visit, passing her some leaflets from a rack. “We’ll wait until we’ve gone a complete year without menstruation. In the meantime, let’s consider our options.”
This is my body, she felt like screaming Cut out this ‘we’ and ‘our’ talk.
How could she possibly tell Everett? They’d been on less than a dozen dates. She didn’t really know him. He’d think she was an air-head, a virgin schoolgirl, too naïve to use reliable birth control. What if she was actually, oh, she could not be. Oh, the whole situation was preposterous. Pregnancy was simply inconceivable. She was working herself into a royal pickle.
“Stella, have you been listening? Did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry, Illa. I was thinking of something else.”
“Not about computers, obviously,” Muriel added, “Really, Stella, ever since that unfortunate messy evening with Winston, you haven’t been yourself.”
“You should see a therapist,” Illa interrupted, “I’m seeing a therapist and he’s just great. Twice a week.” She cracked her knuckles.
“It’s nothing, really.” Stella tried to appease them. “There’s still stuff going on with the divorce and so much to do.”
“You don’t give Winston another thought, you hear me Stella?” Before Stella could respond, Muriel looked at her watch, “Whoops!” She jumped. “Time’s up. It was all one big mistake. My mistake, Stella. Don’t let that incident with Winston bother you. No apology necessary. Though you weren’t very nice to him.”
“It’s not Winston, I swear,” Stella interrupted. She wanted to tell them everything about Everett. Admit she was either pregnant or in menopause.
Watching Stella park, slip coins in the meter, and step lightly into the store, nobody would guess her volcanic turmoil. I’m not going to tell Dr. Hudson, she decided. I’m not going to tell Everett. In the last six months, I’ve had only one period. Maybe I am finished
Stella noticed that they’d put her chair at the back of the store. She admired its slim legs, and unusual upholstery. Imagine: neon green. Its simple winged back. The chair had a refined delicacy about it.
Patiently, she listened to the salesman list the chair’s virtues. A classic, was what he called it. An ‘Arne Jacobsen.’
“It is in outstanding condition for its age,” he emphasized, “though it’s been re-upholstered. Otherwise, it’d be worth a mint.”
“I’ll take it,” Stella said abruptly. She lifted the chair. She hadn’t imagined how light it would be. Still, it took some jostling to navigate it through the narrow space between the racks of clothes and then, to squeeze it through her car’s rear passenger door and onto the back seat.
As she turned on the ignition, she noticed that she was whistling. Once the chair was properly positioned by the dining room buffet, she stepped back and checked the room’s symmetry. Yes, she thought, minus Michael, the chair was exactly as she’d dreamt it.
Stella cautiously backed against it until the underside of her knees brushed the edge of the seat. Lowering herself slowly, she pivoted back on her buttocks and settled. She placed her fingertips on the lips of the armrests and let her wrists relax in the contours, one for her left and one for her right arms. With a gentle caress through the flimsy folds of her shirt, she nudged herself against the chair’s back. It had a little give yet was firm. How on earth could anyone get the idea that it was uncomfortable? The back shaped perfectly around her shoulders. The body was egg-shaped, perfect for cradling a newborn.
after party
donalee williams
The Graced table sits in delightful disarray: Once-polished goblets, filled to the brim and drained of sweet joy, wear fingerprints; Rumpled napkins recline over trays of hospitality, emptied of all but savoury crumbs, and plates tipsily stacked. The air holds an echo of brightness, of celebration.
All surveyed in the quietening scent of life gathered in a bouquet commingled and then scattered into the good night. And the hostess, suffused with the tired pleasure that is the party’s final gift, unwrapped in the last candle’s glow, smiles.
Well done, celebrant.
marty rempel
malingering traffic from the wet streets below spoke through the windows of my isolated room where from my perspective the world tolerated indifferences and outrages suffered fools and imbeciles even elected them yet the earth rotated, revolved and flew outward with the still expanding universe while we fiddled with carbon credits and alternative energies spoke on social media and tweeted about redemption.
life support on the moon...
marty rempel
I can’t help but wonder what young kids carry in their back packs these days. When I attended Prince Phillip Public School I walked to school and can vividly recall not carrying anything, no lunch, no bag, no back packs. I came home for lunch, also by walking, and had no need to carry a lunch.
Now when I watch kids getting off school buses, or my own grand kids coming or going to school I see them with back packs about half the mass and size of their own bodies designed for three nights of survival training. What, I thought, is inside those back packs that is so important these kids lug them about at the risk of back disfigurement and personal injury? I had to know.
I took the opportunity to see the contents of my granddaughters back pack, as she searched for her agenda book. First, I found the remains of several lunches which included an array of numerous shapes and sizes of multi-coloured plastic containers each with remnants of fruit, sandwiches, macaroni and cheese and other food groups in various stages of decomposition. I discovered back packs were a good source of composting.
I also found a complete change of clothing. Is this now an overnight bag? Socks, shoes, pants, raincoat, and a small retractable umbrella. I kept looking to see if there was any formal wear, both relieved and disappointed I discovered no dresses tiaras or glass slippers.
In a side pocket was a section for notes to parents that dated back several months and probably could add about a pound of material to the recycle bin.
At the very bottom of the bag, in a separate grocery bag, was what looked like a load of gravel, but was in fact a valuable mineral collection probably weighing in at about 2.2 pounds.
There were of course books, many books, for her reading program. There were toys for either play time at recess and/or show and tell. This included one doll who also had several changes of clothes including dresses, a tiara and shoes. There were various writing material including pencils, aromatic markers and a box of 64 crayons. In my deprived childhood only eight colours had been invented.
My childhood was very much a more black and white world. We now live in a much more colourful world of choice, variety and weight according to the contents of what may likely be a typical back pack belonging to a six year old girl. Although I never had the opportunity to weigh the back and its contents I place the approximate weight at about 37 pounds, which I think may be about half my granddaughter’s total body weight when fully dressed in winter gear.
I didn’t get my first back pack until I was an adult and even then I didn’t know what to put in it. I think I may have a learning disability. However, I continue to watch kids barely able to ascend the steps of a school bus wearing their life support systems like little astronauts setting foot on the moon... one giant step for childhood.
riley woodford
Take another swing of poison
Finding comfort in the bottom of the bottle
More than any silk bed sheets
Every warm sensation, the burn
Like another chalk stroke on the prison wall
Trading days for dizzy sensations
The joys in my life, unreachable
An indestructible piece of paper
Just as well be concrete
The consumption of the drink
Brings with it temptations
From clear glass, to lead bullets
There’s no life vest in this sea
The trashing waves
Ever so close to the jagged shores
The ocean was once a view
I gazed upon from my porch
Separated by white pickets
It’s power, it’s beauty, a marvel
The sound and smell
Music and perfume
But led away I was
By a knee high skirt and a low cut shirt
Like a moth to flame
And burn I did
Wings scorched to ashes
Black cauterized stubs
From the ease of a reclining chair
Feet to the sky, cares to the wind
The drink, a casual indulgence
Indulgence into necessity
To hinder waking demons
By giving to the others
I don’t miss the white fence
Nor the comfort of the chair
Not even the love of a devoted woman
The only life preserver for me?
A nine year old
That has my nose and eyes
As much as the brew has me at beckon call
The seed has me wrapped around a finger of
her choosing
Soft as shit, one might say
It was once said
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”
Listen well, young man
The crashing of the waves tonight
Edges closer to the awaiting stone
The shoal cuts my feet as I push away
I think I’ll trade this life tonight
I’ve loaded the chamber
I’ve accepted this outcome
Revenge has worked
I give in, ready for the worms
Ready for a box and carved stone
I’ve crashed into the rocks
Bone through skin
The click of the hammer
It reaches back to deal the final blow
I close my eyes, awaiting the final sound
I place my finger on the death switch
But what’s that noise?
The jingle in the distance
Then I see it
Deep in the angry water
I see the light of the bay
The only light to lead me from this darkness
I grab the light and press it to my face
Through it comes the voice of an angel
“You ok, daddy?”
“I will be now”
“Guess what daddy?”
“What’s that baby?”
“I’m coming to visit tomorrow and I’m allowed to stay all week”
“You’re a life saver baby, daddy loves you”
“I love you too, daddy”
christmas in newfoundland
heidi stuckless
The glow of lights lining my former home was bright across the cove. The taxi driver was half asleep, his head falling down and then popping back up again whenever we hit another pothole on the road. There was a moment where I saw him look over to that house, the brightest out of all the other ones bordering the salty waters. Already, the briny air and repugnant smell of fish filled my nostrils. I sank in my seat, looking away instead at the dashboard as the car got closer and closer. In a few moments I would be in there, again looking into the eyes of my insufferable family.
I wasn’t sure why I bought a ticket here, but I suppose it was because I had nothing better to do in the city during Christmas time. Here meant a tiny outport on the north-east of Newfoundland island, small enough that even the neighbouring communities often forget that it exists. Usually, I had school papers to finish or a job to go to in order to keep me occupied, but I had finished my work and there was no shifts for me to take. Therefore, with little planning, I booked a ticket for me to come on Tibb’s Eve (a Newfoundland holiday where friends drink together before they are forced to be with family instead), which is the day before Christmas Eve. The flight, fortunately or unfortunately, was delayed due to a snowstorm on the island. At first, I thought it was a sign that going there was a horrible idea. That I should just go back to my apartment and stay there by myself until Christmas was over with. I would’ve done so then had the snowstorm not suddenly ended, and I went onto the plane anyways.
The taxi driver slowed as we went over a sheet of ice on the road. “‘Dat your house ‘dere, me ducky?” He said. Is that your house, Miss?, a taxi driver in the city would say.
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Right on, then.”
It took a couple of minutes to drive around the cove
and to the house. As the driver arrived, he parked near the front and helped me take out my suitcase from the trunk. As he drove away, probably laughing at what his eyes had just witnessed, I looked at it myself.
The assortment of green and red lights were on every inch of the property, including the sills of the windows, around the small maple tree I planted with my mother when I was younger, and even strung along the empty clothesline propped up outside. A cut out of Santa and his reindeer was along the front lawn, and in front of that stood a large wooden sign that said “Merry Christmas!”
I expected to laugh at it, make fun of the tacky decor and glaring lights, but I couldn’t. I remember each Christmas, the ones where I was a child and still lived in this house, I helped my father put up the lights. He loved Christmas more than anyone I’d ever met. He even had his annual attire to wear: an ugly sweater with a snowman on it and red socks that had the silhouettes of reindeer on them. My mind drifted back to the year that he stood high up on the ladder while stapling lights onto the siding as it is now. I stood knee-deep in the snow and tightly held onto the ladder with my mitten-covered hands as he shifted his feet on the highest step. It didn’t do much for him, but my mother insisted that I should help in some way -- even if it’s something small. In those moments, as my grip on the metal became numb, his feet slipped. He dangled off the roof for a few moments, yelling out to my mom, before he lost his grip. Fortunately, it only ended in having a fractured wrist and a bruised ankle. But from then on, my mother asked me to hold onto the ladder every year with a tighter grip. I followed her words every year until I left for Toronto, and I never had to hold that ladder again.
I could hear several voices, the sound drifting from inside the house now. They were… laughing. Singing songs that gave me a nostalgic feeling. It reminded me of sit-
ting out on this porch in my teenage years, looking at all the shells I collected that day on the shore. I thought of where I was now, afraid to knock on my own door, afraid of what waited for me inside. It took me longer than it should have, but I eventually built up enough courage after a few minutes and knocked. Once. Twice. I knocked softly enough that perhaps they wouldn’t hear me, and I could go back to the city. I would be far better off in a city than a town with an outlandish dialect, a culture I was no longer familiar with, and a family that was not what it used to be.
The laughter and singing beyond the walls ceased, and the only noise in those moments were the footsteps marching to the door. My heartbeat quickened at the sound.
The door swung open, and it was my mother that now stood there.
“Oh!” She cried, and yanked me into a tight embrace. She was a short and rotund woman, and had gotten even pudgier since I last saw her.
“You’re crushing me,” I managed to squeeze out. She held on another second before pulling back. She cupped my face and stared at me for a moment, which gave me some time to inspect her face from so many years of not looking upon it. There were noticeable changes in her appearance; her short hair was greyer, and her once flawless face now had lines and blemishes. Her hands, still gripping my face, were so slender despite her voluptuous shape. Despite it all—no—in spite of it, she was still as beautiful as I’d last seen her.
“My, oh my, is it good to see ya!” She kissed my cheeks for what it felt like a hundred times before she even let me step beyond the door. “Come on in. Jiggs Dinner is just about done. You can tell us all about Toronto and the new boyfriend you probably got up dere once we eats!” While telling her that her prediction about me having a partner was far from the truth, I absorbed what I walked into. Everything was as I remembered it to be years ago. Like every other Christmas, the living room was filled with festive decorations such as a collection of tiny toy
mummers on top of the fireplace and a toy train circling the bottom of the Christmas tree. The Christmas tree, I saw as I looked closer, was adorned with beautiful ornaments that my parents had collected over the years for anniversaries and holidays together. One of the ornaments, I noticed, was one that I made myself in my early years of school.
“Is ‘dat Lucy, Maggs?” shouted a voice in the kitchen. It didn’t take long before everyone—aunts and uncles and cousins—beheld me in their view long enough to make me feel as if I were some foreigner. I supposed I was to them now. Even so, I walked further into the house, feeling like a mouse being lured into a trap with prey that are brilliant at putting up a facade of pleasantness. At least, until the mouse eats the cheese. The voice that spoke out was my Uncle Darryn. His grey hair was short and unkempt atop his head, and he had eyes that were dark and warm like milk chocolate. Those tender eyes welcomed me into the kitchen, and I had to look away from them. They had too much of the familiarity I was afraid of, too much like someone I used to know and was now gone too soon. I instead moved my gaze down to his wrinkled hands as he held an accordion, his fingers still hovering over the buttons from when he stopped playing only moments ago. Some voice inside of me wanted to ask him to play again.
“I’m some glad to see you, Lucy. How long has it been since you had a Christmas here? Four years? Five?”
“From the looks of things, I think it’s been a while.” I blurted out with a nervous laugh. Whether he understood my pathetic joke or not, his cackle was so loud it rang in my ears. The others did too, surprisingly. My mom smiled as she grabbed an extra chair and plopped it down next to Uncle Darryn. My two cousins, Chris and Bennett, sat on my right in complete silence.
Across from me, sandwiched between Uncle Darryn and mom, was Aunt Josephine. She had a sharp face and a cold look in her eyes as she swept over each of us with a careful glance. I remember as a child she’d once caught me with a piece of candy before we even had our supper
(I was never allowed to have a sweet until after supper was finished), and she didn’t hesitate to use the loaf of bread she had in her hand to hit me. She had broken the glasses on my face, and I had to get new ones. It was as if she now remembered that moment as well, and kept her eyes on me as I adjusted in my chair. As the others were talking amongst themselves, her gaze yet bored into me. She looked like one of those paintings where the eyes of the person in it followed you everywhere. Then she exclaimed, “Well if it ain’t time that you came back. Jumpin’ dions, have your mother been worrying about you!”
The mouse was eating the cheese, and the trigger in the trap was about to go off at any minute. “I’m fine. My mom doesn’t need to worry. Toronto is great.” I tried to summon up any words that came to my mind, even if it was a lie.
“You knows you haven’t, Lucy. B’ys, are we not going to say anything—”
“Not during Christmas supper, Josephine,” warned Uncle Darryn. I gave him a smile as a silent thanks.
Aunt Josephine pursed her lips, visibly struggling to hold down whatever else she was about to say. Her focus didn’t waver from me as our plates were set in front of us by my mother and eldest cousin Lana. When they sat down, the air in the room felt much thicker. Sweat beaded from my forehead, and my legs were silently shaking under the table. It was quiet for a few moments as we ate and filled ourselves up with salt beef and turnip and my favourite, pease pudding. My cousins ate it all in mere minutes, while others like Aunt Josephine took their time relishing in the deliciousness.
I tried to relieve the tension and said, “This tastes great, mom.” It was true. My mouth watered at the sight of the unfinished food that I still had yet to eat. I didn’t realize how much I missed my mom’s food.
She said, “I’m glad you like it,” and continued to eat in silence.
When my cousins were done with their food, they
grabbed the dessert from the fridge (a mound of cookies that varied from snowballs to lemon bars), and sat back down. I caught them looking at me from time to time.
It was Uncle Darryn who also tried to disrupt the awkwardness between us all with small talk. “Don Thistle and his new misses from down the street might drop over tomorrow for Christmas Day. ‘Da missus makes the best kind of cookies.”
Mom smiled faintly before returning to poke at her meal. They all seemed to do a harmonious sigh. Aunt Josephine no longer ogled her eyes at me, but I could almost feel the confrontational thoughts flying through her head and spitting back at me. You can’t shut out what happened. Why don’t you say something? Will you continue to ignore what is right in front of you for the rest of your existence? When I stepped foot inside the house, it was as if the place was hit by a storm and they anticipated nothing but chaos. Any feeling of joy had been thrown out the door and been crumpled and buried deep in the snow by my own doing.
Perhaps they were afraid of saying the wrong things to my mom and me. Or maybe they were scared of confessing the truth, truths that they did not want to hear themselves. Maybe I was scared of them, too.
So I said something, a name, that I thought I would never say again. “Dad would’ve loved this too,” I said.
There was a mixed reaction. Aunt Josephine and mom shot their head up at me. The others kept their heads low, playing with their food as if they heard nothing but so obviously did but didn’t want any part of it. Uncle Darryn eyed me for a moment before taking another bite of his turnip.
“Jiggs dinner was always his favourite,” said Uncle Darryn. He ate more and more, and with his mouth full, said, “I knows he would’ve had a fit if we stopped having it this time of year. We’ve had it every year because of him.” He had a small smile on his face despite the sadness in his eyes. Eyes that looked so much like my dad’s.
“Oh,” is all I said. Finally, I looked up at my mom. She
watched me from her seat, looking like she might jump out of it any second and suffocate me with her body again. I don’t know if it was to actually strangle me this time or embrace me with another hug. But she remained there, a little quiver in her lips visible. “I know he would’ve,” she whispered.
Some of the life that was present before had suddenly flown back into the room. My cousins talked amongst each other, and Aunt Josephine and mom were making conversation as well. Uncle Darryn declared that he would play his accordian again after dinner, and Chris and Bennett would take turns playing with the ugly stick alongside him. Aunt Josephine, he told everyone with much confidence, would sing every Newfoundland song there ever possibly was until the night was finished. And so they did. We stayed up late, and more friends and family came over until we had to go out into the shed and grab chairs we would use for trips to Musgrave Harbour Beach. Throughout the night I learned that they didn’t have much fear of speaking about my dad. In fact, many of them told numerous stories about him that I hadn’t heard before. To some he was a comical goofball and to others he was a genuine friend. To everyone, he was a good father.
Some part of me wondered if leaving so soon was ever right for me. Toronto was a wonderful place, one that was now my home. But being here, despite our losses, was a wonderful thing as well. The city had no time for other people’s problems. Here in a little outport with a population close to nothing, it was a shared trauma for all of us.
When people started to go home, not entirely sober, my mother came to me. She sat next to me on the couch, an empty glass in her hand. She asked me numerous questions, but none of importance.
“I want to give you something,” she finally said. She went up the stairs, and came back down a few moments later.
Her hands were behind her back, holding something. “Close your eyes, and I’ll tell ya when to open ‘em. Ok?” I closed my eyes and I heard her footsteps coming closer to me. I felt the couch press down from her weight and I could’ve sworn I heard a sniff from her. She grabbed my hands and placed them in front of me on my lap and then put something big into my hands, something that was warm and so, so soft. When she told me to open my eyes, I didn’t know what to expect. But when I saw it, it would’ve been the last thing I predicted to see. It was an all blue pillow, with prominent white dots and a snowman in the middle. I almost laughed to keep myself from choking out a sob, but then I looked at my mother and decided that I couldn’t ignore it. Her cheeks were red and tears ran down them at a rapid pace.
“See this as an early Christmas present for ya. You could use it on the airplane when you leave again,” she croaked out. “You knows what it is, right?”
My dad’s Christmas sweater. He’d wear it every year.
“I… I do,” I stammered. I swore to myself as a tear escaped. I pulled the pillow closer to my chest, smelling his cologne that’s remained on it for years. “Thank you, mom.”
Mom hauled me in for a hug, one that wasn’t so constricting as so many times before. I could’ve stayed like that forever if I could. We stayed like it for a while, and we silently wept. When we didn’t weep, we would talk about what these last few years we missed together were like. Dawn came an hour later, and the sky turned a tender blue and then altered into soft pinks and oranges, signifying that it was already Christmas morning. Perhaps.. If I were to stay here a little longer, it wouldn’t be so bad.
“I’m glad you came, Lucy,” she said.
I smiled at that. No, staying here a little while longer wouldn’t be bad at all. “I’m glad I came, too.”
forever in this life and in the next
nicole hernandez
Sparks dance in the air as metal strikes flint, delicate flames poised over the ends of cigarettes. Voices linger on smoke as the band reaches a crescendo, ensuring a boisterous cheer from the crowd. It is yet another restless night in a place far from home. Far from comfort, I might add. For this city that never sleeps offers little ease for those who seek it. Men and women devouring velvety poison to melt away lies covered in ice, gambling their lives, struggling to survive in a society where only the powerful strive. It is only in the shadow of twilight that they let their masks slip, and let their lips softly remember dark desires. So they seek light and celebration wherever they can find it. But, who am I to criticize if I sit in the same pew as they do? Praying for my every wish to come true. Not that I have many. In fact, I only have one.
Some may ask a man of my fortune what I could possibly want when I possess such luxury and status. I sit at the top of the economical hierarchy as others attempt to claw their way to my place, their lust for power and greed decaying their fragile souls. The weak mind is no match for ambition. Envy, however, fuels the drive of every competitor in town. Praise and fear coat my name as it rolls off the tongue of every person who speaks my name. I am the man everyone wishes to be, yet I still pray for the one thing money cannot buy.
I live an empty life, in a lifeless house, in a lonely city. No matter how many people grace my halls every weekend in all their exuberant zeal, wearing their most expensive pearls and polished cufflinks, it does nothing to make this place appeal to me. Merciless are those who roam the streets of this town fighting to be recognized. Their disguises of finery do not fool my eye. However, they all look for an escape in the grandiosity of my parties. They chase their wildest dreams in a haze of delirium and drink. After all, anything is possible at Livingston Manor.
A man of educational background, well versed on the psychological mind, would tell you that the reason
behind these outrageous soirees is to compensate for a piece missing within me. He would be right, of course. A man who does not bask in the glory of his fine hosting skill has no reason to go to such lengths of arranging infamous parties. In all actuality, I never revel in the blare of trumpets and spouts of champagne. I cannot share the same careless joy as the crowd not knowing what true happiness feels like. Nevertheless, I open my gates every night and let people swarm into every corner of the mansion they can find. They fill every crevice, every nook. To no avail. It still feels empty.
I can only think of one person capable of bringing this dead mound of glass and stone to life.
Her.
Her passion, a permanent spark ignited in the pupils of her eyes. Her mind made of diamonds and her eyes made of jade. The delicate curve of her cheekbones, and the sweeping undulation of her bottom lip, carved by the artistic hand of God himself. She was a vision in white the first time I lay eyes upon her. I still recall the way she turned to look at me. Her long locks of hair swept back to reveal her piercing green eyes, and a smile that sent a current of electricity through my blood. Of all my voyages around the world and of all the people I’ve met, there has never been a woman magnificent enough to steal the breath from my lungs. Love had never crossed my mind until the night I met Rosaline. It was improbable for a person like me. I’d sooner marry out of business than out of love. Regardless, from that evening forward she would continue to hold my heart in the palms of her hands. No matter the time of day, or how the years may wear on our bodies.
I became quite devoted to her after that. Many days were spent sneaking away with her when we could steal afternoons lazing in a meadow of daisies, hours away from the hubbub of the city. Sometimes we would go for a stroll in a town where no one could recognize
us, and pretend we lived a quiet life enjoying the simplicity of linking arms on a cloudless day. My memories are filled with nights in a tangle of sheets and limbs as a cool midnight breeze filtered in through a window. The joyous lilt of her voice. How her eyes glowed whenever they met mine, fluorescent in the midday sun.
My favourite memory, however, was the night of my birthday three years ago. I had forgotten about the date, as usual. I was never accustomed to celebrating my birthday, but somehow she had remembered. Without a word she led me to the pier and onto a boat that night, no indication as to where we were going or why. We sailed until the coastline was a sliver of distant lights across an expanse of sea. That far out into the ocean, the stars were as brilliant to the naked eye as diamonds under a spotlight. My senses registered salt and the lull of waves lapping against the sides of the boat. But the focus of my mind’s eye was the woman of my heart's greatest desire, standing at the bow with the enchanting charm of the sea’s most captivating siren.
Her smile bore a hint of mischievousness as she pinned me with her gaze. Then I noticed her hands behind her back.
“I hope I’m not taking my liberties too far,” she spoke, “but I couldn’t help myself.”
Sweeping her hands in front of her, Rosaline’s fingers unfolded to reveal an intricate gold pocket watch in her palm.
Silently, I took the watch from her to inspect the gift. The metal shone in the light overhead, the intricate carvings
denoting the worth of such stunning craftsmanship. With a subtle click the watch snapped open, revealing a sleek watch face. However, the picture on the inside was the focus of my attention. I recalled the day. Rosaline and I could not keep still for the camera, irritating the man wielding the device. So instead of waiting for us to settle down, he snapped the picture as we were. Rosaline’s arms were thrown around my neck as she threw her weight over my back, her brilliant smile captured in a frozen laugh in the photograph. Most shocking was my own hearty grin, brow creased and my eyes dancing with delight.
My hands shook as I inspected the words engraved on the back. Forever in this life and in the next, Rosaline.
I stare at the words now, three years after that night, and wonder how things could have turned out differently. How she could be with me now, in front of the drawing room fireplace, curled in each other delighting in the warmth of the hearth. Instead I stand in a dark corner of the courtyard, watching strangers rave around my house.
Each day I spend apart from her does not heal the pain of her absence. Everyday feels as if she had just taken her leave the night before, and I walk through each hour with the weight of her silence.
Forever in this life and in the next, Rosaline.
“Alexander?” Three years. Three years apart. As if a mirage, as an image made of a dream, Rosaline glittered in front of me.
the joy of defeat
tobi ogunleye
There was always something alluring about the quadrennial tournament that involves the best national soccer teams pitted against each other in a bid for world supremacy. It attracted billions of viewers across the globe, all cheering and supporting their home nations or adopted countries from either the comfort of their home or the buzzing ambience of the stadium. Gabriel was no exception.
From a young age, Gabriel Jiminez had idolised soccer. It had never ceased to amaze him how much a man could do with a ball at his feet, and he had dreamed of playing for his national team, Panama, in the biggest tournament of the biggest sport, the World Cup. However, the reality that loomed over them was unforgiving -- Panama had never qualified.
He had worked hard his whole life, training for hours on end each day, perfecting every pass, every cross, every shot and engraving the motions into his body. He had often gotten into trouble for not completing assignments, and generally being quick to give up on his schoolwork. Funny enough, he was known by his friends as “El fénix”, meaning “The Phoenix” because he never gave up, no matter how many times he fell; no matter what the score was, he would always wear his heart on his sleeve. He had always known he was rather different from his two older brothers; being immigrants into the United States meant his parents would have preferred him to go to college and get a degree much like his brothers -- fortunately for Gabriel, Gregg Hilton, the head scout for the LA Galaxy thought he was different from the rest as well, which earned him a place with the 5-time MLS cup champions.
It was always going to be an uphill task to get noticed as a defender; he did not play for a big European team - he was not even a permanent starter at the Galaxy - and also because they do not usually make the headlines. That is why the email Gabriel had received surprised him the more; it was from Paulo Hérnandez, the head
coach of the Panamanian national team, it read:
“Good Day Mr. Jiminez,
It is my pleasure to inform you that you have been called up to the 35-man squad that will participate in the final round of the World Cup qualifiers, so we will be in contact with LA Galaxy to find out the exact dates you may be released to meet up with the rest of the squad.¨
He had jumped into the air and hugged the very confused cleaning lady at the training ground when he first read the email, then, after calming down he proceeded to call his mum and dad back in Florida to tell them the good news; they were ecstatic - their child would have a chance to help Panama qualify for their first ever World Cup tournament.
No-one throws a party like Panamanians. No-one. His family had been invited to a party hosted by the Panama Football Association to psych the players up before their huge test against Costa Rica the next week. He had been overwhelmed by a wave of nostalgia: the taste of the carimañola was just like his mother’s, they played all his favourite Ruben Blades songs from his teens and best of all, he was surrounded by family.
He would never forget that night, and his mind drifted back to the party constantly - especially during the coach´s pregame speech. But he had heard it all before. They needed to beat Costa Rica and pray somehow that Trinidad & Tobago won against the Central American titans, USA. The game had gotten off to a rough start; the Costa Ricans had been pressing them for a good portion of the game, and Joel Campbell in particular had proven to be immune to Gabriel´s tight marking. In a flash they were 1-0 behind; Bryan Ruiz had created an opening and slotted the ball into the path of Johan Vargas, who expertly placed the ball past the goalkeeper. The Costa Ricans went ballistic, cheering and screaming at the top of their lungs; they were going to the World Cup! Bangers and the blares of horns sounded throughout the stadium.
Gabriel’s heart began to sink. He was already beginning to sense the bitter taste of defeat, but at least they had tried, hadn’t they? No other Panamanian team had
gotten this far; besides their supporters had more or less come to expect defeat - they should take the positives and celebrate their efforts. After all, they should be grateful that they even reached this far and rejoice in the small victories that life gave to them. He understood all this, but the fire and will to win that had bloomed in him, along with his love for the beautiful game - he tied his laces and shouted for the strikers to move up the pitch, it was now or never. The clock inched closer and closer to full-time, and the Costa Ricans were a brick wall. Suddenly, out of nowhere a stray-looking cross fell to the head of Gabriel Torres, who wasted no time in bringing them level. With two minutes to go, the ball fell to Roman Torres just outside the 18-yard box, and he proceeded to lash a powerful shot that flew into the top corner of the net, and, as the final whistle blew, Gabriel felt the tears streaming down his face. His long-lived fantasy was finally real.
Being at the World Cup was something Gabriel had always dreamed of, but he had never expected it would be quite like this. The sheer roar of the crowd filled him with unspeakable pride. He wondered if his brothers
frankie
nathan manlangit
The smell of evergreen trees and fresh hot chocolate filled the air as the bedroom door opened. Johnny had just finished getting out of the hold of his warm soft bed. Despite it being Christmas morning, Johnny didn’t want to leave his bed. Not today. Not ever.
It had been only two days, since Frankie, the family dog, had died. Unfortunately, he had passed away just two days before his birthday. Frankie had just been born when he was given as a gift for Christmas. Every year, Johnny and his family would celebrate both Christmas and Frankie’s birthday. As it had only been two days since his death, and having to celebrate one of the most celebrated holidays of the year without Frankie, Johnny was lethar-
ever got this feeling from one of their university lectures. To be honest, Panama were overwhelming underdogs; they were grouped with the star-studded Belgium squad, a young and dangerous English side and the seasoned Tunisians. Unfortunately, in this fairytale; the protagonists don’t always win.
In his lifetime of playing soccer, Gabriel Jiminez had never faced opponents of such quality, speed and raw talent, the Belgians thumped them 3-0, the English had demolished them 6-1 and the Tunisians came back from behind to beat them 2-1. At the end of the Tunisia game - their last match of the tournament - he had slumped onto the grass and started chuckling. They may have been out of the World Cup, but to him they had won, simply because they managed to reach there even against all odds - they had even managed to score their first ever World Cup goal. One day, in the not so distant future, he would get his hands on the most prized trophy in the world - but for today he would go home to his family, as the pride and joy of the “Crossroads of America”. They may have been defeated, but they were certainly victorious. And that was a reason to celebrate.
gic and still mourned his death.
By the time he left his room, Johnny’s parents and sister had already been waiting for him. When he got downstairs he was greeted with a cold cup of hot chocolate. “We’ve been waiting for you,” Johnny’s mother said as she kissed him on his head, “Your hot cocoa’s getting cold.” The room was filled with sympathetic faces, other than Jessie, Johnny’s little sister, who was more happy than everyone else in the room and even happier that her brother was awake. Jessie didn’t understand what it was like to lose Frankie, especially since she knew him for only six years while Johnny knew Frankie ever since he could remember. Jessie couldn’t grasp the idea of losing a loved one.
And it really irritated Johnny because it made it seem like she didn’t really care.
“Finally you’re awake,” she said in a loud sigh, “I’ve been waiting to open up my presents from Santa. And look, he left us a big present there.” Under the tree laid a wrapped box too big to fit anything on the kids’ wish lists. With closer inspection, the kids also noticed holes big enough to fit their fingers inside, and a tag that read To: Jessie and Johnny From: Santa Claus. “I wonder what it could be,” Jessie wondered aloud.
After opening all their other presents, they left the best for last. Jessie and Johnny helped each other slide the box from under the tree into the middle of the living room. They cleared the area from all the ripped up wrapping paper and litter of presents. “I think that it’s a dinosaur,” Jessie said while sitting in front of the box.
Johnny rolled his eyes. “Those don’t exist anymore.”
“But Santa can make anything happen.”
“Santa’s fake!”
“Johnny,” their mother screamed, “be nice to your sister! I know you’re sad about Frankie, but you don’t need to be rude to your sister.”
Johnny pouted and turned his shoulder towards his mother. “Can we just open this already?” Jessie jumped towards the box and started ripping the wrapping paper off.
“It’s moving,” Jessie said excitedly, “I told you it’s a dinosaur!” Quickly she took the lid off and peaked inside the box. “A dog!”
“A dog?” Johnny said, confused and startled, “You got us a dog?” Quickly his tone became more angry. He stood up with his fists clenched and said, “You can’t replace Frankie. No dog can.” Johnny rushed to his room, holding back his tears.
“Look mommy,” Jessie cried out, “I think she’s scared.” Jessie’s mom and dad walked over to the box and leaned over. The dog was climbing up the wall with her tail tucked between her legs. “I think Johnny scared her!”
Meanwhile in his room, Johnny laid on his bed mourning. All he could think about was Frankie and why his parents would think to even replace him. As he wiped away his tears he noticed a present on his desk. He bought and wrapped it just before Frankie had passed away. Johnny got up from his bed to open it. The present was loosely wrapped in festive green and red wrapping paper with a dog print pattern. And inside was a black dog plushie, an exact version of Frankie’s very first Christmas present. It looked exactly like Frankie but just a miniature form of him. They were discontinued just a year after Frankie received his, and replaced with a newer, cuter model that didn’t include a squeaky toy inside. Personally, Johnny didn’t enjoy the cute look on the toy due to the fact that it looked nothing like his dog. Frankie must’ve thought the same too when his plushie was replaced after he had lost his first one. Instead of the usual cuddling with his mini double, Frankie ripped apart the newer version.
Johnny took the present with him to the bed and curled up in a ball, clutching it in his arms as if it was all he had left of Frankie. He lay there, crying, and all he could think about were all the memories he had with Frankie. Johnny was interrupted by the pitter-patter of claws hitting the hardwood floor. “Frankie?” Johnny leaned over, realised it was only their new dog, and said in disgust, “ugh, what do you want?” Johnny curled back up, turned over and groaned. Despite being just a small puppy, the dog managed to get up on the bed and crawl over to Johnny’s face. She licked away his tears and placed her paw on his hand. Johnny sighed and covered his face with his arms. She moved closer to the present in between Johnny’s chest and legs, then curled up next to it and cuddled it. For what seemed like hours, Johnny laid there with his new dog next to him. He stared at her black coat and big, fluffy ears. She reminded him so much of Frankie, it’s almost like they could be brother and sister. Johnny saw so much in her that he realised he shouldn’t be mourning Frankie's death but celebrating his life, his birthday and Christmas. It’s what he would’ve wanted. So he carried his new dog in his arms while she was fast asleep and said, “I think we should name her Frankie, it’s short for Francesca.”
i don’t believe in celebration anymore
mackenzie noble
Death is an occupational hazard of life. Seems rather pessimistic, I know. When I was much younger I was more optimistic, quite possibly as a result of having many happy days and exciting things to look forward to. Invisible friends’ birthdays, mom buying the good cereal at the store, my sister being born. I’ve been to high school parties, trying to drink enough to forget, woken up with cottonmouth and a pounding head. Watched people grow old, celebrating every passing year, as if getting closer to death is a thing to celebrate. However, I don't believe in celebration anymore.
I detest birthdays. I say that and people give me a look of astonishment. If only they knew what I know. That every birthday that passes is another step closer to going belly up. I came to this conclusion when I was rather young, back when most little girls were worried about whether or not they’d get the princess-themed party, or the newest doll with the prettiest hair. While all they could be concerned about was getting the nice toys and the pretty decorations, I was terrified that I might again be visited by the infamous figure with the black cloak and scythe.
My fear of birthdays started on my tenth. It was May 20th, the day I was going from single to double digits. This was my big day, and my parents wanted to make it perfect, for I was oh so excited. The problem was, they made a mistake on my cake. It was the final piece that my party needed to achieve perfection, and I had picked it out weeks in advance, ensuring that the store would have it for my big day. My mom knew how badly
I wanted it, and was upset that she had managed to forget it. My dad offered to go to the store, saying, “It will only take a few minutes; it’s only down the street.” He was my hero. I was delighted: “Could you, daddy?” “Of course, sweetie.” he had replied, kissing my forehead.
They said he wouldn’t have felt a thing. They said the drunk man’s car had slammed into his with such force that he flew through the windshield and hit the asphalt, dying instantly. That he must have been in a rush because he forgot to put on his seatbelt. But it was what they didn’t say that hurt me most. That it was my fault he went out that day. That if I wasn’t so needy and high maintenance and had just dealt with the mistake he could’ve stayed in, enjoyed the party. That if I hadn’t asked him to go he wouldn’t have died.
Birthdays have never been the same since dad. I don’t ask for anything, and no one ever comes over, which means it’s lonely, but better lonely than with another loss. I don’t believe in a happy ending, for me or anyone else. I don’t believe in happiness anymore, only moving through the days, just trying to make it through the week, the month, the year. I tried to make my pain lessen with depression medication, but it seemed to just dull my feelings, lessen the crashing waves in my brain to a dull buzz. I didn’t like how they made me feel, so I stopped taking them. I turned to drink after that, causing me to flow in and out of reality. I move through life in a haze, trying to forget that stupid day when we were supposed to be celebrating my growing older and instead I lost my father.
never give in
christopher bowers
When I was a young boy, I remember a mother giving her son a toy dinosaur for his sixth birthday. He was so fascinated by that one toy that soon his whole bedroom was decorated with dinosaurs. He read every book on the different species and eras, he collected additional toys and built models, and he imagined what their world, now long gone, would have looked like. At night, he would dream of digging up dinosaur bones for displays in the museums he visited; maybe when he grew up he would find a new species of dinosaur and get to name it. He was obsessed with dinosaurs in the way only a child could be. But as he grew, his passion for dinosaurs would eventually get lost in a sea of mathematics, physical education, social studies and languages. There was little room for dinosaurs amidst the subjects he was told would be important to him later in life. Eventually, the dinosaurs would fade away and become nothing more than the dreams of an innocent child bewildered by beasts lost in time.
A few years later, that same boy saw a display of model trains at the mall and, once again, his interest and excitement peaked as he studied the intricacy and detail of each table. He loved watching the trains go round and round in a variety of different landscapes. He was amazed at the way each piece of scenery was individually and carefully crafted using fairly plain materials; the level of artwork involved in every tree, river, bridge and town. These people had created an imaginary world from nothing but household materials, some paint and a train set that they had purchased at the local department store. When he left that day, he couldn’t stop talking about it; the boy couldn’t wait until he got his own train set so he could build a world just like the one he saw earlier. But on the car ride home, his mother turned to him and told him that he was just overexcited and that it would pass. They didn’t have the space and it would just be another toy that would get forgotten about. His excitement was soon replaced with disappointment and the vibrant worlds he
imagined creating crumbled beneath the weight of his mother’s heavy words.
As he got older, that boy went to college and began his studies in variety of different subjects meant to prepare him for the years to come. With the passing of each semester, he found himself drawn to history and literature. As he went to each lecture and read each page of his texts, tales of the past came to life in his head in a way that made his heart race and fuelled his hunger. The more he absorbed the material, the more he found himself writing short stories and tales of his own. He enjoyed it... no …. he LOVED it. He thought that maybe he could be a writer, sharing worlds never seen, legends never told, and people never known. But as he wrote, a friend told him that there was no money to be made as a writer; that he was wasting his time and he should focus on something sensible like business instead. The more he thought on those words, the more it stuck in his head and other people around him started telling him more of the same. And so, the boy dropped his pen, put away his paper, and soon traded both for spreadsheets and statistics as the pages that would never be read slowly turned to ash in boxes long forgotten.
There is, of course, a reason I’m telling you these stories. Do any of these tales sound familiar to you?
This world has a tendency to forget the innocence of a child with a toy that sparks their imagination. We fall into patterns where excitement is dismissed as a fad, passing fancy, or short term obsession. Too often, we encourage ideals that find us a good paying job without asking what might truly make us happy. The story of this boy is not a unique one. If you want to meet the child I speak of, all you need to do is look around you. This child is everywhere.
But maybe, the world isn’t like that at all.
Maybe, we encourage the child with the dinosaur and he
becomes a world renowned paleontologist. When a kid gets excited about wanting to be creative we give them some paints and a paintbrush and see where it goes. If they want to become a writer, push them to submit their works; maybe they’ll get published. Never give up when you find something you love. Don’t let the world tell you what you enjoy doing. At the end of the day, if we celebrate the passions as they occur rather than try to stifle and dismiss them, then maybe the world would be a little bit brighter.
What of the boy, you ask? The boy from the stories? I will gladly tell you.
Today, I came home from work, I fed my dog and sat on the couch to relax. Looking around the room, I can’t help but notice a fossil of a dinosaur sitting on a lonely shelf. Not too far away from that shelf is an easel, where an unfinished painting sits, depicting what will be a night sky in the forest; a world created from my imagination. And finally, sitting on the couch, with a laptop, I am writing an article for a local magazine with the hope that somebody will read it. The hour is late. I turn off my computer and get ready for bed. I look in the mirror and I see that boy staring back at me, smiling.
migrants or immigrants
marty rempel
old newspapers tell me that recession, then depression was the cause, human greed, the dust bowl forced families from the land to travel in tumble down vehicles to the promised land working for survival and remnants of dignity today I sip my latte viewing social media i try to imagine who created those beans whose efforts that tropical fruit in winter but only experiencing a ride west in a tumbled-down model T on an empty stomach will i understand worth and dignity
-Shauna Darbyshire (Murray)
Advertising Rates
Why advertise in NorthWord?
First initiative of its kind - NorthWord is Wood Buffalo's first literary magazine, privately funded by local residents comprising the social profit group, Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers (NCCSW) - this means we need your support today!
• Market to promote education, literacy, and talented writers in the region and Northern Canada
• Support the arts – foster the written word in our community.
Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers –NorthWord RPO Clearwater P.O Box 30480 Fort McMurray, AB T9H 0B8
E-mail: northwordmagazine@gmail.com For more infor mation, please call: Kiran Malik-Khan: PR Director - 780.880.7666
Digital File Speci cations:
• A press-ready PDF, TIFF, EPS, PSD (layers flattened) or A1 (text flattened) version is acceptable.
• Files should be 300dpi and sent to: northwordmagazine@gmail.com
Ad Sizes and Rates: Full Colour
Back Cover: 8"x10" - $1200
Inside Front Cover: 8"x10" - $1100
Inside Back Cover: 8"x10" - $1100
Full Page: 8"x10" - $800
Half Page: 8"x5" - $500
*(horizontal or vertical option)
Ad Sizes and Rates: Black & White
Full Page: 8"x10" - $600
Half Page: 8"x5" - $300
*(horizontal or vertical option)
marginalia Will We Remember Them?
A column by douglas abel
By the time you read this, the centenary of the end of World War I, November 11, 2018, will have come and gone. We probably did not “celebrate” on that 100th Remembrance Day, and 101st Armistice Day, if celebration is taken to mean some kind of “festive” party, a joyous “good time.” Rather, at ceremonies across this country, at cenotaphs, war memorials and other official sites, we “celebrated” as one celebrates in a religious service, formally, ceremonially, and solemnly. We performed rituals of remembrance.
Certainly there was festive, probably frenzied celebration on that very first day of Armistice in 1918, both on the battle fronts and across the allied nations. My wife’s grandfather, Thomas Bower-Binns, a field artillery gunner, was with his battery near Mons in Belgium when the guns fell silent at 11 a.m. He noted the armistice in the margin of a book of poetry, Rhymes of a Red Cross Man, that he carried with him throughout his time in combat:
Nov. 11. 1918 Armstice [sic] Day. Wild times. Got good and drunk etc etc Belgium. Photographs from the day show jubilant crowds of French civilians and Canadian soldiers packing the streets of Mons, overwhelmed with relief that the killing and immediate suffering were over. For soldiers like Thomas, the relief would have been intense, physically and emotionally: they had somehow survived, when so many had not. They could go home. But even in that celebration, there would no doubt have been quiet, tearful toasts to those comrades who had not made it—who, in Tommy’s words, had “gone West.”
One hundred years later, the immediate joy and relief are long gone. It is no longer a time simply to “get good and drunk.” Instead there are the set rituals: the two minutes of silence, the solemn firing of guns, the marches to and from memorials, the tear-haunted notes of the Last Post, and the repetition of the prayer and promise:
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Laurence Binyon, “The Fallen”
Yet this centenary of the end of the “War to End All Wars” also marks a profound change in how future remembrance can and will occur.
For a century has passed since that first Armistice Day. There is no one left alive in the world who fought in the Great War. The last Canadian veteran, John Babcock, died in 2010. The sons and daughters of those who fought are gone too, or are well into their nineties. Even the grandsons and grandaughters are at, or well past, retirement age.
Within a generation, by the one hundred and twentyfifth anniversary of the end of World War I, there will be almost no one left alive who looked into the face of a soldier from the war, who heard his voice, who can remember his stories, if any, as first-person tales. Within a generation, any possibility of immediate remembrance, of a direct, face-to-face link between those who fought and those who remember them, will have vanished.
At that point living memory will become impossible. You cannot fully or truly “remember” what you have never known. You can acknowledge, you can recognize; but these actions are not the same as truly remembered experience.
By Armistice Day on November 11, 2043, the Great War will have become recorded history. There will be photographs, letters, documents of all sorts, physical objects, memorials massive or humble. All these will be able to stimulate the imagination, but they will not speak directly to anyone alive.
In the musical play Billy Bishop Goes to War, by John Gray and Eric Peterson, there is a quiet, haunting ballad that contains the lyrics,
Look at the names on the statues everywhere you go.
Someone was killed a long time ago. I remember the faces. I remember the time.
Those were the names of friends of mine.
Billy and his comrade-in arms, the narrator-pianist, can remember, and can tell others about the “friends of mine” who have gone. Within a generation, there will be no one who will be able to say, of any soldier, sailor, nurse or ambulance driver from World War I, “I remember the faces.” There will be only the “names on the statues,” and the recorded, historical knowledge that “someone was killed a long time ago,” or that someone survived to relate his or her experiences, now in artifact form. The link between stone names and living faces will have been permanently broken. The past will be only past.
On April 9, 2017, the hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Vimy Ridge, I stood with over 25,000 other Canadians to commemorate the men who fought and died, or fought and survived, on that French hilltop. My sense of the battle was greatly heightened by an actual letter from the front, written the day after the battle, that I had held in my hands a year before. In it Major Edmund Cape, commander of the Third Canadian Siege Battery, had described the battle in detail, and swelled with pride at the success of the Canadians, exulting that the enemy had been beaten, beaten, beaten!
As the Last Post echoed over the hushed crowd on that sun-drenched April day, I could see Cape’s words on the page, imagine him in his dugout, writing them, hastily but triumphantly. But what brought him fully “to life,” for me were the words of his granddaughter, who had described him for me as a man, a husband, a father, a grandfather—and as the practical head of the construction company that built the war memorial in Ottawa. The letter, an artifact, could bring a soldier to some kind of life. Suzie Ruttan’s words summoned up a living, breathing man, who concluded every letter with the words, “Yours, lovingly.”
On war memorials throughout Canada, and in the battlefield cemeteries of Belgium and France, are inscribed the words,
THEIR NAME LIVETH FOR EVERMORE
At Remembrance Day ceremony-celebrations, we make a promise that this will be true. Yet, as a hundred years and more move history from the conscious present to the unrecoverable past, and as the living voices that can describe the faces that go with the names disappear, can that promise be kept?
How many Canadians, at Vimy Ridge in 2042, will truly be able to “remember”? For that matter, how many Canadians will even be there?
contributors
douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, and voice and speech teacher. He has just completed a World War 1 video documentary, Yours, Lovingly. He hopes he will not forget.
chris bowers is a writer and actor who has lived in Fort McMurray for the last 7 years and is proud to call it home. You can read more of his work on his website cjbuzz.com. He is currently a Kennel Supervisor at the Fort McMurray SPCA and is passionate about helping rescues and finding them homes.
nicole hernandez is a grade 12 student with an affinity for creative writing.
nathan manlangit is a grade 11 student in Fort McMurray, originally from Toronto. He enjoys spending time on visual & graphics arts and photography.
sarah mckendry writes, “I am a mother, a painter, a wife and an author. I first picked up a paintbrush in 2008, and I have been teaching myself the intricate, challenging and souldeep world of self expression ever since.”
mackenzie noble writes, “I’m a grade twelve student at Holy Trinity Catholic High School. Partially raised in Fort McMurray, I plan to pursue a career in education.”
oluwatobi "tobi" ogunleye writes, “I'm 17 years old. I'm from Nigeria and recently moved to Canada for high school. I love reading, writing and I am an avid soccer player and fan. I hope to become an engineer in the future and also write a couple novels along the way.”
carolyn d. redl has published poetry—earthbound, a memoir—A Canadian Childhood—as well as short stories, travel articles and book reviews. She lives in Victoria where she completes Seasons by the Salish Sea, a book about living on the island that is geared especially for prairie and other inlander folks.
marty rempel writes, “I have been an educator for four decades with half of that time spent in Fort McMurray and Fort Chip. I have retired several times and have taught in the Bahamas, Germany, China and Kuwait. Now I spend my time writing, blogging and spending time trying to keep up with my four grandchildren.”
heidi stuckless is a grade 12 student who aspires to be a writer in the future. She is inspired by authors such as Cassandra Clare and Sarah J. Maas.
donalee williams has delighted in writing poetry for many years and is thrilled to once again be published in NorthWord. Donalee is an ordained minister and served with Fort McMurray First United Church for 8-and-ahalf years, and is now serving Trinity United Church in Grimsby, Ontario. However, Fort McMurray and NorthWord will always have a special place in her heart.
riley woodford writes, “Born in Newfoundland, currently working in sales. happily living in Fort McMurray with my beautiful wife, Pamela, and little dog, Rapheal. I draw inspiration from the concept that artists bring the darkness to help understand the light.”
