volume 3 | issue 5 | FREE
volume 3 | issue 5
contents
northern canada collective society for writers president Suzanne McGladdery
editorial
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editorial
Hugh Gordon
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community report
Kiran Malik Khan
This is the long distance call
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the dark trembled heart
Elyn Soriano
The way we look to us all, oh yeah
e-mail northwordmagazine@gmail.com
4
a child's verse of genocide
Kevin Thornton
The way we look to a distant constellation
web www.northwordmagazine.com
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glop: the non-descript
Patricia Marie Budd
These are the days of miracle and wonder
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pheonix
Michèle Gagnon
This Issue: Volume 3, Number 5 Fall 2017
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them
Vanessa McMahon
ISSN 1920-6313
7
the dark
Vanessa McMahon
cover David Ball
8
gone dark
Dawn Booth
of societies that are terrifying in their brutality, inhumanity, and injustice. Dystopia, as the
Angie Goredema-
myself, prefer stories of individuals and groups triumphing against oppression, but is that a
treasurer Sundas Shamshad public relations director Kiran Malik-Khan
design & layout Rachel White-Murray issue editor Hugh Gordon managing editor Jane Jacques president emerita Jennifer Hemstock
Proudly published in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada 56°44’N | 111°07’W
These are the days of miracle and wonder The way the camera follows us in slo-mo
That's dying in a corner of the sky And don't cry baby, don't cry Don't cry, don't cry
Paul Simon, The Boy in the Bubble
does talk of dystopia need to be depressing? I’ll admit, I have had a fascination with stories opposite of Thomas More’s Utopia, suggests a world/society where things just ain’t right. I,
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twenty punches
11
between the essence and the descent falls the shadow
Kevin Thornton
nations attempted to create utopias, but made the opposite instead. People crave order and
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lou's story
Patrick Reardon
can convince people that oppression is good and necessary.
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houses don't get burials
Kiran Malik-Khan
I will admit that the topic came to mind after the recent US Presidential election. I keep having
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wasteland
Michèle Gagnon
political opinion. History, like good writing, makes you think and put yourself in a different place.
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marginalia
Douglas Abel
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contributors
Chinguwo
dystopia? The concept does not only include science-fiction, but also history, which is my field
of professional expertise. Nazi Germany, the Communist Soviet Union: these are dystopias. Both “normalcy” so they can go about their lives without going mad. And all too often, propaganda
thoughts (and nightmares) that life on this planet is not progressing as it should, but that is a Science-fiction, whether it is in print, on film, or in video games, allows the mind to wander into
the light, or darkness. As some of the pieces in this month’s issue show, dystopias are not all science fiction, or history.
My hope is that thinking and imagining about dystopias can help us improve our own society. If we look at what frightens us from our imaginations, we can ensure that such things do not take place in reality. All too often people fall into the trap of “It Can’t Happen Here”, as Sinclair Lewis once wrote, but apathy, ignorance, and denial go together all too well. We need to remember that ordinary people can change the world, for good or ill.
Hugh Gordon |
seventeenth issue editor
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volume 3 | issue 5
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
community report
by kiran malik-khan Public Relations Director
fort mcmurray is alive with poetry
Wheeldon, who is the Arts Council Wood Buffalo Executive
There’s something to be said about an evening of coming
Director, echoed similar sentiments.
together over beautiful words. And, that something is
“I am excited to be the cover artist for NorthWord’s recent
NorthWord, and how it continues to be a voice for the
issue. I was inspired by the choice of theme and the
literary arts in the region. The magazine’s 16th issue with
chance to collaborate with guest editor, Erin Stinson, my
a theme of “Take a Deep Breath,” was launched on April 28,
friend and colleague. The invitation to create artwork for
2017 at Points North Gallery.
this issue came at a time when I was searching for my
Guest editor Erin Stinson and cover artist Liana Wheeldon opened the event with an insightful conversation about the process.
next artistic direction after addressing the wildfire and evacuation in my work. Exploring the amazing birds and vast skies of Fort McMurray in this piece has inspired me to continue to celebrate our community and its feathered
“Serving as the guest editor for the Take A Deep Breath issue
inhabitants in my current artwork. The launch events are
has been an honour. I was fascinated by all the ways the
a great way to meet and engage with local artists and
theme was interpreted by our literary artists and as I read
support this incredible showcase of our literary talent in
through the submissions, pieces were selected to showcase
the region,” she noted.
that variety. Visual artist Liana Wheeldon complemented her gorgeous piece with a selection of drawings that are featured throughout the issue. I love how the arts weave
Jane Jacques, Managing Editor for the magazine appreciated the turnout and open mic session.
together! Although each piece in the issue was created in
“We had a great evening of storytelling, poetry, and
a solitary manner, they came together as one cohesive unit
conversation, surrounded by beautiful artwork in Points
in our published magazine. We celebrated our collective
North Gallery. Erin Stinson, and Liana Wheeldon spoke
work with an intimate evening of fellowship and
eloquently about their interpretations of the theme of
readings.
arts
"Take a Deep Breath." And as always, the food from Blue
are most certainly
Mountain Bistro was superb. Thanks to Florence Weber
alive and well in Fort
of Points North Gallery and Carmelo Daprocida of Blue
McMurray and I am
Mountain Bistro for their support, and thanks to all of
thrilled,”
the friends of NorthWord for joining us for the launch,”
Stinson.
The
enthused
Jacques noted. It was also great to see famous poet, Shane Koyczan in town earlier this year. Thanks to the Wood Buffalo Regional Library for bringing him in. Keyano Theatre
the dark trembled heart elyn soriano
I saw buildings with beaming lights,
only to realize, it is shattered and burning inside. Shiny and appealing objects on the ground
are scattered empty bullets from soldiers and villain guns.
The overwhelming smell of fuel, burned properties and tanks, created fear in my mind.
People gathered on the streets,
fighting and screaming political eye.
Loud military tanks and bomb explosions, scare and abandon crowds.
I ran fast with giant steps, for me to hide and save my life. Children are crying Mom and Dad,
for they are hurt, lost or left behind,
Wounded civilians agonized with broken bones,
begging and praying for good Samaritans to come. I played with paper and sticks,
in dark corners of a quiet room.
Footsteps in the hallway and knock on the door,
make me tremble, with all the fears of getting harm.
I watched my Mom boil potatoes, for our hungered pot, as she lay her teary eyes, on my Father’s side,
for he is forced to carry guns, struggling to find food and protecting his loved ones. Oh, World of chaos,
created by hatred and greed.
Tell us how to restore love and peace.
For I am a child, who deserves to be cherished and free.
was almost full to hear the charismatic poet, who held everyone’s attention with his memorable performance, and read both new pieces and perennial favourites. Always heartening to see Fort McMurray alive with poetry. Left Photo: Shane Koyczan in concert
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Right Photo: Erin Stinson & Liana Wheeldon at the launch of NorthWord Issue 16
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
a child’s verse of genocide
glop: the non-descript
‘The Bengali mass murders are first on the list,’ said the Virtue with a smile.
Inspired by “The Mirage” by David Blackwood
kevin thornton
John said “I’d rather go out and play, it’s sunset in a while.”
‘They don’t even know many died, three million is optimistic.’
“The death of one is upsetting,” said Jane. “That many? It’s just a statistic.” ‘Have you heard of the death of the Dzungars, or the rape of the Russian Jews?’ “No,” said Tom, Dick and Harry. “We didn’t even know it was news.”
‘From Afghan terrors to Zimbabwean slaughter, genocide runs through the alphabet.’ “I’m sure we should try to stop them,” said Jill, “but I don’t think I’m ready yet.”
‘There’s Stalin and Mao, they’re the two biggies. They have the highest tallies.
Churchill and Roosevelt must also be there, for the bombing runs done by the Allies. Turks on Armenians, Tutsis on Hutus, who then returned the favour.’
“When does God get involved?” asked Sue. “We really could do with a saviour.” ‘Now, let’s move on to the Killing Fields, the Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot.’ “Do we really have to,” said Shirley. “On the whole I’d rather not.” ‘You must pass Mass Murderers 101, before we can study 2.’
“But I’ve seen the movie with Linda Hunt, that’ll just have to do.” ‘We come to the horrible holocaust, when Hitler near killed all the Jews.’
“We saw Schindler’s List and read Maus,” said George, ‘And Irving, who called it a ruse.” ‘You have to read Anne Frank’s diary and learn about Dachau and Auschwitz.’ “Is that the same as Oświęcim?” asked Kate. “I can’t tell which one is which.” ‘The Belgian Congo, North Korea, even Canada and Australia
All of them caused thousands to die, though none will admit their failure. ‘There’s Bosnian Serbs, Apartheid’s Boers and the Sudanese in Darfur.’
“Weren’t some of them caused by famine,” said Jo. “Is that not a ‘force majeure’?” ‘I wish that they would listen,’ said the Virtue to The Throne. ‘They’d learn from all their past mistakes: apologize, atone. We can’t live on in ignorance; self-centred, crass myopia.
The fall of man has by now begun and will end with Earth’s dystopia.’
patricia marie budd
www.artnet.com/artists/david-lloyd-blackwood/the-mirage-rZyMmFh_sXWHJnmOE6Qdug2 Glop. The non-descript. That is the only way to describe
talk in the presence of the light. The light will sear you,
gender, no apparent features, like all other Glops Glop
into the dark puddles of nothingness that reside at their
this strange being. Glop is one who has no apparent
does not appear to have any sense of longing…and, yet, Glop is more than just any other Glop. Glop is lonely. Glop longs for more. This is the result of where Glop must sleep at night. Glop is at the outer edge of the sleep area: the one who sleeps closest to the unknown.
It is the outer sounds that play on Glop’s ear. The sounds are so different, so seductive and luring. Every
feet. The only one amongst them allowed to speak, or be spoken to, is a Grudger. The Grudgers are required
to speak, as their job is that of taskmaster. Glops may address a Grudger to inquire as to the next bit of work
required. Those poor Glops who ask the wrong question of a Grudger will be beaten. Glop always asks the wrong questions.
night Glop’s mind drifts into unconsciousness riding
This day Glop asks Grudger where the light comes
thing out there in the land of the unknown that makes
vate but does so in the presence of all the other Glops.
on the thoughts of new possibilities. There is someGlop’s night filled with dreams of wonder. Wonder is not something that is part of Glop’s everyday life. It
is dark and damp inside the cave. The only light that
shines on its occupants streams in from the unknown outer world.
The light is deemed all that is evil by the Glops. This they have been taught by the Grudgers. A Grudger
leads every group of Glops; Glop’s Grudger is said to
from. Glop does not think to ask this question in pri-
Grudger is angered by Glop’s insolence. Grudger does
not answer, Grudger merely beats Glop unconscious. The other Glops only watch. They do nothing to aid Glop, nor express any pity for Glop’s condition. Glop
asked a stupid question, an inappropriate question.
Glop did not ask about work. Glop deserved to get beat. Glops have now learned a valuable lesson. Do not ask Grudger where the light comes from.
be the wisest and cruellest of all the Grudgers. Daily
As Glop slowly regains awareness Glop’s first image
curse them. It provides the light by which they work.
the light that draws Glop towards it? What is it about
Grudger reminds his fold that the outer light comes to While there is light there is work with only short rests between to drink of the dew and eat of the lichen that grows on the cave walls. Only when the light retreats
back into its unholy land of the unknown are the Grudgers and Glops free to sleep.
Glops, even though they work and eat and sleep in
groups, are always alone. No Glop dares reach out and
speak to another Glop. To do so would result in a severe beating. One does not talk while working. One does not
4
strike down and destroy you. The light will burn a Glop
is that of the light blurring his vision. What is it about the unknown that Glop wants so much to know? Is the light somehow connected to the musical sounds of the night’s orchestra, that which sings Glop to sleep every night? As Grudger is too busy task mastering and the
other Glops are too busy being mastered, Glop remains
unnoticed. No one pays attention as Glop slowly crawls
towards the entrance of the light, slowly toward the unknown. Lying there before the door Glop notices how the air is sweeter. How the moisture that is the cause of the stench inside the cave is actually the cause
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
of the salty sweet smell of the unknown. How can anything so enticing be harmful to a Glop, Glop wonders.
With renewed vigour Glop stands. Glop’s hand reaches
out into the unknown world and has the light touch
it full force. It does not burn or scald or disappear. The light is warm. Glop steps forward. From behind a
see what had happened. Most had seen the view as Grudger described it, a blurry Glop shimmering into
nothing by the light. The only one who saw Glop walk-
ing peacefully outdoors was too afraid to utter any
thoughts. Glop was too afraid to even admit to what had truly happened.
Grudger screams. Other Glops turn their head Glop’s
As Grudger and the Glops stare into the vast exit of the
mist of light that is the cave’s exit.
back to the unknown signalling that the Glops are now
way and watch as Glop slowly disappears into the hazy “I warned you! I warned you!” Grudger screams. “You saw it! You saw it!” Grudger now reprimands the other
Glops. “You saw how the light sucked him in, how his
body disintegrated within the light of the unknown.” The other Glops shivered in fear. None save one had turned their heads around soon enough to really
cave the light begins to fade. Disappearing, retreating free to sleep. Alone, Glop stands staring at the exit, una-
ware, wondering why it is so enticing, so intriguing. As
them
vanessa mcmahon Don’t look
Don’t blink Don’t feel.
a result of lingering Glop ends up having to sleep on
Stay awake
taunted to sleep by the sweet sounds of the late night
Stay safe.
the outer edge of the sleeping space. That night Glop is orchestra.
Stay alert
Don’t hide
Don’t be seen
Don’t stand out. Stay strong
Stay committed Stay sane.
pheonix
Do it because you want to
Do it because it feels good
michèle gagnon
Do it because you can.
I give of myself until my flesh drips from my bones
They are listening
Until my feet get cold resting in a puddle of what I used to be
And yet it looks like selfishness
Sometimes I want to carve my scars out
To create a new constellation of wounds
To destroy myself in the name of igniting new flame I am done with guessing at mirrors
At fumbling for myself in a darkness that gnaws at my guts I am ready to be consumed
When what looks like selfishness
They are watching They are absorbing. Do it for them.
the dark vanessa mcmahon
I’m always afraid to go back to that place. To remember
the dark. The dripping taps, bleach laden towels
and the smell of stale cigarettes from 80 years of dysfunction crammed into four floors. If the dark creeps in I
rush to find the light, I scratch and claw to
find one singular ray.
A glimmer is all that is needed to find a way out of
the potentially bottomless pit of black.
Take a deep breath. Never forget.
Keep moving. Forward.
Becomes the monster you accuse it of being I will rise a phoenix
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
gone dark
twenty punches
dawn booth
angie goredema-chinguwo
Don't turn on the light. Is shadowed by muffled Moans and vibrations.
to ask these questions, I was alone. I grabbed my cell-
To cloud my optimism.
phone to access the internet, but the hospital wifi wasn’t
It's dark down here.
To fiercely feast
On my future hopes,
Shatter my every inspiration. It's starving,
I'm exhausted. Don't turn on the light. I will come back When it's full
And I'm empty.
no home. That’s a problem. A big problem. Where am I
born with hair or without? Maybe. I didn’t have anyone
With an eerie grin of betrayal
My forgotten dreams.
are very alert and they have big eyes. They ….”
“so much hair” was a good sign or a bad sign. Were babies
Laughter-like cries smile
And needs to feed on
be ready to go home soon, I had been told. However, one
As a new mom, I was very confused. I wasn’t too sure if
I've slipped in again.
Misery is my conscious,
“Ma’am, congratulations. Your twins are doing great. They have your eyes and they have so much hair. They
My unpleasant surrounding
I couldn’t connect to the free wifi, no personal data and
I didn’t have anyone to talk to, so what was the point of
because I woke up when the nurse grabbed my hand to
The phoenix shall always rise from ashes
Though I fear I may never survive the scorch; I lived this life surrounded by masses
Tailed through hell, a path lid by a torch
I must have fallen asleep during my crying episode check my blood pressure. She wasn’t gentle. That’s just great, I thought to myself. I wasn’t going to say that out loud since I didn’t know what was actually going on.
“What day is it? How long have I been in the hospital?” “Ma’am, you have been here for four weeks, but you are ready to go home now.”
This lifetime severed me beyond repair;
“Ma’am?” why does she keep calling me ma’am? I don’t
Deal with the devil I said unaware
called Lynn? I am Lynn. Lynn.
She once asked me darling who stole your soul Once I was lost and in need of control A halo of hope flirted with my heart
And heaven’s doors never looked more divine
like to be addressed in such a manner. Why can’t I just be My mind machine was at work. I was trying to put all
the details together because I was still a little confused. How did I end up in the hospital? Well, I know she told me I had twins, but I mean, who dropped me at this hospital? There was no one to answer me. I just had to think harder and harder. I think the doctor must have given me too many drugs because I am having trouble remembering things. I will
8
that the twins were so excited to meet the world and decided to come earlier than expected.
started. I cried, and cried, and cried.
The devil needn't look at me like that
Pain waited for many and stayed ablaze
because they came early. The nurse just explained to me
data either. I started getting more and more frustrated.
malaika arif
I dare say I was prone a caveat;
in my oven these past seven months? Yes, seven months
What now? Where do I go from here? What about
living? I cried, and cried, and cried.
For hell hath no fury without his gaze;
going to put these two beautiful creatures that I had kept
too cooperative. The connection bars kept on moving up and down, but failing to connect. I didn’t have cell phone
fear of fire
thing I knew or at least remembered was that there was
my babies? Another episode of uncontrollable crying Crying became my new lullaby and was able to transport me to a different world. Sleep.
I woke again, to the voice of my nurse telling me some-
thing about a short-term plan. Well, at least that’s a start. I can now take care of my babies at “home.” I didn’t have any idea what this home would look like. Generous com-
munity people had made it possible for me to have a home so I was not going to ask for more details or com-
plain. I would take it. Whatever condition, I would take it. I would make it work.
I was still in pain and recovering from my C-Section
when I left the hospital. At least these pain meds help
me to manage my pain, I am managing. It’s not so bad, it could be worse I guess.
The “new home” was “home.” There was nothing fancy, but at least it was something. After all, it was free for at least three months while I figure out things. What was to be figured out? The father of the twins wanted nothing to do with me or his babies. Nothing. He had told me, “don’t ruin my
reputation! The work I am doing is not to be destructed
because of one silly mistake like this. Please don’t ruin my life, my career and my family.”
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
I wasn’t going to hunt him down, he was married anyway. What about the innocent children? They
deserve better than that. It’s not their fault. Anyway, I pledged to myself that I would do all I could to make it up to the twins. On my own of course.
The reality is that it’s nearly impossible to take care of the twins and look for work at the same time. Having
no money, I couldn’t come up with a plan. Everything
needs money. I really wanted to escape my world of crying babies and a crying mom, I didn’t have friends
and I didn’t have anywhere to go. Crying became my “best friend.”
As my kids grew bigger and bigger, I started having different thoughts wrestle in my mind. Should I tell my
children about their father who didn’t want them in his life? What would that do to their fragile hearts? When
you are a parent, you struggle with the thought of pos-
sibly hurting your child, so I did what many parents would do. Protect their children. I thought some things were better off left alone. Unspoken. Even though the
battle was in my mind day after day, I would still protect my children and stay in that prison. I would rather have
that, than see my children experience pain. They aren’t
as strong as I am, I always told myself. I am tough. They had not chosen who would be their mom or their dad. I did play a part in putting them in that situation.
I thought I had everything under control. Obviously, not
on the inside, but outwardly. I was smart enough to hide the fact that something kept me awake at night. Day
after day and year after year, I lived in my own prison. I vowed to never share this piece of me with anyone or anything, not even my journal. I carried my own burden
and for so many years. One afternoon we were driving to the grocery store with my twins. Unexpectedly, with a warm sweet voice
I heard one twin say, “Mom, who is our dad? Where is he? Does he like us?”
Hearing those words felt like a sharp needle had just been injected into my chest. I had not expected such a
question and coming from nowhere and just like that. I
suddenly got numb and lost control of the car and drove into the bridge. My two daughters must have been
thrown out of the car because all I can remember is a flash of two pink dresses flying out through the car windows.
I woke up again, in the same hospital I had been when
I had delivered my babies. I had the same questions. When did I get here? How? Why?
Again, no one was there to answer me until the ward nurse walked in and gave me some details.
“Ma’am, you have been here for the past two weeks. Your daughters were not in the car when you were found by
the team that responded to your emergency scene. At this point, it is unclear if they drowned or if they sur-
between the essence and the descent falls the shadow kevin thornton
“That’s it boys, I’m done. I’ve pulled the plug. Sherwood Park here I come.”
Mac O’Brien announced this to the few, the needy few, in Tippers, the bar some of us called home. There were a few cheers, a solitary boo and an optimistic call of ‘It’s
your round then’ before the residents settled back into
the normal buzz. Most of us were happy for Mac. He’d come up to Fort Clearwater barely out of his teens and
had worked at the Mine his whole life. In those days you
could make something of yourself by working hard and
I felt empty. I cried, and cried, and cried. There will be no home without my children.
away husband had been rounded up in the city, bonus spent, liver well worn. He was a good man, and Fort Clearwater was going to miss him.
“Buy you a drink Mac?” I said, as he sat down beside me and his oldest friend, Jimmy Cardinal.
looked around, nodded at a few, and ordered himself
grumpy about my round, Bushmills was half as much again as CC. Mac had never been one like that. In a town full of roughnecks and miners, he had never been puz-
zled by my professed career as a writer and editor, nor where I had chosen to ply my trade. Fort Clearwater was a good place to live, but it was no Paris.
Derek came back with my drink, correct for a change
although he spilt some of Mac’s beer as he tripped over tiles that had been in place for thirty years. Mac didn’t seem to notice.
“So, what’s next?” I said, making conversation. “My new place is near to my son Johnny and his family.
10
of his dream home; spa bath, heated workshop, play-
room for the grandkids, satellite TV. He’d told me all of
this maybe twenty times over the last year so I nodded
at the right time, murmured assent at an appropriate lull, smiled benignly. I didn’t mind. Mac deserved his retirement and some happiness.
and looked at me.
and Jimmy a pint and me a refill. Mostly people were
were my home.
spent the next couple of minutes describing the details
had looked after one family for a week until the tear-
He’d helped a few when they had drinking problems,
tinue the search, but you can go home now.
out my children, “home wouldn’t be home.” My children
ing an eye on them and he says it’s immaculate.” He
I must have missed a cue because he stopped midway
“This one’s on me.” He waved at Derek the Dumb,
This time I had a home to go to, but I knew that with-
The builders are finally finished. Johnny has been keep-
Mac had done so.He’d been hard too, hard and fair Mac.
vived and someone saw them and took them before the
responders got there. They are doing all they can to con-
You should come and see it when you’re next in the city.
through a description of the electric-dual-oven-gas-top “I’m sorry Mac,” I said. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I know I do go on a bit. It’s just I’ve looked forward to this for so long. It would have been perfect if…” He trailed off and I knew he was
thinking of Ginny, who had been with him through all
the tough times. Cancer had eaten her away from the inside out less than a year back. “Aye well,” he continued, “I have to get down there and watch the grand-kids for her. You know Donald is nine now and Abigail is nearly seven. Lord how I’ve missed them, but I’m glad Johnny took that wife of his down to Edmonton. They’d not have lasted up here.”
He was right, but I think blaming it on Johnny’s wife, a sparkly Cape Bretoner who faced life’s adversities
square on with a smile and a cheeky comment, was
somewhat unfair. They wouldn’t have lasted, but it would never have been Amelia’s fault.
Fort Clearwater is a hard place. Closer to the Yukon
than Fort McMurray, the nearest big town, it lay on the
north-western shore of Lake Claire, fifty miles due west of Fort Chipewyan. The winters were cold and long, the
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
summers brief and fly-infested. It had been settled for
snow away and dug down just deep enough. It didn’t
“I wish you well,” I said, then arranged for the photog-
done. That had barely sustained the settlement of less
it. He missed her terribly and needed the thought of her
town this small, and we would spread his life over the
trade, and there was still some trapping and logging than a thousand souls it had been since the end of the nineteenth century.
The only reason most of us were here was because of Gold. The Mine, fifteen kilometers northwest of the town had increased and supported the population since
the 1970s. Fort Clearwater was now a bustling, happen-
ing place of about ten thousand. Those who worked had the highest income in the country. Perversely, those
who didn’t seemed to be the poorest of the poor. Mac had worked hard with Ginny beside him. Amelia had
tried her best. It was Johnny who’d given up. He’d taken
the easy way out too often, been fired from every decent job he’d had. He had finally left in between two policemen to do a stint in jail in Edmonton after being caught
dealing drugs. Amelia had stood by her man. Many of us thought she could have done better. Jimmy Cardinal
had even opined that she had stayed with Johnny out of love for Mac and Ginny. Jimmy was pretty smart. “What’s he doing now?” I said “Johnny? He has a good job working as a courier. It’s
still. The headstone, engraved with her details and waiting for his, was a repository for those thoughts.
Sometimes, even in such a small town, you can go
months without seeing someone. Other times you bump into that person round every corner. I happened to be on the front desk at the paper when Mac brought
in his advertisement to sell his house, then we ran into
each other at the Safeway, at the Ice Rink, in Tippers
the kids, he’s kicked the drinking and drugs, he’s behav-
ing like a father. Johnny has grown up at last and is not giving Mac grey hairs driving like a maniac, pissed to
the gills on the winter roads or hopped up on basement pharma.”
Mac left after one drink. Sometime later as I was walking home through the town centre I saw him standing
in the graveyard. Talking to Ginny. It was nearly forty
below but Mac stopped there a couple of times a week. She’d died in a hospital in Edmonton and Mac had brought the ashes back in the dead of winter, moved the
I regret that article as I have regretted few since. It sat there mocking me the day it came out. If I’d had six
the bar one time.
“It’s strange you say that,” he said. He’d just signed away his house and made a nice profit, property was valuable and scarce in Fort Clearwater. “Every step I take makes
me feel everything sharper, keener. Most that leave
here say they’ll come back to visit, but they rarely do. Fort Clearwater is a good place; great neighbours, lots of opportunities. But you can never go back. You must keep moving forward, always stoking the fires.”
mine?” Every year the retirees who were sixty-five or cally there were over 200 hundred flown in for the event and stories about the ‘Old Farts Party’ were legendary in the town.
“Well,” he said, “they fly us up and pay for everything
don’t they? I suppose I’ll come, at least to the first one.”
in touch with Mac, and when he wasn’t able to he had
hunted down his relatives and asked them to do some-
thing. They had, but it was always going to be too late. Mac’s world had crashed. The paradise he had longed for had turned into a dystopian nightmare.
Mac never made it back to the retirement party. He
at a gag gift, a sign saying Edmonton or bust.
revolving order at the nearest pizza restaurant and
of Mac, smiling happily outside his old home pointing
60m nth of YMM. SUV skidded off road, burning. Please The rescue teams from the Oil sands got there first, fol-
lowed by the Fort McMurray crews. By the time the Fort Clearwater rescuers had made it down the winter road there was nothing they could do except turn back and
bring the news. It was Johnny and Amelia, they said, along with the kids. Mac’s grandchildren, Donald and
Abigail. They’d been coming up to help Mac pack the last of his stuff.
The reports, later, told the full story. About how Johnny
had lost his job, and how they’d been struggling to pay
the bills. Their vehicle hadn’t been serviced in ages. Johnny had been driving fast and he’d just gone straight off the road into a tree. The fuel line ruptured, everything exploded into flames and what was left of Mac’s
life burnt in that fiery mess on the winter road between
Fort McMurray and Fort Clearwater. Johnny and Amelia and Donny and Abby.
He wasn’t fooling me. Nothing would keep him from
There was more. They found a half empty bottle of
earned it.
the rest of it mixed with coffee. Johnny had slid back,
the first retiree party. After more than forty years he’d
The rest I heard from Jimmy Cardinal. He’d tried to keep
more hours I could have pulled it. Especially the picture
help!!!’
older were invited back to a dinner at the camp. Typi-
text was ‘My son is finally doing right by Amelia and
***
him even before he had left. I mentioned this to him in
grew shorter and shorter, and I found myself missing
the sound of a father, a mix of concern and pride. explaining that things were going well at last. The sub-
centre pages, giving him a good send-off.
The news came over twitter first. ‘#FTCL. Accident about
“What about the official retirement ceremony at the
The description of Johnny’s job was more about Mac
rapher to come and see him. Mac leaving was news in a
twice more. All the while the days till his departure
steady, regular. He’s full time now so he’s getting the
benefits. Plus he’s home every day.” His voice had
12
seem to bother him that some thought he was losing
he’d killed himself and his family. And he wasn’t done.
vodka in the trunk and a steel flask in the front that had
moved into his new house in Sherwood Park, put in a
another one at the liquor store, and never left again. For
a man who hardly drank he learnt real quick. After three months the local police investigated at the request of
Mac’s cousin back east and they found over two hun-
dred empty vodka bottles in between the stacks of
congealed pizza boxes. In the middle of it all was Mac, dead, in an armchair in front of the TV cabinet. The cabi-
net was empty except for the photos. Mac had spent his last days on earth looking at large, studio quality pictures of Ginny, Amelia, Donny, Abby and Johnny.
They cremated Mac as well, brought him back and put
him in with all his family in the plot in Fort Clearwater. They needed a bigger stone to hold all six names and the inscription Mac had chosen when he buried his the rest of his family.
“Save us from the fires of Hell, and lead all souls to Heaven especially those in most need of Thy mercy.” Even until the end Mac was trying to save his son, to protect him, this time from the wrath of God. Mac
might have forgiven his only boy, even as he committed
his own very Catholic suicide, but to the rest of us he died at Johnny’s hand.
He paused to take a sip of beer. “I wish I could have seen
the rest of my days out with Ginny. I’m sixty-four now. With a bit of luck and good health I could have another twenty-five years left. Time enough to dangle great
grandchildren on my knee. But that’ll all be down there. Edmonton is where the rest of my life is.”
13
volume 3 | issue 5
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
lou's story patrick reardon
I was known as Louella then, and was living in Kankakee.
This raggedy apparition, once a dutiful Methodist,
He didn't smoke, he didn't drink, and he'd never ever swear,
That there was going to be trouble, I could see it in Edward's eyes
My husband was a respectable man named Edward M. Delee. and every Sunday the Methodist church would find the two of us there. He made a very good salary as president of a bank.
But that stifling life was boring me, and occasionally I drank. Edward found one of my bottles and said that would not do.
He said he would have to punish me, and I thought the heck with you.
had tracked me up to the Yukon, and I was certain of this:
Though years had passed since I had left, he was ready for some reprise So I said Dan, keep an eye on that man, the one right over there.
And he said Lou, don't bother me now, I might get a spread misere.
The Edward I knew never raised his voice, but now he started to yell.
He mentioned Dan McGrew by name and he called him a hound of hell
I got some money at the bank when Edward wasn't there
The lights went out, some shots were fired, so I just hit the floor.
I knew for a fact that my housewife life in Illinois was done.
I found my way to where Edward lay, and kissed him ever so sweetly.
then hopped a train and headed south, I didn't know just where. I 'd go somewhere men drink and swear and I could have some fun I stayed for a year in San Antoine, then headed out to the coast. Spent seven years in San Francisco, liked that town the most. I started drinking heavily, went through a string of men.
Stole a thousand dollars from one, went up to Seattle then.
The lights came on, Dan was dead, he'd been hit four times or more.
And what I did next with the skill I had learned I pulled off ever so neatly. As Edward died I reached inside his parka and found his poke.
Dan could no longer provide for me, and I didn't want to be broke.
The gold in that poke would be more than enough for whisky for a year. With a flick of my wrist I yanked it free and stuffed it in my brassiere.
The years were beginning to show on me, but rouge took care of that. Then a bit of news determined where I next would settle at.
They had found gold up in the Yukon, and men were streaming north. There were hardly any women there, so sure, I'd venture forth.
I moved to a town where I found renown as the lady that's known as Lou, and I took up with a hot-headed man called Dangerous Dan McGrew. One night we went out to have a few drinks at the Malamute Saloon.
It was fifty below and the wind had howled since four that afternoon.
The crowd that night was as rough of a bunch as ever I'd seen in there. And I knocked several whiskeys back while Dan played solitaire.
Then a miner came in from the brutal cold and brushed the ice from his beard.
He had a wild–eyed half-crazed look, but that's not unusual here.
The music stopped as the stranger's gaze wandered around the room He had the frightening kind of look that gives you a feeling of doom.
The boys all stared at this dirt-crusted man, then each turned back to his drink.
As the stranger shuffled up to the bar, his gait caused me to think that he looked sort of familiar, and it suddenly dawned on me.
And I said to myself, well son of a bitch, that's Edward M. Delee!
14
houses don't get burials kiran malik-khan Houses don’t get burials –
Burned, condemned, or sold
nobody tries to revive a deserted home As if the walls meant nothing
As if the floor to ceiling closet didn’t house warmth As if the stained glass tulips I made and re-made hold no meaning
Houses don’t get burials –
Once the coffin-like door closes
All that is left is an abyss of fading memories
15
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
wasteland michèle gagnon
I rest for a moment in that space between sleep and the sting of morning.
Forgetfulness wraps me in the sweet embrace of a promise that cannot be broken. As consciousness swims up for air it whispers of comfort that will not be spoken, Your oath lies scattered on the floor, the gatekeeper of an empty token
The alarm of lemon dusted sun seeping beyond eyelid, nothing more than warning. I walk through it all, in bare feet
Across the wrecked glass and embers of what we hoped to be
When we held hands and you sang softly of dreams as though they were destined for reality At end of day, with bleeding sole, I know better than to bank on sleepy reverie And to fall victim to the dancing that rides on the back of this wayward beat. And yet, even when walking through a wasteland, If I can bare to do it long enough
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If I can stand to pluck the thorns that pierce my conditioned iron tough
Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers – NorthWord RPO Clearwater P.O Box 30480
Then I will find that there is nowhere the spirit can’t stand.
Fort McMurray, AB T9H 0B8
If I can wash the dregs of sorrow from my eyes, to see beyond the rough
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volume 3 | issue 5
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
marginalia
For Better, or Worse?
A column by douglas abel
Sometimes material for a topic just seems to fall into a writer’s lap. For exam-
ple, what “better” time could there to be to write about “dystopias”? No need, it would seem, for deep research or profound thought. Just pick up a newspaper, look for the biggest headline, and start commenting on what’s there!
And what does seem to be there? A world of “post-truth,” and “alternative facts,” where what is real is defined, not by those who present data and care-
ful arguments, but by whoever has the loudest, most arrogant voice. Where reasoned discourse is shouted down or “flamed” out by emotional rants steeped in hate and fear. Where there is no argument but the threat, and
the schoolyard bully occupies the highest office of the most powerful nation in the world. Where there are no speeches, only slogans, rants and tweets. A
world of Brexit, Le Pen, Trump, possible dissolution of the EU, Syrian slaugh-
ter, Korean missile tests, hordes of drowning refugees, terrorism, xenophobia, homophobia, murdered women, starving children, brutal executions filmed
like music videos, Christmas markets or sacred shrines full of worshippers shattered by suicidal extremists, village weddings and hospitals obliterated
by bombs and drones. A world where the worst and basest excesses of “real-
ity” TV have somehow become reality. A world where the enemy is anyone, and everyone, who is at all “else.” A world where
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity. (W. B. Yeats, “The Second Coming.”)
It would be extremely easy to look around, in the spring of 2017, and con-
clude that we have been thrust into a dystopic world, or are heading toward
one at breakneck speed. And with that conclusion, it would be equally easy to lapse into an intellectual and emotional state where “outrage”—at lies like truth and hatred like argument—“is already giving way to the comedy of despair.” (Globe and Mail, March 16, 2017)
It would be easy to think and feel this despairing way. It would also be
dangerously wrong, the worst example of “lack of conviction.” For both dystopias—the worst of all possible worlds—and utopias—the best of all
one direction, or the other. But there is no clear, real, final stopping place.
For a more “realistic” picture of the state of the world, it
democracy. Equality for women is on the increase. Infant and maternal mortality is down. With some gaping exceptions, there are fewer wars, and deaths from wars.
might be wise to move from high lyrical poetry (Yeats)
In short, our world is complex and contradictory, as it
Dickens provides one, in his introduction to A Tale of Two
cumb to the dystopic trends, decide there is nothing
to a more prosaic approach to utopic/dystopic worlds. Cities:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was
the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was
the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were
all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the
other way- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on
its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
Which view—heaven or hell, best or worst, Light or dark-
ness, spring or winter, hope or despair—is the correct one? The answer, for Dickens and, I hope, for us, is that it all depends upon who is doing the viewing. For us, in
2017’s spring, the question then becomes where we are, in fact, and where we want to go.
Apart from screaming newspaper headlines and vitriolic blogs, what are the facts we can examine? If we look
back over the last twenty-five years, there are numerous trends, almost all of them positive. In the world as
a whole, poverty has been seriously reduced, and basic incomes have risen. Mathematically, income equalities have increased—the gap between the bottom and
the top is greater. But the incomes of both those at the bottom and those at the top have risen. More people have clean water, and access to health care. Many dis-
eases have been eradicated, or are close to being so. More
people are literate. More societies are inching toward
always has been. How do we deal with it? Do we suc-
to be done, and concede that anything is permissible, and that we will let things happen as long as “they don’t come for me”? That would be a betrayal of what
it means to be human. Or do we seize upon the utopian
trends and vow to “build Jerusalem,” to effect heaven on earth, as rapidly as possible? That would be an equally dangerous venture. Millions of graves have been filled by the actions of utopian extremists who were deter-
mined that nothing, and no one, must stand in the way of the inevitable revolution.
We need to discard both utopian and dystopian thinking. We need a new way—or, perhaps, an old and
unglamorous way—of thinking and doing. We need a
new concept. I will call it “meliotopia,”1 a better world. Those who pursue a meliotopia do not believe in perfec-
tion, or absolutes; in fact, they fear them. They do not see, or seek, an ideal world, either good or bad. Instead they
see and seek the constant, step-by-step and momentby-moment improvement of the world we have, to
make the world we can have better. They know that “the goal” can never be attained; they understand that it does
not have to be. If the end is betterment, and something better has happened, the end is achieved with every improvement, every day. Utopia and dystopia are impossible; meliotopia can be achieved every moment.
Meliotopia is not a place, or a state. It is a process, and
a quest. One worthy of those who believe in a better world, and in a fundamental human goodness. Worth tweeting?
possible worlds—do not exist. “Utopia,” literally, means “nowhere” or “no
place” in Greek. It is an imaginary construct. “Dystopia,” its ethical opposite, is equally imaginary. At any moment, the world may seem to be heading in
18
1 A somewhat mongrel combination of Greek (topia) and Latin (melio), but there is a long tradition of such hybrid coinings in English.
19
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
contributors
angie goredema–chinguwo was a scholar at the Global Young
douglas abel is a writer, actor, director, voice and speech teacher,
in 2006. She graduated from the Leadership Wood Buffalo Pro-
novice digital documentary maker, and student of French,
gram in 2015. She currently holds a Team Lead position with HIV
German—and Dutch! He believes, with the Beatles, that things
North Society, is a part- time shopaholic, and also enjoys scrap-
can be “getting better all the time.”
booking. She is passionate about social justice. Angie has three
malaika arif is a 16 year old aspiring writer who attends Composite High School in Fort McMurray. david ball originates from Coventry, England, having attended the Coventry College of Art, studying illustration and graphic design. He immigrated to Canada in 1978 where he has continued to develop his artistic and creative styles. David has worked with most mediums but prefers to use pastels. David moved to Fort McMurray in 1981 as a graphic illustrator for Syncrude Canada. Over the years David has been commissioned to produce illustrations of bucketwheels and draglines, trucks and shovels
beautiful children: Nathan, Nathalie and Natasha. kiran malik-khan is the communications coordinator for the Fort McMurray Public School District. She's a TEDx Fort McMurray speaker, a freelance journalist who loves sharing stories about Fort McMurray, and a social media specialist. The co-founder and Public Relations Director for NorthWord, she's also the co-founder and president of World Hijab Day Fort McMurray, a committee that has brought the conversation about the Islamic headscarf front and centre in our region. Kiran has been in Fort McMurray for 16 years. Happily married, she has two beautiful boys.
for a number of oilsand companies. David has not settled into a
vanessa mcmahon writes, “ I am a full time Mom to two little
particular niche but enjoys painting a wide variety of subjects
boys, as well as a Registered Nurse. I was born and raised in New-
including landscape, marine, wildlife, city scape and portraits.
foundland and moved to Alberta five years ago. I recently revived
Since retiring from Syncrude Canada, David’s art focuses more on
my long-hidden love of poetry after a several year hiatus and
local landscapes featuring the rivers and river valleys in our com-
hope to pass the love onto my children.”
munity, as well as the mountain parks near Banff. Supporting our community is important to David as he has donated pieces to local charities’ fundraising events. His work has been shown in galleries in Edmonton, Fort McMurray, England, and in many private and corporate collections.
eral non-fiction trade books. The first one I co-published (under the imprint of Reardon & Walsh) hit No. 4 on the NY Times, Time and PW best-seller lists. I spent 10 years at the Milwaukee Journal as an editor and as a reporter covering politics and education. For 20 years I operated a multi-media company that started as
actively involved in the Wood Buffalo media community since
a newspaper syndicate. As such, sold columns to virtually every
she moved to Fort McMurray in 2007 from the Ottawa Valley.
major daily in the U.S. and Canada. We did book publishing and
Known for her past work as editor at the Fort McMurray Today,
produced TV programing, but our mainstay was educational
general manager of snapd Wood Buffalo, and editor of the Con-
publishing. We sold curricular materials in current events and
nect, Dawn loves calling Northern Alberta home. She is happily
language arts to more than 70,000 schools. As a book editor, I’ve
raising a family with her husband, who is a life-long resident of
edited more than 100 manuscripts.” elyn soriano is from the Philippines, and is currently residing in
patricia marie budd moved to Fort McMurray in the fall of 1991
Fort McMurray, Alberta since 2014. She has this love and interest
to teach high school English. She often writes in class along with
towards Health and Sciences, Poetry and Arts.Her work on Arts
her students, believing an English teacher needs to model any
and Poetry was included in The Arts in Motion Exhibit and in The
work expected of her students. Patricia has also self-published
6th Annual Words in Motion.
four novels.
Brioche Breakfast
patrick reardon writes, “As a publisher, I have co-published sev-
With a background in print journalism, dawn booth has been
Fort McMurray.
20
Leaders Conference (GYLC) which took place in the United States
kevin thornton is a founder member of NorthWord. He is quite
michèle gagnon is an aspiring writer, poet, and artist from Fort-
possibly the only person who has submitted something for every
Coulonge, Québec. A mother, a powerlifter, and a lover of the
single issue, and is happy to note that he has been published in
culinary arts, she is inspired by the big ideas found in the small
less than half of them. He started writing at a very young age for
details of everyday life.
the fame and fortune. He is still waiting.
Artisanal Cheese & Charcuterie Plate
Meatball Panini
Veggie Wrap
call for submissions NorthWord Volume 3, Issue 6
northern canada
collective society for writers statement of purpose: To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.
deadline November 30, 2017 theme Whispers
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
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