a literary journal of canada's north
transition by Anastasia Meicholas
northern
president
treasurer
secretary
members
public
web
cover
design
issue editor Sundas Shamshad
managing
Jane Jacques
president emerita Jennifer Hemstock
Proudly
editorial
As we prepare to showcase some of the incredible submissions in this issue, I want to reflect on the theme that has guided this collection: "Metamorphosis." This theme holds a special significance for me, rooted in my personal journey through overcoming cancer—a journey that reshaped my understanding of transformation in profound ways.
For me, this journey underscored the fragility and resilience of life, instilling a newfound appreciation for its wonders. It propelled me towards a relentless pursuit of positivity, seeking to create something meaningful out of a traumatic experience. It reinforced my belief in the resilience of the human spirit and fueled my commitment to harnessing positivity from adversity.
Each piece submitted delves into the theme of metamorphosis with depth and creativity. The poems, prose, and artwork vividly explore the myriad forms of change—personal, emotional, and societal—that define our lives. Through this collection of work, my dear readers, you will witness characters, places, and ideas evolve and adapt, illustrating how transformation can reshape our perceptions and redefine our paths.
To all the people who have submitted their work, your contributions are more than expressions of creativity; they are testaments to the power of storytelling and art to illuminate the complexities of transformation. Each piece enriches our understanding of how change shapes us and our world.
Thank you for sharing your voices and perspectives. I am honoured to feature your work alongside this theme that resonates so deeply with our shared experiences of growth and renewal.
Warm
regards,
Sundas Shamshad | issue thirty editor
community report
on resilience, metamorphosis and isolation
Read the title again. How beautifully the three words—our past, current and future themes—are intertwined. Most of us have gone through an isolating metamorphosis to emerge with resilience. Most of us had no choice—and that’s just life.
This Community Report just became philosophical. So how about telling you about our Issue 29 launch on April 20 at the Fort McMurray International Airport? The “Resilience” issue was guest edited by Tineesha McKay featuring original cover art by local artist Lasha Barbosa, who also taught guests how to use ASL interpretation to sign the word, “Resilience,” at the event.
Guests celebrated National Poetry Month with us in the YMM Observation Area, a beautiful location to share poetry, as well as engaging in captivating poetry activities.
NorthWord’s next guest editor for Issue #31 is the one and only Steve Reeve, local media icon, a 16-year radio veteran, the host of the popular "Steve Reeve Show" on 100.5 CRUZ FM, and the co-founder of M'Guphynn Media Production. He has chosen “Isolation,” as his theme, and shares on why he chose “Isolation.”
“I’ve long maintained that Fort McMurray can be a lonely place. Opportunity brings people from across the country and even the globe, but long hours, harsh winters, and essentially one route connecting our region to the rest of Alberta can stack up to an alienating existence for people.
However, isolation doesn’t always have a negative connotation. Some people thrive in their solitude, and often thought-provoking and moving pieces of art are formed in a vacuum, so to speak. Isolation can be a gift and a tool, and yet there’s a reason they say one is the loneliest number.”
“As a gateway to a spectrum of emotions and experiences, I’ve chosen “Isolation” as the theme for Issue 31 of NorthWord as a means to explore the myriad interpretations of what being— or simply feeling—alone can be. And, perhaps, to help those leafing through the pages to feel a little bit less alone in their own solitude.”
Short stories or excerpts from current projects, fiction, or non-fiction (3000 words maximum), verse of no more than
by kiran malik-khan PR Director
50 lines, along with anything original and inventive can be submitted to the editors at northword@hushmail.com by midnight October 30, 2024.
Free copies of NorthWord are available at Mitchell’s Café, Keyano College, Prestige Jewellers, Suncor Energy Centre for the Performing Arts at Holy Trinity High School, the Redpoll Centre, Avenue Coffee, and the Fort McMurray International Airport.
For real time updates:
Like us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/NorthWord
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Visit our website: www.northwordmagazine.com
note from the society
This is the last Community Report by Kiran Malik-Khan, one of the founders of NorthWord and a member of the Board of the Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers (NCCSW) since its inception in 2009. Kiran served as our Communications Director from the beginning, maintaining social media accounts, cultivating sponsorships, and helping to grow this little magazine into a beloved part of the arts community in the Wood Buffalo region. Now that she has relocated to Florida, she has decided to step away from the Society, although she promises to continue submitting her creative writing.
Kiran’s contributions to NorthWord are immeasurable. All we can say is that her diligent work over the past 15 years has allowed NorthWord to survive and thrive. All the best for the future, Kiran, and keep NorthWord close to your heart!
L-R: NCCSW members: Jane Jacques, Dawn Booth, and Barbara Madden with cover artist Lasha Barbosa
Nebula
“Life doesn’t get easier or more forgiving, we get stronger and more resilient.”
~ Chris Grosser
SHANZEY ADNAN
To reflect on the theme ofmetamorphosis, I have designed the piece ‘Nebula,’ a spectacular fusion of colours and symbols that impart the ideas of strength, courage andpersistence. The artwork depicts a young female who is blindfolded and wears a lion headdress with a broken chain wrapped around her neck. A magni cent phoenix is posed behind the young woman as beautifulpinkpetals burst from the chain breakage. A nebula of stars and cool and warm tones frame and create a glowing effect around the various objects in the piece.
When designing ‘Nebula,’ Iplayed around with the initial composition, continuously repositioning gures and introducing new ones until the nalpiece nally felt ready to be drawn. Again I relied on symbolism to convey the theme. This time however, I decided to portray the blindfoldedyoung woman as my mother, an ideal role model and someone who has shown incredible strength and courage in the face of obstacles She is my best friend and my source of inspiration; I couldn’t feel more proud to include her in my piece The lion headdress has no cultural signi cance in my piece Instead it is a symbol of courage and valour The phoenix, however, does have a cultural reference Similarly to a nebula, the birthplace and demise of stars, the phoenix in many cultures is symbolic of rebirth, strength and the ability to nd compassion within ourselves and others The choice of a warm and cool toned background was mainly to contrast the pieces of the young woman, lion andphoenix Fire in some cultures also symbolises resurgence, a detail that adds meaning to the theme ofmetamorphosis and where the ability to endure is matched by the opportunity to heal and recover from the impact of obstacles and crises While warm tones embody healing and a sense ofprotection, darker hues of blues andpurples symbolise self reflection andgrowth
Throughout the piece, principles of asymmetrical balance, harmony, texture and movement were skillfully used to materialise my imagination to life. For instance, the phoenix’s wings are drawn with asymmetrical balance, while harmony and texture is created through on, choice of colour and stylistic motion of the inkpens, movement i e hair. I also relied on alcohol markers, colouredpencil, and various i draw, colour and add details to this masterpiece.
cover art: nebula by Shanzey Adnan
Issue 30 Cover Artist Shanzey Adnan wrote the above statement for the original exhibit: The High Five Annual Art Show featured at the Kirschner Family Community Art Gallery at MacDonald Island, May 29--June 16, 2024.
sponsorship letter
Dear readers of NorthWord magazine,
It is my absolute honour and privilege for People 1st Realty to be the very first sponsor of an edition of NorthWord Magazine, and for that first edition to mark the celebration of 15 incredible years of this literary publication. This milestone signifies not only the endurance and impact of the written word but also the strength of community connections, much like the ones we strive to build in real estate.
When I learned that the theme for this edition is "Metamorphosis," I knew instantly that it was a perfect fit for us as sponsors. At People 1st Realty (formerly Seller Direct Northern Homes Realty), we too are in the midst of our own metamorphosis. With our recent rebranding, we have emerged as Alberta's newest real estate company, and I could not be more proud of the team that has joined me in this exciting transformation.
Metamorphosis represents more than just change, it signifies growth, evolution, and the embracing of a new identity while honouring the foundations from which we came. This theme resonates deeply with our mission at People 1st Realty: putting people first in everything we do. The values that shaped us during our years as Seller Direct Northern Homes Realty—authenticity, care, and integrity—remain at the core of who we are, but we have now spread our wings to serve our clients and communities in even more innovative, collaborative and impactful ways.
The only constant in life is change, and just as caterpillars transform into butterflies, so too must we evolve to meet the challenges and opportunities that life presents. This journey of growth is not always easy, but it is always worth it, as it allows us to realize our full potential and discover paths we may have never envisioned. Our transformation into People 1st Realty is not just about a new name or logo; it’s about a renewed commitment to serving our clients, agents, and communities with passion and purpose.
To me, NorthWord Magazine represents the power of stories to inspire change, and we are excited to be part of this special edition that celebrates not only the publication’s evolution but also the personal metamorphosis that each one of us goes through in life and business. Thank you for allowing us to be a part of this beautiful milestone, and here’s to many more years of stories that shape our community.
Warm regards,
Diana Noble, CEO / Broker, People 1st Realty | issue thirty sponsor
a heart of flesh
veronica ephgrave
My pulse was unbearable as I frantically reviewed the vein cables in the android’s chest cavity. “I’m not getting a response—any ideas, Benjamin?” My partner beside me scratched his graying beard. “Your hairs are falling in it!” I warned him, clearing them out to restore the precise equilibrium required for the system to work. None had fallen onto the exposed heart I had connected—good. “It can’t be the heart itself. That was in good condition; it belonged to a child.” I didn’t usually discuss the details of our donors with Benjamin, but I felt it was necessary with the issues we were having. He fixed his gaze on the system we’d put together. “We must figure this out.” He said to himself. I stepped aside to let him have a close look. Benjamin was much better with the nonliving side of our work. “Grace, I’ll need to open up the neck. A #0 screwdriver please.”
I had the screwdriver in his hands post-haste. Gently he removed the tiny screws, and the neck compartment lifted upwards to reveal the complex arrays of chords and other techy apparatus. Moments later, he said, “Oh— we did not connect the left carotid cable to the aorta.” I blushed, because he said we, but really, it had been me. I had worked on the neck. “Sorry.” “All good—it’s a robot, it’s not going to bleed out on us!” He flashed me that killer smile of his and I felt my cheeks get warmer. He jerked his head towards the laptop on the desk. “Ok, it should be able to connect online now, just reboot the program.” Within minutes, the heart was whirring to life, and the android’s eyes were opening. I began to upload its training code. She would be a nurse in no time. I shook my head as I took off my lab jacket and glasses. “It’s frustrating, I usually wouldn’t have overlooked something so crucial. Good thing that’s the last one today.”
“We all have those moments.” Benjamin said. He paused and asked, “Did you hear your results yet?” My hands slid off the jacket as I hung it up. I had been trying to forget all day about the condition of my own vessel. Of course Benjamin had to care just enough to remind me. “I find out today, after I clock off.” As if conscious of itself, my throat gave out in a hacking cough. I heard him murmur an “Oh.” He tried to mask his concern by looking away. “How about you go now and have a break, I’ll get this one finished up.” I took his offer and left for an evening tea.
It was a few hours later I sat in the doctor’s office, seven floors up from Benjamin and the operating lab. The doctor’s blue eyes were watery in the worst way. “Grace, I have no idea how to tell you this—it’s back.” The results he showed me were clear. I had lung cancer, and it wasn’t looking good. I was dying. We talked everything over, I thought I was taking it like a champ, until the nurse strode in with a tablet to review my “posthumous” options. I stared her down; there was a good chance we had curated her form, given
her the human heart that kept her running. Now what would become of mine?
The doctor continued his discourse. “If you think you are ready, we can begin to review options immediately, seeing as you have indicated there is no close family.” “That- would be correct.” The waviness of my voice set me off a little. The doctor did not notice. “As is customary, of course, you may opt for a classic burial, but with the way things are—well, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I would think a woman of science such as yourself would consider donating.” Donating hit me like a gust of wind down the throat. He meant donating my body parts, my organs. To research, or transplants, or… android tech. The nurse handed me the tablet. “Here are your—posthumous—options,” she said to me. I hadn’t actually heard one speak, and I reacted with a grimace. “God, her voice sounds like it’s being filtered through a shitty cheese grater.” The doctor laughed. “We have wonderful operators, but the programmers are still working on the code.”
I looked down at the tablet and flicked through the options for what to do with my dead parts. I came across the webpage for our department- the web page designers had a slogan written across the homepage in a red, dripping font reading A heart of stone for a heart of flesh. It made me cringe, and suddenly I thought of the operating table. I saw Benjamin looking over me, screwing my parts together. “Nope.” I said at last. “What was that?”
“Nope. I’m not doing this.” I began to leave, and as the door closed behind me I heard the doctor call out, “Ok, I put you down for a classic bur—”
As I tried to get down the hall, the world around me blurred, and the air bullied my throat on its way down. I felt my body fall on the ground, and didn’t feel for a while. Not until I woke up to see Benjamin. He sat beside me, waiting. A slight smile played at the corner of my
mouth, and I wondered if he had any idea that when I saw him, my heart skipped a beat. As I stirred, he turned his attention to me. Finally, he said, “You fainted, but you’re ok.” I felt the pressure of tears begin to build in my eyes. I was not ok. “Benjamin.” “Yes, Grace?”
“I—I’m.” I couldn’t speak it, not with words. Benjamin understood. He set his forehead into his hand. “I don’t know what to say, Grace. I never thought about you being the one on the operating table.” He covered his mouth and quickly apologized—yet, his offhandedness had me thinking.
I looked in his eyes, and wondered if I could ever tell him, before it was too late. If I could ever say what he meant to me, how standing by him had been the highlight of many a day. Perhaps I could start with this. “I want you.”
“What?”
“I want you to operate on me.”
“You’re going to do it.”
“Yes, I’m going to donate.” I paused, and continued, “It’s hard. But, when I think about it, using a heart to run the machine allows a part of that person to live on. It’s like a new stage of… existence.” As I spoke this, I felt lightened. Hopeful. Benjamin smiled, and set his hand on mine. “I always felt that way about our work too, Grace. I’ll make sure it happens.”
Eventually the day came, as expected. Once the old vessel had been handled with care, all the right papers signed, Benjamin was given her heart in its case and fluids. He would work alone for this operation, but he was a professional with the techy apparatus. The connections were made, the parts screwed in, and the programs were run. He watched a brand-new android open her eyes, and over the heart monitor, he thought he heard its heart rate skip a beat.
nights
jesse snook
Those sleepless, long, cry filled nights I think to myself was I even happy, Or was it just a bite
Like a fish being reeled into an unknown water.
Like a fish’s alteration to a bird, How one could use such autocratic acts
When one turns into a bird, They have all free tendencies and land
What was the reason for such acts, Now all I feel I’m doing, is a simple act of ponder
Nothing less, nothing more.
love
veronica ephgrave
My heart was a young caterpillar. Then I met you, And as time passed, I felt inside, A force.
A catalyst in my beating heart. I could feel its warmth, A little fire
Permeating every cell, molecule, My soul.
My very essence, recreated. And a flaming pair of wings, Spread across my chest, Ready to set my heart free Into a brave new world.
angel on a swing set at 12:45 a.m.
charles masear
it’s midnight and i’m smoking a cigarette, torso hanging halfway out a second-story window of apartment insert-vowel-here on who-cares street in godknows-where.
brutalist is the new chic;
cold concrete walls built geometric, lackadaisical, and harsh beige oil lamps haphazardly lining the gravel—the type of place soviet russia would envy, like being between states of nirvana and hell. dull is a four-letter word, but so is fuck, and love, and dead, and they’re all considered strong enough.
it’s midnight and i’m smoking a cigarette, the only inspiration i have is the oxidizing bench by the stormwater pond; i like to think it knows each and every routine movement of the world. it knows the summer and the winter, the life cycles of the flies in the spring, and maybe it knows me. maybe it sees me. sometimes i hope it does.
it’s midnight and i’m smoking a cigarette, and now
there’s a hazy shape rocking back and forth at the hasn't-been-sanitized-in-months playground. a girl wearing a polyester sweater sits on the left swing, seemingly alone, doing nothing. she doesn’t look up, down, left, right, just forward. she’s golden.
it’s midnight and i’m smoking a cigarette, the girl still swings; i’m swinging in and out of delirium; we’re in sync.
the ashtray on the windowsill is cracking, burn-proof and burning, and the girl cranes her neck, pierces me with her eyes—and they’ve seen everything, just like the bench; life, death, budding leaves and deforestation, static and dynamic, cyclical unpredictability— and she smiles at me.
maybe it’s not hard to think that if an angel can survive changes like these, so can i.
it’s midnight and i’m smoking a cigarette.
eighteen
haley rahey
Nothing prepares you for the day your big-idea plans start to come together. Written down in foregone notebooks, theory far beyond my years snap me towards vocabulary I should be vaguely familiar with at my big adult age. The day hurls too fast at anybody to comprehend.
Promises to myself of leaving linger on my lips until the day I learn I have to. I fall asleep. I blink. I wake up, I’m cold and mangled in my bed and unaware of the events that propelled me forward.
At eleven, I remember for the first time. The cars brush past my silhouette on the sidewalk. The hands that grasp my shoulders thrust me towards the roadside, but I’m stronger. My mother waits outside for my arms to wrap around her torso. A protector of my time.
Twelve, I thought I could be doing better. The prospect of the future looming above me like a soaking cloud. The phrase “what do you want to be,” turned into “what are you going to be.” Ideas of what could be turned into real prospects of the future. Suddenly, becoming astronauts and doctors took far more effort than the realists are willing to give.
Ages thirteen through fifteen, I can’t remember. Like a dream you are unsure of the meaning of. Hoping the future would fly me to a place where I can choose my own destiny. The looming presence of time ticking in my ear anticipatorily.
At age sixteen, I pretended my favourite colour was the shade of my hair.
For my seventeenth birthday, I realized I had far too many friends that truly cared. My newly decorated bedroom reflects their unique personalities, all muddled together to create a new vibrant colour. At seventeen, I thought my life made sense. I was seventeen, and I fell in love before I knew what the word meant. I fell in love with the nature of the world, and in the beauty of finding a soulmate. There was a reason all of the songs about having your life together are about being seventeen. The year whipped at me fast, like a new scene in a book or movie. I watched the sun circulate around Earth’s axis, over and over and over again.
Eighteen. I blow out the candles, ready to cradle the thought of my big ideas.
too gone, too soon
zach wood
His smile, warm as summer sand; His eyes, sparkled like the stars; His voice, sweet as strawberries.
In fields of laughter, a young boy played. With sunlight dancing, his joy conveyed.
His heart a melody, pure and bright. In innocence, he danced through the light.
But shadows lurked, cruel words were flung
Like arrows sharp, where once birds sung.
Bullying whispers, daggers unseen.
Turned skies of azure to gray and mean.
His smile faded, his spirit broke, as taunts and jeers like thunder spoke.
Alone he wandered, in silent despair.
His once twinkling eyes now clouded with care.
In the depths of darkness, he found his solace, In silence heavy, he sought his release.
A rope, a chair, a tragic end.
His laughter silenced, his soul condemned.
Oh, how the world failed to see, The beauty lost, the tragedy.
For in the metamorphosis of pain, A young life lost, forever stained.
Let us learn from this solemn tale.
To nurture kindness, to lift the veil.
For in each heart, a fragile flame.
Handle with care, in love, reclaim.
mike: a brief biography home in texas during wwii & the korean war
juleus ghunta
Mike’s father returned at the end of the war with contempt for rituals of everyday life: his wife desired to be held; son sought help with homework. He threw Mike’s books across the kitchen table, his wife across the room, grief engulfed the home.
The day war erupted in Korea, he re-enlisted & rejoiced.
Drafted for Vietnam1
A pacifist son will go to war for his father’s love. Mike was nineteen, two months married, never left home. On induction day, he crawled into the military centre in Dallas. He arrived the week soldiers stormed into My Lai, a refuge for civilians in the womb of a forest.
When the carnage ceased, rice fields gurgled with blood & limbs.
Return2, Rejection & Escape3
Images of scarlet fields riled up America. At Dallas Airport, protesters spat on returnees. Mike’s father ignored his outstretched hand. Mike escaped to Pavilion, a Rehab Centre in Quebec, where he beheld his child-self in a mirror, cupped his boyhood face through an avalanche of memory, a rewiring of body, an unburdening of grief.
Healing in Pell River4
Grief drove him to my hometown in Jamaica. On the outskirts, he raised a nylon tent in the middle of a canefield. I helped declutter the land, watched him build a home, how his hands pushed plane across lumber, steady & straight, the way my finger moved under sentences as he taught me to read.
Whenever I return to Pell River to see him, he shakes my hand, cups my face, hugs me the way a father hugs a son he loves.
1 Mike was drafted in 1968
2 Returned to America in 1969
3 Escaped to Pavilion in the 1980s
4 Moved to Pell River in 1997
today
saniya ghalehdar
You are voracious
You are volatile
Tiny hands can only work so fast
You are my monster
You are my fear
These hands get bigger
I cannot sleep
I cannot eat
Hands that shake cannot hold
I cannot hide
I cannot run
Hands that are broken cannot mend
Tiny hands once again
These are not mine
Tiny hands you bound and bend
I am not Powerless
I am not weak
Tiny hands can only work so fast
You are not big
You are not strong
These hands get bigger
I will live
I will love life
Hands that shake cannot hold
I can move forward
I can move mountains
Hands that were broken can hold
Tiny hands once again
These are not mine
Tiny hands I will protect
Failed you Leave you
Failed her
Break. Break. Break.
Love her
Mend. Mend. Mend.
transience
zach wood
Like the wind, my life did change As a tree falls during a storm. Stoic and proud, a centurion, Defeated as the pawn evolves.
Once an innocent pup Now cautious as a buck Yearning the wisdom of an owl.
Not the same as I once was, Fears and hopes Words, kind and tough Have made life good but rough.
Molded
Transformed --
Only one chance to be The person you shaped for me
perplexity by Anastasia Meicholas
fighting femininity
haley rahey
Most people are unaware that in the fifth grade, I went through a phase of hyper-femininity. It’s a secret I am willing to keep for my own sanity. I glittered myself in bedazzled hues of pink sparkles, wore curled hair, and did my makeup. Repression. I hid behind the mask of pink because it seemed safe. I didn’t know who I was—I still don’t. Most people are now aware of the level of femininity I present; dark hair, half shaved and slicked back into a “man-bun.” My outward appearance creating a facade in my ideology, projecting to my peers. If they do not point out my appearance, they tend to know me for my academic achievements and skills: my only escape from the consistent debate in my head.
Many people are not aware of this debate. Instead, they try to ask me what the answer for question 11 was on the biology exam. These people do not know how many times I turn the oven off before I finally believe myself (10), or the four times I flip my phone back around at night in order to ensure it is charging. My hyperactive personality instead shows people how many elements of the periodic table I can list in order (33), and how well I can assess a personality by only looking at their handwriting. If you slash your “i’s”, you’re overly self-critical, but if you space out your words too much, you disconnect yourself from others. Left-slanting words show the degree of sentimentality you take into account while making a decision.
Many people also don’t know that the summer after fifth grade—when I was 12—my parents found out about the unyielding debate that hid in the secret notebooks, tucked under pink jewelry boxes in my pink loft with my pink bed and my pink personality. My mother told me I was too young to understand a fundamental part of who I was. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized how heavily those words sat in my chest. I am 18 years old, and the topic is still forbidden, save for side-remarks at their convenience. I am still the same as I was at age 12.
Most people know that my favourite colour is green. Green is the perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Green is the colour of confusion laying down in my bed, asking myself if there is a way someone else could tell me the answers to my life. Green is complementary to pink. Green is a new battle.
All but a few people in my life are unaware of the spark that makes green come alive.
Soft, small hands with a light inside, brighter than the sun. Green shows up everywhere, letting me soak in the grass and grasp handfuls of it. Green reminds me of a valley and the brightly lit stars and the posters that adorn my bedroom walls and the candles I blew out on my seventeenth birthday. And my eighteenth birthday. And all the birthdays that will follow.
Green makes me pink.
In fact, Green makes me many things.
Nobody knows that Orion’s belt rests to the right of my shed in the month of March.
It’s also the only constellation I know how to pick out of the sky, I have no interest in learning the others. Orion’s belt is my favourite constellation—although I don’t know what it symbolizes or the story behind it, it’s my favourite because it is painted in green. When I was pink, I enjoyed learning about the stars. Now, Green briefly mentions getting a tattoo of the formation. The dots inked into smooth skin, lasting longer than life itself.
The story of the word “tantalizing” comes to mind when green floats around the abysmal space. It comes from the Greek mythological figure, Tantalus, who angered the Greek gods and was forced to punishment. He was made to stand in a pool of water which rested under his mouth, below a fruit tree where the food was barely out of his grasp.
Tantalizing is the feeling of being tortured in a way in which the thing you desire is just barely out of your reach. Green is tantalizing.
When I was pink, I never wore rings despite my ache for femininity. My fingers are far too stumpy to find a size that fits me in the stores we had in our extremely small town.
Now, rings adorn my fingers. The same rings drape across the valley grass, albeit about half the size. Green is not afraid to express femininity, letting the cat perch on a small ring finger.
It’s silly how one person can give you so much confidence in yourself.
Green is not a battle to me anymore. Instead, the colour taught me to take care of myself. The stars taught me that, despite my flaws, I was worthy of something. I used to think I was unlovable. I was probably going to die alone. I was going to live alone with my cats in the big city, mending the lives of people who didn’t know or care about me. Nobody would take care of me as I got sick, and nobody would be there after I got home from
a long day at work. Now, I want to live by the tranquil ocean. I want to work with children, but I don’t want any of my own. Two or three cats to keep me company and shades of green dabble around my home. I want to hear the footsteps as the door clicks and I take off my shoes.
Many people don’t know that I do not feel worthy of pink anymore. It is not expected of me to be adorned in pretty colours.
Green taught me that, despite my flaws and first impressions—things that I know and things that I don’t know—I can still choose pink. Pink is not a facade or a mask or an escape anymore, it’s simply a thing that exists in my presence. Despite my outward appearance, I am allowed to choose both. After all, green and pink are complementary colours. I am allowed to wear my hair down, do my makeup, and feel the presence of the rings on my fingers. I am allowed to wear a dress and curl my hair and pick pink. I am allowed to be feminine. Green is allowed to choose pink and I am allowed to choose pink and despite my ongoing nonconformity, I am allowed to be loved.
i’m a beautiful butterfly
j.e. schmitz
I never felt content with myself as a whole
Always dreaming of this distant future self
That is so drastically different than This version of who I am now
Feeling dysmorphia in a dystopian dimension
It’s overwhelming, and overstimulating
I feel like I need to adapt to survive,
But stuck, unable to undergo the constant character changes, I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything at all
Like I’ve just been running in place, destined for ruin
Stagnant, I have always felt so squishy and fragile
You could break me under your thumb, and i’d let you I’ve been decomposing in my room,
Balled up in my bed, like it’s my cocoon
Sweat, snot, and tears make up all the slime inside I feel gross and sticky like a toddler's dirty hands
I know that it’s impossible to be loved as I am now
So I am making goals and trying to achieve,
These immensely high standards I set up for me to be I want so desperately to develop my own personality
Living for myself instead of other people,
Has been the hardest transition I’ve had to overcome
After struggling to break free
From the cycle that is my depression
I have never been confident as myself before Finally feeling like myself, in any timeline
That is so drastically different
Than the past version of my identity
Feeling dysfunctional in a developing society
It’s okay to let myself be me, unmasking is underrated
Like a crazy prisoner, it's time to break out of my cell, Time to separate the misconceptions
And like a butterfly, I intend to break out of my shell
Show the world what I can truly be
Spread my wings and fly, escape this life of captivity
Converting without the colonization,
Like an eevee, I’m the embodiment of potential Opening myself up to the endless possibilities
Redefine, rework, modify
Stability is the opposite of metamorphosis
mania's descent
matis n'galyson
May 15th, 2013
Dear diary, it's been a while hasn’t it. Sorry that I haven’t been writing so often. Things have been rather busy lately. Jake, unfortunately, has passed away. He was at the front door with a broken neck, and seems to have been another victim of the recent dog killer that has been going around the town. While I am sad to see Jake go, Jacob was inconsolable. Those two were like blood brothers, always doing things together, from playing to sleeping. So to see him in that state definitely hit him hard. I wish there was something I could do but unless someone could raise the dead, there is nothing I can really do.
June 1st, 2013
Dear diary, the impossible just happened. Jake returned. Like, he came back from death. We just woke up this morning and he was in the backyard, seemingly waiting for us. At first we thought it was just some sort of stray that by coincidence looked like Jake, as some sort of messed up joke by the universe. But thanks to a quick trip to the vet, we were able to confirm that it in fact was the real deal. By some kind of a heavenly power, Jake was brought back to us. Jacob was overjoyed and to celebrate, I made pancakes. However I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off with Jake. Probably just coming to terms with him being fine and the dog we found just so happening to be a similar breed to Jake despite how convenient the odds are.
June 25th, 2013
Dear diary, I messed up. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with Jake and Jacob, especially with how much time they now spend in the bedroom, along with a few weird occurrences going on around the house. So off on only a hunch, I lured them away from the house, to go get the mail. While they
were distracted, I snooped through Jacob’s room. There was nothing out of the ordinary, until I looked beneath the bed. A book I never saw before was there, covered in weird symbols. It piqued my interest so I took it. That was when it all went wrong. They came back much earlier than expected and caught me red handed with that book. Jacob exploded about what I was doing there. I tried to lie, saying that I was looking for some lost jewelry but he wasn’t having it. So I stopped beating around the bush and asked about the book. He was about to say that it was a gift from someone starting with Frau, when Jake gave a growl, and I mean really deep growl that silenced everyone in the room. Jacob (who now seemed scared), immediately left the room and hid in the bathroom until dinner came around, and even then he still refused to talk to me. I need to find a way to make it up to them.
June 27th, 2013
Dear diary, things haven’t been going so well after me and Jacob's argument. Jacob is still angry but he lightened up over the past few days. But he’s not the main issue. Even more things have begun to go missing around the house, such as books, clothes, and other materials. Not only that, but when they turn up, they come back damaged. Not only that, but claw marks keep appearing in front of my door, probably from Jake. Maybe he’s the one behind all the missing items, as some sort of revenge for Jake. Speaking of which, Jake has been giving me weird looks lately. When we are in the same room, unless Jacob talks to him, he just silently looks at me, almost like analysing my entire being down to my very soul. It's probably just my paranoia acting. Maybe the fight has come to a head. I’ll just give it some time and this whole phase will pass over.
June 28th, 2013
What was that? What did I witness? It was the middle of the night, I woke up to relieve myself, nothing major at all. Didn’t even fully close the door. But I heard a noise. The creak of a door and steps of a person. I thought it was Jacob after having a nightmare. But something didn’t
feel right. There were too many steps, yet it was silent. No one called out or made a sound. Until, a growl was heard. I don’t know why. Why against all instinct of survival I did what I did. But I looked. I looked through the crack. And despite the darkness, I saw the front of the thing outside my door. White eyes, a mangled form, and a face-splitting grin that no normal being could have. It just stood there, waiting for something. For me. I didn’t move from my spot in the bathroom. No way in hell I was going to move and alert that thing. It took what felt like an eternity for morning to arrive, yet with my blinds covering the windows, they still stood there, motionless. Then Jacob came in and once again I rejected all sense of logic and stepped out, to nothing. No one was there except me, Jacob, and from under my bed, Jake. Turns out, Jake was missing when Jacob woke up, so he went looking for him, just to find him under my bed. They left and I called in sick for work. The only question I have is, was that real?
July 3rd, 2013
Dear diary, I did some digging on the internet and despite the evidence, I still can’t wrap my head around the information I’ve been given. I’ve searched up monsters that deceive humans through taking the form of pets or loved ones. None of the ones I found really seemed to be related to the thing I’m dealing with, be it because of them residing in a different area, them taking the form of only certain things, along with several other factors. All except for one. In my research I have come across a certain monster that could have a connection to our certain predicament. A Falsone is a demon from the Southern side of North America known for taking the forms of people who have gone missing after some time. They take time to stalk their prey, see their behaviours, routines, and choose those who are most suitable to impersonate. After swapping places, they will live their lives, while going to kill things at night. While they mainly target humans, it is not uncommon for them to take the places of pets, and that's what got me thinking. What if the thing in my room last night was “Jake”, or at least something mimicking him. After all, no animal can
be so silent and still be so big. But it all still feels so real. Monsters, demons, magic, all were just fairytales in my eyes, them possibly being real still seems so unbelievable to me. Maybe I just need to ask Jacob himself about when he found Jake and then I could shine more light on the question.
July 5th, 2013
Dear diary, it took a bit of convincing but I was able to get Jacob and Jake out of the house and into the vet on the belief that we would go there to check up on “Jake’s” health to see if he may have caught something while he was exploring. Of course it wasn’t actually for that, but instead to get alone with him to ask him a few questions, mainly about the book he had on him. It took a bit of convincing, but he cracked and revealed its origins; however, his answer was one that made no sense. He said it was a gift from a friend at school named Fraudrin, that one kid with blonde hair and blue eyes that we met at parent teacher interviews. He gave it to Jacob as an “early birthday present” since he and his family were going on an early vacation. Apparently it was a book about a girl going mad because of a monster hiding in her closet, when it turns out that there was nothing even there and the girl’s own fear of what she did not understand was the cause for her paranoia. When he finished explaining I felt a mix of both disbelief and anger. It was like he was just mocking me with an obvious lie like that. The Jacob I know would never do that. He would be truthful and make sense in the things he said. Maybe, it was that mutt. Yes, it had to be. Jacob wouldn’t be this secretive unless he was forced to. I believe it's time for me to take matters into my own hands, so Jacob if you're reading this, just know that I am sorry. I never wanted it to come to this. I love and I will always do everything I can in order to protect you. Even if it leads to you hating me.
July 8th, 2013
What. the. buck. How in God’s name did that thing do it ? I took care of it and made sure of it. Put it to sleep and put it to rest. Gone for three days and yet, it just appears
once again. You’ll never understand the disbelief and horror within my body when I saw it just standing over that spot. And when Jacob held it in a hug, my whole body couldn’t even move. I checked. I had to check. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe there was no body disposed of, and it was just the disillusions in my head making me think that the dirt he was standing on was a grave. So Why is it still there?
July 11th, 2013
More of them have been showing up. The cars are beginning to close in on us, all around us. It started with just the first few, but more soon joined, in a way surrounding the house entirely by the law. I should be happy, overjoyed even as I finally have back up to cover me in my mission to eliminate the thing but why do I feel frightened by their presence, that they’ve come to take me away instead of the real criminal. When the confrontation happens, they will be on my side, right? Anyways, the only other event of note to date is me having to take out a large amount of that demon’s messes. The neighbours have been complaining about the smell for a while and so I had to get rid of it soon enough in order to not draw suspicion and, in turn, more innocent people into this situation. Besides, the smell of rot had even begun to aggravate me. I got it done but when I was coming back, the thing just appeared out of nowhere, just peering into my very soul. Worry not, however, as I was able to not only dispose of the trash, but put “Jake” to sleep as well.
July 14th, 2013
Dear diary, they took me in and asked me questions. Some snitch reported that I’ve apparently been acting strangely, and they found one of the paws inside the trash can. Don’t know why they got in it, but I’m going to be having a small chat with them later. No matter, I was able to talk my way out of it and was let out in a matter of a few hours. I let Jacob out of the house again, it's been awhile since he got some fresh air. That killer is still out there, but seeing how they only target vermin pests, I believe that he’ll be fine. Though when I was talking to him, I felt that something was off. He seemed
cautious and had trouble looking me in the eyes. Probably just annoyed from being cooped up in his room all day, but it had to be done. The mutt’s messes had started to become apparent around the house and remember that even the neighbours were able to smell the leftover droppings. Despite all of that is happening, and all the will power it's taking me to not just mangle the little thing’s neck each time it appears, Jacob shouldn’t have to deal with the burden of having to put down a monster with the face of a loved one.
July 19th, 2013
It happened again. Another corpse of a dog was found outside of our house. Obviously the police were quick to come and interrogate me once again. However, this time was different. They called Jacob into the station to ask him a few questions and when he got out, he was acting suspicious, like he had something to hide. Moreover, I have a feeling that it was for some reason directed to me. He’s been spending more time with the deceiver and I believe that it's beginning to truly take its toll on his mind. He’s begun to be more quiet and aggressive around me and now makes it an effort to keep away from me. Even with the weird occurrences and fights we had previously, this time it feels different. Now he completely isolates himself from me and that brings to light the true influence this demon has. Despite my best attempts to ward it off I don’t think I can do anything without Jacob putting in any effort. So from all of this evidence, I believe that it's time. Time for Jacob to realise the thing he’s talking to wasn’t the young pup that he grew up with, and just a silent imitator. I know it will be hard, but he’ll understand, I will make him understand.
July 24th, 2013
Where did it all go wrong? When did the devil come and destroy everything I built. I tried. Lord knows, You know I did everything I could to make Jake understand, to allow Jacob to come to terms with the fact that Jake was gone and that thing in his place, was nothing else, but a pale imitation, an imposter, but no. I tried talking to him, showing my research and the weird different
occurrences that had been going on ever since that thing came back. I even showed him the messes the demon made in the backyard and the shed but it was for nothing. He denied, he refused to listen to reason. He said that I was the unreasonable one. That I was at fault for the lives lost because of the monster’s rampage. Now writing this, I still can’t believe it all myself. And he even had the audacity to blame it all on me, Me! The one who pushed him out of my own stomach. And after all that, he tries to run and tattle to everyone else, deceiving others into believing the lies of that fiend. I didn’t want to do it. I never wanted to use force but he made me do it. He was lost, gone, confused as I was at the beginning of this spiralling train wreck from hell. All because of that damn mutt. That parasite had to have done something, lied, hypnotised, manipulated him to be like this. It has to, it must be. My sweet Jacob would not act like this, turning both his voice and hands against me. No, that Hellhound is to blame. He just had to come and ruin the life I created from the ground up. No. I have to fix this. Even if it kills, I have to do this. I will rid that devil from my home. If this is the last time I write in this, thank you for everything.
July 25th, 2013
I did it. I finally did it. I finally ridded the house of that scum. It took a few tries for sure. It kept reappearing around the house and has been even outside the house but I was able to manage. It has currently been 3 days ever since my little outburst with Jacob. Speaking of which, Jacob is doing great. I had to put him down in the basement and it did burn my heart to hear him scream, but at least he is safe down there. He’s well fed with the fridge being fully stocked and not only that, but from the more recent yells he must have found the other messes the demon had made down there, making it all more
apparent of its true nature. One day, he’ll understand that sometimes, pain is the best teacher, and this will be a lesson he should not forget. But all is not good though. In my attempt to purge the monster from my home, it occasionally appeared alongside other people, most likely an attempt to manipulate others to do its bidding. It sadly appears to have worked, seeing the reactions of everyone who I tried to save out of nowhere begin to scream and get aggressive with me, like I’m the one who is at fault for it all. It's gotten so bad that I have to be cooped up in my house, hiding away until the coast is clear. This is all fine, however, as this can serve as my chance to plan my next move. First off, need to deal with the excessive banging on my door, then—
~Breaking News~
Local Dog Killer Caught!
By: Micheal Janes
The town both rejoices and mourns on this day, as the dog killer that had once plagued this town has been apprehended and charged for their crimes. Local resident Marina Senat, has been charged for accounts of animal cruelty and child abuse, after several animal remains were found around the premises along with her twelve year old son locked in the basement, with a mess of animal corpses staining the room and filling the fridge. Police are still looking into the scene and Marina’s court date is still pending.
sepia tones merging to black and white
marty rempel
The quiet comfort of textured upholstered seats, a cloistered feeling as lights dim, ushers with flashlights escort late comers to their seats, the smell of hot buttered popcorn in old downtown theatres with balconies and rococo embellishments where tickets are sold from a large roll by young girls in glassed-in wickets talking through small holes through the partitions, causing patrons to bend low and talk too loud, then receive change dispensed into a stainless-steel bowl imbedded into the counter top.
The marquis displays one, sometimes two movies to the street. No loud ads or subliminal seduction before the movie fades to a black and white newsreel narrated by a disembodied resonating voice describing world events to a sheltered audience shocking the world as they hear that Hitler has invaded Poland, tanks face off against the cavalry.
I explained patiently to my own children that once, long ago, the whole world existed only in black and white. I could easily prove this by showing old family photo albums with groups of distant cousins, aunts and uncles posing in serious faces in black and white pictures held in place with photo corners, just as my father explained to me, as a child, his world of sepia tones.
Now the world has evolved and we
See events in
Techno-colour
Panavision with Dolby surround sound
We walk to our seats on sticky floors covered with spilt soft drinks and carpeted popcorn. A giant fire breathing dragon in some distant mythical Silver City oversees the sale of thirteen-dollar tickets so very far away from sepia tones merging to black and white with subtitles and a… little, white bouncing ball.
And watch as our soldiers fight in living, vivid colour.
sprouts of certainty
dawn booth
I am here.
In between the start of it all happening, to the overcoming; in a place of not quite there but getting to it.
It’s the middle, where the darkness begins to drift away, leading me into the light, into a bright and beautiful place where I believe things are beginning to make a turn for the better.
… But, I am shaken, for I discover seeds of my self-doubt have begun to sprout.
What if it happens, again? What if I don’t have any strength left?
What if it happens, again, and this time, the outcome is worse than the unimaginable that I’ve just outlived?
… Or, what if it’s all going to be OK? What if I am stronger than ever? What if it happens, again, and this time I have all the tools to conquer, strive faster than before?
What if these seeds that have sprouted grow big with thick stalks, mighty enough to pull me to the top, into a place where I see new sights, new perspectives that I couldn’t comprehend before?
I must believe, this is “that” something. So, I can tell others: the seeds of doubt lead to the sprouts of certainty.
transformation
scott meller
We start naked, crying, and for the first time, alone. We’ve spent our lives, up until now, connected to the world within our womb. Then through the canal, or out the wall (a violence either way) ejected from the warm and cozy to face the world that day. Each day since has been in search of a slight, small connection. Instead we’re faced near daily with pestilence, war, and armed insurrection. For some, perhaps, that hardens hearts, galvanizing will. For some it brings just fear, and dread, and for others, still, an uncompromising faith in all the good left here in the world. A faith that humanity can (and will) be united and a plan unfurled that plots a course to harmony, where all are valued, all is love, and all live lives that are free. A dream? Maybe, but one worth dreaming. It beats an alternative of fighting, lies, and scheming. But then, it seems our journey here is over much too soon. The lights grow dim, the body fails, and we fall into a swoon. Each of us ends up the same; naked and alone.
That is until we close our eyes and finally are called home. That is the metamorphosis that life provides us all. We disconnect in time and space until we are recalled to the connection of the universe, where we join our fellows who are in the womb of all that is, or ever was, or ever will be too.
urbanization
marty rempel
a century farm house built of solid field stone home to generations in neglect resting on an acreage, divided in half for two families with no farming history, the barn neglected, over-run with feral cats roosting pigeons in the empty silos the orchards and pastures over grown, the city creeps near, a rectangular cement cattle trough now a place to burn garbage, an aerosol can explodes in the flames, three grazing horses bolt before they settle to warily graze
i, transformed meghan gass-carty
i am a butterfly; ever transformed Satiated, vulnerable, am i Gone is the bright chrysalis I adorned Metamorphosis–no longer am I.
A developing butterfly waiting Until bursts of colour, before unseen. Into a fresh world, beauty unending My senses betray–reality: green.
This version of me is what i have won. All i can grasp is you within my sight Ominous peril in the smiling sun i fear all; for now my life lives in flight.
A glimpse of what remained concealed–unknown, Is now what i live for–my purpose shown.
covid's constant cradle
sadie rayne antoine
I think we all let out a sigh of relief when we got the first of many endings of restrictions. Ones that limited our breathing to a confined space and kept our hands dry or stinging from hand sanitizer. We were home for so long you got used to the hard floor and late mornings, where you would sign in online. Even if you were still in bed. Like some sort of monster, it was carried in the air and lingered on every surface. It didn't hide in the dark, when you were alone at night, or under your bed. It stuck to people until it multiplied and danced around in public. This monster's name was Coronavirus, but went by other names: Covid-19, C-19, Corona, or you can choose from the few other variations of it. When it “went away” it never really left. The monster's claws were left stuck in the soil of the earth. Shockwaves of them infected the world of people with huge outbreaks that medicine had to be released early for testing to help those who were affected. Like a zombie apocalypse, crowds of people were often infected at once, without any of them noticing. Only when signs and symptoms revealed themselves, this is when the majority of them quarantined themselves like test rats in a lonely lab. The very lucky few were not affected at all, where they were automatically immune to sickness. But some were chosen to play a key role in helping to understand the monster. Their immunity was seen as protective as the vaccine, but they weren't fully immune to its talon grasp. Covid brought a huge delay in the schooling of many children all over the world. Having to stare at screens for hours on end, being distracted by the not-qualified teachers or by something away from the screen. The monster's rough arm brought an uneasy and cold feeling, making everyone's social skills fall out of their pockets. The rattling of that monster left us finally, and now textbooks are documenting the era. The news on TV has passed onto its next report, and the world is slowly going back to walking on its own two feet. But do we really know if the monster is done? Or is it just hiding under the bed for the first time?
defining metamorphosis
kiran malik-khan
Zindagi hay—it’s life—they tell me
As if cliched statements
worn-out words can answer questions of grief, of loss, of fears
As if avoidance can ever lead to recovery.
Zindagi hay—it’s life
Somebody should tell them…
Shattered cocoons
Don’t lead to Metamorphosis.
the metamorphosis of aging by Barbara Madden
marginalia Change Like Magic
A column by douglas abel
When is a door not a door?
When it’s ajar.
In the same vein, when or how or why does a ‘mere’ transformation, “the action of changing in form, shape, or appearance,” become a metamorphosis, which is defined, almost identically, as “the action or process of changing in form, shape or substance?” (OED)1 In both cases we are dealing with a change of form—or of “character, conditions,” or “outward appearance.” (COD) 2 And in both cases the definitions seem to insist upon a more or less complete change: “in character, nature, etc.” in the case of “transformation” (OED), or “in appearance, circumstances, condition or character” in the case of “metamorphosis” (OED). We are talking about a situation in which something, or someone, has been “changed, changed utterly,”3 as W. B. Yeats would have it, the word, “utterly” describing or defining something “complete, total, absolute, unqualified” (OED). But the definitions of metamorphosis and transformation match almost word for word.
Is there, then, a real difference between a transformation and a metamorphosis? Or, by choosing one term over the other, are we simply indulging in a preference for Greek-based vs. Latin-based words?
One distinction that seems to be made between the two concepts points to the possible source or power “causing” the transformative change. The Canadian Oxford Dictionary states that metamorphosis involves “a change of form by natural or supernatural means” (COD). Similarly the Oxford Dictionary declares that metamorphosis refers, not exclusively, but “especially” to “transformation by supernatural means” (OED). So metamorphosis seems to refer to a change of form or appearance so apparently complete that it is hard to believe it happened or could happen by means of the ordinary laws of nature.
In this sense, butterflies, the picture-creatures for metamorphosis, are “magical” and, in many ways, we react to them this way. They fill us with wonder. It is difficult to grasp that the colourful winged insect “came from” the caterpillar crawling across and chomping on a leaf. And perhaps this “magical” effect can give us a more precise definition of metamorphosis. It involves a change of form so apparently complete or, at least, so extreme that, if you didn’t know what the metamorphosed thing was like before it changed . . . you could have no idea what the thing was like . . . before it changed. If you knew, in general, about caterpillars and butterflies, but not about individual species of them, could you guess or intuit the nature of the specific butterfly to come, by looking at a specific caterpillar? Without actual knowledge or experience of the before-and-after, could you state, with any kind of confidence, “this colour of caterpillar has to turn into a monarch butterfly because . . .”?
And then we have the “storm butterfly” from chaos theory, whose slight change in wing position eventually causes atmospheric transformation in the form of massive storms and floods thousands of miles away. Here we find (at least in theory!) a process of change so complex that it might as well be, or might well be, magical.
But does metamorphosis really involve complete or “utter” change? Is such change, in fact, possible in any realm but the supernatural one?
Consider the butterfly again. It seems completely different from the caterpillar from which it came. But how much of its substance, or content, or structure has actually been transformed? Once the caterpillar stopped munching on leaves or milkweed and moved into its pupa stage, it could not add any amount of substance to itself. The raw material in the caterpillar—proteins, cells, DNA, tissue material—remains in the butterfly. All its substance was not discarded, or even changed. So what is the point at which metamorphosis has happened? How much has to be altered, and by how much?
Wind, rain, frost, snow, extremes of heat and cold and wet and dry can finally, over eons, wear a solid granite mountain down into dust and sand. Does all of the original mountain have to be gone before a metamorphosis has occurred, if indeed one has? If not all has to be eroded away, where is the point, in time and space, at which the mountain, as such, ceases to be mountainous?
Is metamorphosis a quantitative transformation, not a qualitative one? And if so, how much change does it take to metamorphose?
Metamorphosis can be a drastic, or extreme, or “utter” change of appearance as well as of strict form—although the extent to which form and appearance are linked, or even synonymous, is another point for debate. But, in terms of appearance, consider the development of a human being. If size and “quantity of content” are aspects of appearance, then a newborn human child is pretty drastically different from, say, a seven-foot NBA star. But is that change of size-appearance enough to be called a metamorphosis? And if size alone is not sufficient, would
the changes of form—and appearance, and even character—that come with puberty be sufficient to create a true metamorphosis? Here, I think, the key question is recognisability. You can look at the child, and the adult, and see that the “form” is basically the same, despite growth and expansion by several feet. The same cannot be said of caterpillar and butterfly. “The Child is Father of the Man,”4 and the connection is evident. No such evident connection makes the larva an obvious parent to the swallowtail.
Consider a statue, carved from Carrara marble. Certainly there is a drastic change from the slab of stone to the finished “work of art,” although aspects of appearance— surface colour and texture—may remain the same. But the sculptor may say that the art “form” was in the rock all along. He was not transforming, or forming, just releasing, just changing the content of the slab of rock—the amount of stuff involved—in a specific way. The nature of the form was there and evident to him before he lifted a chisel. So did that sculptor affect a metamorphosis, or simply adjust some content? And is not the situation similar to that of the butterfly? The adult form was already “in” the pupa, and the larva, and, indeed, in the egg, just waiting to be revealed. Transformation becomes liberation.
Metamorphosis. There are so many questions arising from one word, albeit a five-syllable one with esteemed Classical origins. Perhaps that generation of a need to explore more deeply is exactly the source of the magical or supernatural aspect of metamorphosis. The word, with its implications and subtleties, invites us to ask all sorts of questions, to wonder about degrees and relationships and extremes and instances. True magic always produces precisely such a sense of wonder. True magic can make one word, a simple sequence of sounds, “utterly” fascinating.
1 The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, 2007.
2 The Canadian Oxford Dictionary, 2001.
3 W. B. Yeats, “Easter 1916.”
4 William Wordsworth, “Intimations of Immortality from the Recollections of Early Childhood.”
contributors
douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, theatre historian and voice and speech teacher. His novel about Christopher Marlowe is progressing . . . still. He loves transforming his own confused and conflicting thoughts into (relatively!) coherent prose.
shanzey adnan is a visual artist living in Fort McMurray. Her work has been showcased in exhibitions and she has won several awards both in the community and at her school. Based largely on symbolism, Shanzey’s stunning pieces are drawn and coloured with markers to catch the viewer’s eye. When she is not busy drawing and doing commission work, the young artist enjoys reading and crafting in her spare time
sadie rayne antoine writes, “I am a 16 year old ACFN (Athabasca Fort Chipewyan First Nation) member, that is a long-standing member of Fort McMurray born and raised. I love to do art and creative writing and I wrote this piece because everyone has dealt with Covid-19 and has had their own experiences with it. I wanted to make one where it shows a story through everyone's experience with it, before, during and after.”
With an extensive background in journalism, dawn booth has written various articles and poetry throughout her career, some of which have earned her recognition, including the 2018 Wood Buffalo Excellence in Arts Awards from Arts Council Wood Buffalo (ACWB). Dawn's expertise extends beyond her own writing, as she has served as a judge for numerous poetry competitions throughout the province of Alberta. Dawn is the President of the Northern Canada Collective Society of Writers and a board member for ACWB. She lives happily in Fort McMurray with her loving husband and three cherished children.
veronica ephgrave is an elementary teacher in Fort McMurray. Writing is a long term passion for her; it is fun exploring different ideas through speculative realms.
meghan gass-carty will be residing in New Brunswick by the time this issue is published. Motherhood has been her
most profound joy and transformation. Her first child was born in Fort McMurray, and her second arrived in New Brunswick amidst the 2016 wildfire evacuation. The sonnet, "I, Transformed" honours her journey of love, fear, and growth.
saniya ghalehdar is a proud Edmontonian with Persian roots. She recently graduated from UBC's Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion Certificate Program and is also a women's and gender studies major at AU. She loves causes that help advance women's rights and marginalized communities.
juleus ghunta is a Jamaican poet, Chevening Scholar and children’s writer. He is pursuing a diploma in social work at Keyano College. His poems have appeared in The Missing Slate, Moko, Wasafiri, Anomaly, Chiron Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, and other journals. Ghunta won the Catherine James Poetry Prize in 2017 and was shortlisted for the Wasafiri New Writing Prize in 2022 and the Small Axe Poetry Prize in 2015 and 2016. He is the co-editor of two issues of Interviewing the Caribbean (UWI Press). His picture book Rohan Bullkin and the Shadows was published by CaribbeanReads in 2021.
barbara madden is on an expedition of sorts, exploring the world through painting, illustration and modest musings. Inspiration is everywhere, usually a little below the surface, each idea an excavation through layers and interconnected tunnels branching out into sparks and wonder.
From Fort McMurray to Florida—kiran malik-khan is a national award-winning communicator, a TEDx speaker, and a social media specialist. She loves her family, words, poetry, and books; and is a strong advocate of diversity, equity, inclusion, and women's rights.
charles masear is a high-school student in Fort McMurray with a relentless affinity for writing. When he's not writing, he enjoys procrastinating, playing the drums, sleeping, and arranging edgy ideas into semi-coherent plots. He also won a local poetry award once - pretty neat.
anastasia meicholas writes, “My exotic color palette and subjects are strongly influenced by my Bahamian heritage where constant sunshine and the bright blue ocean was never far away. Art has always been my outlet to cope with the stress and uncertainties of everyday life and at
the same time, I use art to express some of my deepest joys. Art provides me with a safe and comfortable place to express myself and as I am constantly trying to interpret my world, exploring different ways of presenting my observations and interpretations without limiting myself to one medium, one style or a single process, I am constantly evolving. The pieces I create are drawn from inspiration and experiences and lessons learned, sprinkled with influences from the land of my birth and if anyone takes the time to peruse my work and pauses long enough to be stirred in some way, to wonder, to question, to simply feel... then I have succeeded in my work.”
scott meller (he/him) is a father, a multi-disciplinary artist, and Musical Instrument Repair Technician who has called Wood Buffalo home for more than 25 years. When not expanding his knowledge and exploring the world with his family, he is championing the arts and working to keep artists expressing themselves.
matis n'galyson writes, “I am currently a student at Holy Trinity Catholic High School in Fort McMurray. My passions involve running, video games, and of course writing, usually works that involve fantasy or the supernatural.”
haley rahey writes, “I am a first year Psychology student with a minor in Creative Writing from Fort McMurray, Alberta. I wish to inspire, motivate, and connect with others while writing about topics that are personal and meaningful to me.”
marty rempel is a former resident of both Fort McMurray and Fort Chipewyan for a total of 22 years, where he worked as a teacher and raised his family. Today he lives in Waterloo and serves as a principal in Markham, Ontario. He has many wonderful memories of his time spent in Alberta. He enjoys writing as a distraction especially poetry, and essays. He and his wife spend their time gardening and travelling and seeking more story ideas.
j.e. schmitz writes, "I have always have enjoyed reading and writing all forms of written art. I am awkward and I am an aspiring author, with a TBR that I know I can never finish before I perish. I have a pet axolotl named Natsu named after an anime character."
jesse snook says, “I live in Fort McMurray AB and write for fun.”
zach wood is Ontario born but has lived in Fort McMurray for over a decade. He has been married for 5 years and is the son of Dave Wood.
a farewell to the society
Starting out with the Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers (NCCSW) since its humble beginnings, Public Relations Director and NorthWord Magazine Co-Founder Kiran Malik-Khan says farewell to the Society:
After fifteen years, and thirty issues, it’s time for me to say goodbye to the NCCSW. As difficult a decision as it is, moving forward often means going through tough decisions. I’ll never forget getting that email from Jennifer Hemstock, our founder asking to help start a literary magazine, or contributing funds/coming up with a plan to launch with our co-founders for the first issue. The challenge to sell (you want $9.50 for a literary magazine?!) the early issues, or to be stared at by potential advertisers asking me what’s in it for them?
I’ll never forget our amazing supporters who joined the team, advertised, donated, sponsored, volunteered, attended events, contributed, promoted, and above all understood why a literary magazine is important. Because beautiful words, poetic words will always be needed. Because words and their sanctity matter. Because literary magazines capture the soul of the times like no other publication can.
To everyone who has ever supported NorthWord thank you. To my amazing fellow board members: Dawn Booth, Jane Jacques, Barbara Madden and Sundas Shamshad—thank you for your passion for our publication. We made it to fifteen years, here’s to fifteen more and then some!
See you on the other side. Kiran Malik-Khan
northern canada
collective society for writers statement of purpose:
To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.
call for submissions NorthWord Volume 6, Issue 1
deadline October 30, 2024 theme Isolation
guest editor Steve Reeve
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
northward_ad.pdf 1 2024-08-04 8:24 PM
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