NorthWord Literary Magazine - Volume 3, Issue 4

volume 3 | issue 4 | FREE

contents

northern canada collective society for writers president Suzanne McGladdery

1

editorial

Erin Stinson

2

community report

Kiran Malik Khan

3

the cover: take a deep breath

Liana Wheeldon

e-mail northwordmagazine@gmail.com

4

when your breath talks

Eileen Lucas

web www.northwordmagazine.com

5

watching

Liana Wheeldon

6

the night dance

Sheldon Betts

6

the watcher

Liana Wheeldon

7

decluttering

Theresa Wells

cover Liana Wheeldon

8

treetops

Adrienne Norris

design & layout Rachel White-Murray

10

the sentinel

Liana Wheeldon

issue editor Erin Stinson

11

this is home now

Natalie D'Souza

11

showtime

Larissa Betts

12

last breaths

Kevin Thornton

15

surgical time bomb

Dawn Booth

15

the holdout

Liana Wheeldon

16

foot

Kitty Cochrane

17

winter

Alyssa Cooper

17

the guardian

Liana Wheeldon

18

the hopeful sentinel

Liana Wheeldon

19

la belle au bois dormant

Jane Jacques

20

inhale/exhale

Veronica Ephgrave

22

marginalia

Douglas Abel

24

contributors

treasurer Sundas Shamshad public relations director Kiran Malik-Khan

This Issue: Volume 3, Number 4 Spring 2017 ISSN 1920-6313

managing editor Jane Jacques president emerita Jennifer Hemstock

Proudly published in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada 56°44’N | 111°07’W

volume 3 | issue 4

editorial do you hold your breath? I find I'm always having to remind myself to breathe. Sure, there are millions of breaths that miraculously happen without my input and keep me

from turning blue, but deep breaths require full attention. This year in particular, I feel like I've done my fair share of holding my breath and consequently need that reminder to hit the inhalation reset button.

Early this year, when I was invited to serve as this issue's guest editor, take a deep breath was the theme I chose. It was my aim to settle on a theme with endless interpretive

options that could appeal to a wide variety of writers. I loved the possibilities of taking

a deep breath and imagined the many angles from which it could be approached.

The "why" intrigued me. Little did I know that we'd have quite the reason to need that incredibly deep breath here in Wood Buffalo.

May 3rd, 2016 is undeniably etched in our collective subconscious. The Horse River

Wildfire uprooted and impacted our entire community, causing a nation to hold their breath along with us. As friends and strangers poured out generous acts of love, we were reminded to take that deep breath and encouraged to let go as they walked alongside us.

Life is filled with moments that take our breath away­­—for better or worse. As I

read the submissions from local writers, I was reminded of the varied challenges

and circumstances that we may encounter in this life. The wildfire united us in one

circumstance but we each face another set in our individual lives. As I read, the deep breaths came in moments that had me bracing myself for what was to come, preparing

myself in hopeful expectation and other times surrendering to what had already occurred. In all instances the words ushered me to take a reflective breath and look at life through a different lens.

In the midst of all that you may be experiencing in your personal lives, I invite you to join us as we dive into the following pages. Allow the poetry, prose and visual art

contained in this issue to lead us to take our own reflective breaths, unifying us in the

creative journey. What we do with these lungs full of oxygen is up to us. Take a deep breath... what happens next?

Erin Stinson |

sixteenth issue editor

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

community report arriving at the summit with NorthWord It’s difficult to talk about anything this year without

referring to the wildfire. We climbed that mountain

by kiran malik-khan Public Relations Director out thousands of surplus copies of the #GameOn issue at the AGM. Libraries across Canada have received NorthWord, because of your help.

together in May, and have arrived at the summit. With

Finally, as we continue to be the voice of the literary arts,

October 28, 2016 at Points North Gallery to launch our

remain nominal­—second to none in the region. And,

this feeling, friends of NorthWord came together on fifteenth issue aptly themed Climbing the Mountain

by guest editor, Theresa Wells. Though compiled before

evacuation, the issue aptly touched on themes of

personal obstacles, and overcoming them. Wells shared her process for editing, and credited NorthWord for

inspiring her to run for arts director position on the Arts Council Wood Buffalo board—a position she now holds.

“It was a pleasure to celebrate the official launch of

Issue 15 of NorthWord magazine. Acting as the guest editor was truly inspirational; enough so that it made

me realize I want to do more to encourage and promote

your supports remains crucial. Our advertising rates we reach an intellectual and smart audience across the nation. For queries, please email: northwordmagazine@ gmail.com, or DM us on Twitter.

NorthWord is available free of charge at MacDonald Island, Chez Max—Jamaican Restaurant, Blue Mountain

Bistro, Keyano College, Points North Gallery, and the Thickwood YMCA. For real time updates, like us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/northword and follow us

on Twitter: @NorthWordYMM. Visit our website: www. northwordmagazine.com.

the literary arts in our region. As with all arts, I believe the literary arts have tremendous power and potential

to aid in healing and recovery, as we encounter new mountains in our community and our lives,” said Wells.

We want to take this opportunity to thank Florence Weber

of Points North Gallery for continuing to partner with us,

as well as Carmelo Daprocida of Blue Mountain Bistro, who provided delicious and beautiful food for the launch

event. Thank you also to Arts Council Wood Buffalo for

the opportunity to partner at the inaugural Wood Buffalo Arts Awards. We were delighted to provide midnight circus themed poems for the beautiful backdrop.

Our AGM was hosted on November 6. And, along with

Suzanne McGladdery, our president, and Jane Jacques, managing editor, I am honoured to continue as the PR

Director. We also welcomed Sundas Shamshad to the team, who is our new secretary/treasurer—yes, two positions in one. We are happy to have you on board, Sundas.

Continuing with the thread of gratitude, a world of thanks to our amazing volunteers, who helped us send 2

Top row, l-r: Suzanne McGladdery, Kiran Malik-Khan, Jane Jacques. Middle row: Tasty treats from Blue Mountain Bistro. Bottom row, l-r: Theresa Wells, Eileen Lucas, Nathan Berube

volume 3 | issue 4

the cover: take a deep breath liana wheeldon

Take a deep breath... The creation of this piece invited me to do just that. During the

evacu-vacation that I was on with approximately 88,000 of my closest friends, I used my art practice to reflect what I had seen, felt and was still (a little) obsessed with—the Horse River Wildfire.

I started creating using a palette of magenta, cadmium red, cadmium yellow, and carbon

black. I made about twenty ‘fire paintings’ in all. The later works started to incorporate some more hopeful blues and greens as I began to realize that my home, my city, my friends, my cats, my husband and I would all pull through, one way or another.

Once that discovery fully set in and we moved back to McMurray, albeit into a temporary home, not our own, I found myself at a loss artistically. I didn’t want to explore the fire

anymore but, what next? Then the query from my lovely friend Erin Stinson: “Would you be willing to do the cover art for the next issue of NorthWord? I am the guest editor!”

There is nothing like a deadline to get the creative juices flowing! After a few false starts, I knew exactly the palette to use and the imagery. Birds are magical creatures, so

fragile but so strong. They seemed the perfect visual metaphor to represent all that I wanted to say about where we were, where we are and where we are going.

I returned to mixed media for this piece, using layer upon layer of paint and multitudes of bits and pieces to create the textures. The bird silhouettes are hand drawn and then made into stencils. I have used these birds both in the fire series and in this painting. I added a few new silhouettes for this piece. The birds have moved on and so have I. Take a deep breath and enjoy Issue #16!

www.lianawheeldon.com @LMW_Art on Instagram

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

when your breath talks eileen lucas

It was early in the morning. The sun was barely creeping through the clouds. Sasha lifted her head off the

fluffy pillow, and reached for the annoying alarm clock.

She struck the snooze button, pulled the covers over her head and huffed and puffed as if telling the story of the

“Three Little Pigs.” This was her usual morning ritual.

She really didn’t want to get up. Her hubby Travis was

retired and she longed for the day that she could do the

same. Travis felt bad that Sasha still had at least five more years before retirement. “Those are the sacrifices

one makes when they marry older men,” he would often joke with her.

The alarm sounded again. Sasha flipped the covers off her head and shut the alarm off. She didn’t want to wake

Travis, but he had been awake for hours, just lying there thinking of his day ahead. Sasha turned the light on in

her closet. She forgot she had placed her new pair of

shoes by the closet door, and bumped her toe on them.

There was nothing but loud screams and foul language coming from her.

Travis jumped from his side of the bed, and tried to comfort her by saying, “O.K., take a nice deep breath. Breathe

in through your nose, and out through your mouth.” He always helped her control her breathing when she was

hurt or upset. Sasha followed his breathing technique.

She calmed down, got dressed and hurried off to work.

Sasha worked as a counselor in an elementary school and liked to go into work a few hours early to start her

day. This day was a bit unusual. There had been wildfires

burning in the area for over a week. She noticed on her drive to work that there was a lot of smoke around the

city. She didn’t pay much attention to it, until she went

everyone was talking about.

She couldn’t believe what she saw and wondered why

they were all still in school. She went back to the staff-

room and immediately had to go in survival mode. This

was not difficult for her. For as long as she remembered, Sasha was able to disassociate from her surroundings

when she had to deal with traumatic events. It was no different today. She went back to her office, and when

an announcement came over the school’s public address system, “Hold and Secure,” Sasha thought, “What the heck is going on now? There must be some crazy person running around town again. We need to keep the chil-

dren safe.” She went back to completing the stack of overdue files on her desk. “O.K.,” Sasha said, as she took a

few deep breaths. “Everything will be all right.” she said to herself, and she doubled checked to ensure the door to her office was locked.

The fire that was now raging outside was far from Sasha’s mind until she was startled by the ring of her

cell phone. It was her sister Pam, who lived in Toronto.

Pam wanted to know how things were going with the fire. Sasha quickly told her that she couldn’t talk and that everything seemed to be going well. Her sister then

wanted to know about the evacuations that she heard

about, but again Sasha said things were fine. She was still in survival mode and one thing she wasn’t going to do was worry herself about the fire. She didn’t hear

anything about evacuations or how the fire was pro-

gressing, but then again, Sasha was too busy with her files to even let herself check on the fire. As far as she was concerned, the fire could have easily been extinguished.

to the teacher appreciation luncheon. Some staff were

It wasn’t long after she got off the phone when a knock

looked at Sasha and said, “You should see the fire from

worried about the fire. Sasha took them in and knew she

saying that the fires were getting bigger. One teacher

the grade one entrance.” Her curiosity took the better of 4

her, and she decided to go with the teacher to see what

came on her door. A few students were crying, upset and

had to calm them. They wanted to call their parents,

volume 3 | issue 4

but Sasha questioned herself if this situation was being

dents were all smiling when she entered the room, a few

when her daughter Bella called. She never answered her

called were on their way to the school because news was

blown out of proportion. Her answer came way too soon, calls while students were present, but something was telling her to take the call. She went into the adjacent

office next to hers so the students couldn’t overhear her conversation. Bella was crying hysterically and telling

Sasha that she was told to evacuate from her community. She wanted to know when her mom was able to

leave and her mom said, “I can’t leave, we have not been evacuated.” According to her daughter, the whole town

was being told to leave, and she was not leaving without her mom. Her mother sternly told her to get her two young children ready and get out of town, and she would

follow them later. Bella was refusing to do this and her mom had to call Bella’s father to try to reason with her.

Sasha went back into her office. The students were still throwing their worries in the garbage can, a game she taught them to do with crumpled up paper, and simi-

lar to playing basketball. A game so simple, but it really helped the children calm down. Even though the stu-

of them were still wanting to call home. The parents she

spreading fast that everyone was to leave the city. While Sasha was taking the students back to class, another

announcement came over the school system. It said, “Teachers, please be advised that all students are being evacuated from school. All parents need to be called to pick up their children.”

Sasha was now in a trance-like state. She knew the fire was spreading dangerously fast, that they had to all

leave town, but she was somehow thinking that eve-

ryone would be safe. She helped the teachers call the parents and was also helping the parents who were now in the school find their children. There was a lot of talk

around the school. Children and parents were crying, some on their phones trying to contact loved ones, and

there were students who were still waiting for their parents to retrieve them. There was talk about roads blocked

off, houses and towns completely on fire and burned to

the ground. The last Sasha heard was that the highways

were soon going to be closed and there was no way out

of town. Others were being told to go north of the city.

There was nothing but pure hysteria and panic.

When Sasha’s husband came to pick her up at work that day—he wasn’t leaving without her—she couldn’t speak a word. Her breath spoke for her, though. “Breathe

in through your nose, and out through your mouth,” was all she could remember. And that is how she left the fiery inferno of Fort McMurray on May 3rd, 2016.

watching by Liana Wheeldon 5

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

the night dance sheldon betts

As the last reluctant rays

of the fierce and powerless sun

release their hold on the heavens

and surrender to the warm black night I sit triumphant on my perch, for this show is just for me.

As the spirits and shadows grow longer and the fireflies awake

the underworld comes alive

under the sovereign watch of the silver moon.

The silky mist begins to rise

as heat escapes the sun-licked waters setting an eerie, quiet tone

to the nocturnal way of life.

The shimmering birch trees tower as gods now their forms shift with the dying breeze for soon they will have to retire,

with not a breath to move them 'til dawn.

A few lively and vibrant blackflies

flit amongst the thin columns of steam they dance across the still waters

unbroken by movement of any time.

It is these I watch with renewed interest

and though their graceful dance is not yet done I flick my tongue out to grab a straggler, my night feeding has just begun.

the watcher by Liana Wheeldon

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volume 3 | issue 4

decluttering theresa wells

As I pull the last box out, it seems hard to believe it has

I drove to the storage unit and began loading boxes into

years since moving into the first home with only my

ished the unit was empty, but my dining room was filled

been three years. Three years since the divorce, three

name on the mortgage and three years that these various boxes, bags and other flotsam and jetsam of my life have been in this storage locker.

my car. It took more than one load, and when I was finwith boxes waiting quietly. With one of the staff from

the storage company, I took a final look around the storage unit.

Three years. A lot has changed in that period of time,

As she swept it clean she said: “You know, some people

known as a stay at home wife and mother sped entirely

never even come in to get anything. It just sits here.”

more than I could ever even recount as the life I had

in a new direction: single working mother facing life without the safety net of a marital partner.

When I moved into my new little house, I initially rented the storage unit to store some things until I had a chance to unpack and let everything settle into a place in this

have these units for years. Just filled with stuff, they

And then she looks at me quizzically. “Are you moving?” she asks, wondering why I have now decided to end this long-term relationship with my storage unit.

“No,” I say. “I just found room.”

new environment. One month in storage became two,

And so I have, not room in my house perhaps but room

the stark reality I recognized was that I wasn’t storing

and memories without crumbling into them. It has been

then six, then twelve, and then, finally, thirty-six. And things; I was storing memories.

Every box and bag in the storage unit held items

in my head and my heart to finally process the emotions

three years, and the time has come to let go of things: storage units, unwanted items and the past.

acquired over 24 years of marriage and 30 years of being

I sit on the floor in my dining room and open the first

was infused with emotions and memories, and the stor-

it slowly and allow the memory to wash over me; then I

part of a couple. Each item might look innocent, but it age unit ensured I did not have to face them. It kept

them quiet and dark, which is exactly where I wanted those memories and emotions to be during those early days after the divorce.

And so there they sat, month after month, year after

box. On top is a card signed “With all my love”, and I read place it in the bin marked “recycling”.

I take a deep breath as my hand touches the next item in the box.

I am ready to declutter.

year. Then, one day, I realized it was time.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

treetops adrienne norris

I collapsed under shade onto the cool summer’s ground.

light to dark straight colours, one after another in rows

where I was, or what I was doing. I was lost in an empty

the empty spaces in front of them with a jerk only to

Sitting there somewhat numb, I couldn’t remember space of my blank mind. This happened more often

lately, this being lost, becoming lost. People in my life were draining my strengths to the point I had nothing left for even maintaining my own simple sanity. I was getting involved in everything all at once, taking on

too much. I had created a life for myself that I no longer

wanted, but I couldn’t get out of the complexities I had

reserved as my own with my need to be needed. I had no

means of escaping from the journey I had put myself on, and instead I kept losing myself in the process. I went

through the routines, the patterns, and the mechanics of my life, but never really paid any attention to the details of living anymore. I was going through repeating everyday things, of living without knowing that I was alive

—not really knowing what I was doing anymore. I was

just doing things the same way I had done for so long, trudging through unconsciously day by day.

I started to focus my senses on what my physical surroundings were in an attempt to figure out at least where I was. The street looked familiar, and I felt some-

how comfortable with the familiarity. The acidic fumes

of the exhaust from the cars on the heat warped black asphalt offended my senses as it mixed with summer

sweat and heated garbage. It was becoming almost unbearable to listen to the abrasive thundering sounds of the grinding engines in the lines and rows of the

downtown traffic. I watched as the cars systematically

paused, then moved forward in jerky motions of impatience only to pause again.

I looked past the traffic into the windows of the buildings beyond the cars. There were lines of people standing in the brick, stone, and glass buildings branching

out around me. You could see the people clear enough

through the windows. Faces and bodies, blotches of 8

waiting for their turn in life to move forward into

pause and wait again. They moved mechanically, some

not even seeming much alive at all. Some buzzed and hummed in their whispers and ongoing chatterings for

their business. Some were silent observers in their wait-

ing, watching everyone else, listening to everyone else.

Sometimes a large empty gap would build between the

lines of people, as someone was taken somewhere else in their thoughts, no longer paying attention to their

world and the line they were waiting in like I was, somehow lost for moments of time.

My gaze moved to look at what was alongside me, and

there were trees lining the boulevard on either side of

me. They fit oddly in the concrete grey of the city centre.

They were old, lofty trees that knew of everything that had passed beneath them. I followed the length of the

trunk of one giant to the canopy of leaves above me. The sun hit open-faced leaves, shining through them softly on my face. The height of the trees filled the sky above me with branches and pale green broad veined leaves

competing for the kiss of the light along with the stone, metal, and glass buildings beside them. The skyscrap-

ers assaulted the blue, stabbing up into the sky, but the trees were holding their own ground. They still weren’t

enough to tell me what I needed to know. Then my eyes settled on the clear plastic bus stop shelter, and I remembered where I was, and what I was doing.

The remembering of my reason for being there became

a weight on me. I couldn’t push it off, as I had willingly

taken it from someone else as my own. I didn’t want it anymore, but it was too late for that. No one else wanted

to take the weight from me either. The choices we make

in life become what we are. We define ourselves by what we do. I had given myself a role in life that I just couldn’t

bear any longer, but it was all that I knew. It was eve-

volume 3 | issue 4

rything I had become. The weight of my life choices

The exhilarating dizzying speed that I felt of the earth’s

my heart held me down. I sank deeper into the green of

beneath me in an effort to hang on. I dug my fingers into

exhausted my mind, suffocated my chest, and heavy in the summer’s grass, hoping to hide from the world I was in, to the world within the systematically chaotic traffic around me.

I looked up through the maze of leaves above me to the sky for an escape out. Searching through the coverlet of

leaves I could see the white of clouds through them—

moving away. I dragged my heaviness out from under

revolutions made me press my spine into the grass

the moist black dirt beneath the grass in an attempt to

hold on. It was like being on a summer’s fair ride. I felt like I would fall off, not thinking of the simplest things

anymore, like the gravity that promised to hold me into place. I felt like I would fly off the face of the earth at any

moment if I slipped or released my grip. And my world beneath me became a different place.

the trees so I could follow the path of the clouds better.

I could feel myself on the earth, linked only by the grass

ground with the weight of my life.

traffic on the street in front of me and the hundreds of

In my weakness I was forced back down flat on the

There I was—lying on my back and looking up at the sky above me. The wind was swept clouds across a vast vacant patch of soft blue, and wove them playfully in

between the high rises and the treetops on all sides of me. The clouds were rushing away, running away. My

watching them only increased the anxiety in my mind. I couldn’t stop watching them and feeling more and more

strained as they ran along their paths in the modest

space of sky above me. Time sped along with them.

Rushed along with them like they carried time within their curves and wisps of white and grey. I could feel

the pressures of time added to the weight already pinning me down on the ground. I felt like I was suffocating beneath—beneath purposes and time.

I wanted the clouds to stop their running. I wanted to

stop time from rushing on and leaving me behind. I needed more time, and I wanted more time. I focused on

the clouds then, staring deep within them, looking for answers, and looking for time. I made them stand still in

my mind’s eye, and the earth beneath me slowly started to turn instead. Now the earth was moving under the

and the trees around me. I could hear the sounds of the feet rushing, walking, and shuffling away from and

around me. I could hear the soft buzzing and the hum of the conversations of the people who were in the build-

ings and on the street. Then two voices became separate

from the rest, more distinct as they approached where I was lying on the ground by the bus stop. A boy and his

mother had joined near me. I could hear them talking, but I couldn’t get up or break away from my earth’s ride.

“The bus is coming soon. Do you have the transfers, Ryan?” the mother asked her son.

“No, Mother. You put them in your pocket.”

I could hear her rifling through her purse, searching for

the small strips of paper for the bus, as an empty sky

slowed the turning of my world for a moment before the

appearance of new clouds picked up the spinning again.

“Mother, may I have my new glasses?”

“No, Ryan. The doctor said you can only try them for ten

minutes a day, and that we should wait until we get home. You can rush things, you know.”

clouds, and not the clouds moving above the earth any-

“But I’ve waited so long to get them. I can’t wait any-

spun through the universe with the ages of time pass-

minutes… just until the bus comes.” He pleaded with her.

more. I was lying on the ground watching as the earth ing in front of my eyes. I was lying on the face of the earth—small, insignificant and alone in my space on the summer’s grass.

more. Please, Mother. I promise I’ll just try them for a few

“Oh. All right. I can’t see the harm in a few minutes. Here they are.”

9

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

She went back to shuffling papers and things in search

His mother’s face shifted from an angry frown to one of

and was looking through pockets and parcels when

with the understanding. He had a visual impairment that

for tickets. It sounded like she had moved from her purse

her son exclaimed: “Mother! Mother! Look! Can you see them? There are treetops!”

The sounds of her rummaging dead stopped. “Don’t be

silly, Ryan! Calm yourself! Of course, there are treetops!

What on earth do you mean?”

The awe and wonder in his voice made me look over, sit up and stare at him, as I shook off clouds. The sound in

her son’s voice broke me free of my ride, brought me back

to this moment in time, back to the downtown street, back to my life. He had broken the spell of my summer fair’s ride.

He was looking up at the trees surrounding us, and pointing to them. His mouth was wide open matching the width of his young sky-blue eyes under clear lenses

of his new glasses, and I watched the clouds move across them. He had the most naked and innocent look on his face in his moment of utter amazement. “But I didn’t

know! I didn’t know they looked like that! I didn’t know the trees had tops!”

10

the sentinal by Liana Wheeldon

open shock with the realisation then. She started to cry

they had never been able to do anything for, but now he had his glasses. Heavy sobs shook her shoulders as she

pulled him into her arms and held onto the boy. Until this moment he had never seen the tops of trees before, and he was caught up in the wonderment of it all.

With the sound of her weeping he looked up at her, and wiggling out of her grasp. “Stop crying, Mother. Take a

deep breath --- calm yourself!” He mimicked her with giggle and a face lit up with utter joy. “We’ll miss our bus.”

The bus came shortly and picked us up from under treetops, and sky, and the clouds, and drove away from the stop. I had felt myself on the face of the earth, so small

against the size of it, and I became insignificant. The

weight of my purposes and time were swept away in

the wind with the clouds that day, and as the bus drove me to my journey’s destination, all I could do was think of a young boy, his treetops, and the wonderment of it all, and I too took a deep breath.

volume 3 | issue 4

this is home now natalie d’souza The ashes remain

Reminders of what was

Memories of the flames They chased us away Scattered like seeds

Uprooted to start anew But in the flash of fear and chaos You were there

Before hearing the call

You had opened your doors You were the warm welcome

showtime larissa betts

You were the heroes of the night

Staring out the window at the miles upon hours

You were the comforting smile

the last of the stubborn dirty grey snow melts

You were the spark of hope That stirred our hearts

You are the change we cannot forget We will not forget We are humbled

You have humbled us We are strong

You have strengthened us We are united

You are with us This is ours still

of the ugliness of those drab early days of spring, over the sleepy acres of somber farmland,

subdued pale yellow blades of splitting dry straw partially mashed into the thick and sloppy mud.

The sun starts to set on this lackluster stage

lending a gradual flare lifting the humdrum curtain,

the naked trees begin to illuminate with shocking radiance and dark mud glitters a deceptive crystal sheen,

the once crippled wheat richly glows pure golden

and shrubs expose a vibrant cranberry at their tips; as earth tones get their fifteen minutes of fame.

What is left amid these ashes But we are here

We are together We are home.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

last breaths

kevin thornton

Dead bodies were rarely attractive, Enoch thought to

himself. Even under the embalmer’s tender care they

tended to look waxy and, well, lifeless. It was only in films that corpses were worth looking at; Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra sprang to mind, as well as Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters. Although …

“Was Dana Barrett dead,” he said, “or a ghost; or was she merely possessed?”

Sergeant Ramsbottom sighed. It wasn’t his idea to let

he’d degenerated from interesting to obscure without

even an intervening period of self-immolation, such as Hemingway or Bukowski might have done.

Enoch was the only person who compared himself to

any of the greats of the literary universe. So when this

bolt out of the blue, this massive piece of luck had fallen

into his lap, he had thanked the gods of good fortune.

He would solve this real murder with panache and élan then write about it in his best Capote style, recapturing his waning career and zooming right up the A-List to sit

with Lee, (Jim if you knew him) and Dennis, Louise and even Martha the cooking lady.

the writer into his investigation. He preferred to work

In other words he was totally delusional. Enoch Powlle

fan of crime fiction and when he’d discovered that the

good. His dreadful prose and turgid plotting had been

with professionals, but his Inspector Maffini was a big formerly famous mystery writer Enoch Powlle lived in

Fort Clearwater, he’d had dreams of literary immortality. Maffini imagined himself as the Watson to Powlle’s Holmes, or Beauvoir to his Gamache. That didn’t mean that Inspector Maffini would actually do the work him-

self. Oh no, that would be left to the hoi-polloi, and the chief ‘hoi’ was Sergeant Hector Hugh Munro Ramsbottom.

“Take Mister Powlle with you,” the Inspector had said to Ramsbottom, “and extend him every courtesy. Report

everything to me. I want to be there when he solves it.”

Insubordination and blasphemy had been on the tip

of Ramsbottom’s tongue, but in truth he liked his job

and knew that ambitious Inspectors did not stay long in Fort Clearwater.

“I believe it was a demonic possession,” he replied to

Powlle. “She returns to normal at the end and lives happily ever after with Bill Murray.”

“That’s right,” said Enoch, impressed that the Sergeant had caught the reference and batted it back so effort-

lessly. Powlle prided himself on being esoteric, a tag he

had been hiding behind for the last year. His book sales had been slow, his editor had called his last story irrel12

evant while his publisher, when he still had one, said

had been a lucky writer once without being much

found out the traditional way - terrible sales and dreary

reviews - and he now languished in the literal, literary backwoods of Fort Clearwater where the rents were cheap and his wife had a real job.

Sergeant Ramsbottom had surmised much of this and

he knew that Enoch Powlle had about as much chance of solving this murder as Ramsbottom had of dating

a supermodel. Still, here they stood, and the Sergeant, though he felt he was wasting his time, prepared to brief the writer as Inspector Maffini had commanded.

The body was in the tiny morgue attached to the hos-

pital. Enoch hadn’t wanted to go to the crime scene but he did want to see the stiff. He’d never seen one before

and he was slightly disappointed at his first taste of

death. It wasn’t scary or morbid. It wasn’t even gross.

It was dull and Tussaud-like. He kept looking, hoping

a clue would jump up and hit him in the rationale. It didn’t, and so they retired to the adjacent office where

Sergeant Ramsbottom pulled out a cardboard file from his briefcase.

“Abel Parsimmon was found by one of our constables in his home, in bed. The door was unlocked and he seemed to have died in his sleep.”

volume 3 | issue 4

“Why was the policeman there?” said Enoch.

“She,” said Ramsbottom, “was investigating a fight at his local bar the afternoon before. It was not uncommon for Parsimmon to assist us in such enquiries. He was argumentative and violent.”

“Maybe she killed him,” said Enoch. “Maybe she was his lover.”

Ramsbottom swallowed his sigh, figuring it would save

time to give one long collective one at the end. “Con-

stable Molly van Deventer is 25 and happily married to a nurse. Parsimmon was 71 and toothless. He also was smelly and drank too much. Quite frankly we have been

expecting his death for some time and if the doctor

hadn’t found higher than normal levels of carbon dioxide in his blood we would be treating it as a death by

natural causes.” He pulled out the photos of the bed-

“They saw Parsimmon leave for the bar at about three

in the afternoon, then Aggey MacLean went down to the house to clean it. This was common and happened twice a week. One of the neighbours thinks she was car-

rying a bucket with a lid on it.” He carried on reading.

“She left after two hours, then Parsimmon staggered home at about nine that evening. It snowed about an hour later until past midnight, When Constable van

Deventer went round the next morning she found the front door unlocked. Parsimmon was dead and cold to

the touch. She then inspected the ground around the house. There were no footprints, meaning no one could have got in, unless they could fly.

“Dear Lord above thank you,” said Powlle, “it’s a locked room mystery.”

“A what?” said Ramsbottom who didn’t read mysteries.

room where Parsimmon had been found and showed

“You don’t know?” said Enoch, astonished. He closed

large yellow plastic bucket next to bed.

a type of crime fiction in which a murder is committed

them to Enoch. The room looked normal, save for a

“You said he was a drunk,” said Enoch. “That must have been what the bucket was for. Things that go oops in the night.”

“It was empty and dry,” said Ramsbottom. “We think the cleaning lady left it. Her name is Aggey MacLean.”

“Aggey the ice cream lady?” said Enoch.

Ramsbottom looked surprised. “You know her?”

“Everyone does. Well maybe not the police so much. She

does whatever she can to get by. Cleans house, babysits, walks dogs. In the summer she makes ice cream and

gets the local kids to ride around selling it from cooler

boxes. The thing is, I don’t think she ever gets a vendor’s permit from the Municipality so she probably doesn’t

sell wherever you guys are. But she’s harmless, and her ice cream is divine. Next summer I’ll treat you to a

his eyes and quoted thus. “ ‘A locked-room mystery is under circumstances which seem impossible both for

the perpetrator to commit the crime and evade detection in the course of getting in and out of the crime scene.’ I wrote that in Wikipedia,” he said proudly.

He opened his eyes and they seemed to sparkle. “We’ll

be famous when I write about it. It’s just too perfect.

A locked room mystery. My, my. Although technically

it’s actually a locked house mystery. Who stood to gain?

Parsimmon was a drunk, was he? They tend not to have a lot of money.”

“But he had land, and there was an oil company sniff-

ing around,” said Ramsbottom. “His son and daughter

would both inherit the land from a family trust, if he died before he sold it. Otherwise, as the head of

the family he could do whatever he wanted with the money. So they both have motives.”

cherry fondue or the spring surprise.”

“What do they do for a living?” said Enoch.

“I can hardly wait,” said Ramsbottom.

“The son’s a motor mechanic in town.”

“Didn’t the neighbours see anything?” said Enoch.

“So he put a pipe from a truck into the window and

13

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

gassed the old man. Then he stood far away and yanked

“Well I suppose so,” said Enoch. “It turns out that Aggey

turbed.”

fond of them. When she heard about the sale of the

the pipe out the window, leaving the snow undis-

Ramsbottom couldn’t help it. He sighed. “That would

have caused death by carbon monoxide poisoning. It was his carbon dioxide that was elevated.”

“Oh,” said Powlle. He didn’t understand much of the sci-

entific or indeed the practical world, but Ramsbottom seemed certain. “How about the daughter? What does she do?”

“She’s a nurse.”

“Well there you are,” said Enoch. “She injected him with carbon di-whatsit and he staggered home and died.”

“You can’t just go around injecting carbon dioxide into

people,” said Ramsbottom. “It’s a gas and it doesn’t travel well in hypodermic syringes.”

“Oh,” said Powlle, deflated. “I’m not very good with

gases. Nor liquids nor solids. I even managed to burn

myself on Aggey the ice cream lady’s ice cream ice two months ago. It left a mark on my skin and I started to freeze, like I was Han Solo in carbonite.”

Ramsbottom only half listened to Powlle’s babbling.

Then something struck a chord. “What did you say?”

“I said, it looked like I was being turned into a carbonite

block. I touched her ice when I bought two choc ices

with wafers back in August and I started to solidify, even through my shirt sleeve.”

He watched in astonishment as Ramsbottom called the Inspector and said, “Send a patrol to arrest the ice cream lady. She’s our killer.”

*********************************************** “So you really did help them to solve it dear?” said Portia Powlle, Enoch’s ever patient wife.

14

used to babysit the Parsimmon kids and was rather land she decided to take matters into her own hands.”

“How did she do it?”

“With the ice from her ice cream making. She had a

machine in the garage that made her ice for her. She took a bucket of it down with her, whipped off the lid and left it in his room. When Parsimmon came home it killed him.”

“Dry ice,” said Portia. “Well I never. That was very clever of her.” She saw Enoch’s puzzled look. “Dry ice dear. She used it in her coolers so when it melts it doesn’t turn to water and make the choc ices soggy. Dry ice is made of

carbon dioxide and melts into a gas. She took it down

with her and left it in his room. He fell asleep and never woke up and the next morning all the evidence had

melted, or evaporated or whatever dry ice does. Then

the snow nearly made it look like a natural death. It was a very clever little murder, and you helped the police solve it.”

“Yes I suppose I did rather. So poor Parsimmon lay down, took a few deep breaths and was gone. But how did she know it would snow? That part I don’t get.”

Portia, like Ramsbottom before her, sighed. “Enoch dear, it’s Canada. All she had to do was listen to the forecast.

Sooner or later it’s going to snow.”

volume 3 | issue 4

surgical time bomb dawn booth

I see through her eyes, Staring at the faces

Of strangers, gently pressing down on her.

Her millimetre-wide veins, Lined with intravenous.

Her breath shortens.

They quickly act.

Reality settles in.

How did this happen?

Why her?

Why now?

The room is full.

Full of unheard terminology, Full of action.

Blood pools from her

Punctured chest, I stare

As my own flesh lay there Unconscious.

I’m helpless...

Standing, Waiting,

Watching.

They call her a ticking time bomb, A rare case for procedure.

I call her my princess, a one of kind warrior.

the holdout by Liana Wheeldon

15

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

foot

kitty cochrane waiting for this

waiting for this

this one, the little one

runners skates boots

one foot to arrive

up by my right rib

the one that twangs when it gets caught under my bone

its own fragile bones asserting their miniature rights waiting for this

one foot to feel air

after months of belly skin

shed them like skins

as it grows, lengthens, widens

stomping, stumbling dancing, kicking

tapping, nudging

gathering warts, cuts blisters, cramps

bruises, band-aids

between my hand

waiting as this

my full hand waiting

strays so far, on bicycle

and this heel, this arch to rub this little one foot with miniscule nails

already needing to be cut little prints

already swirled waiting for this

one foot to grow

into these little socks

with bears and daisies into these tiny shoes

bounce on knees, floors as the legs stretch and strengthen waiting for this

one foot to step, step once, then more then run, run

up and down these halls and stairs

16

one foot to find

one foot becomes so big in car, on plane

so untouchable breathing deeply

as I touch one more time this one

hidden tiny tiny

foot

volume 3 | issue 4

winter alyssa cooper The cold forms ice in my fingertips,

tiny shards that grow, crystals

in my skin;

little knives

digging deep deep,

deeper,

replacing flesh

and draining blood,

until my limbs are numb and dead

and strangely heavy,

prosthetics at my side, useless,

with no articulation.

Winter creeps in like a spectre,

with a sucking mouth and gasping need, lips closing over mine,

to steal away

the summer.

Swallowing down

my carefree soul, and gorging

on the heat

that I have stored in my bones.

the guardian by Liana Wheeldon 17

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

the hopeful sentinal by Liana Wheeldon

18

volume 3 | issue 4

la belle au bois dormant jane jacques

Struck by lightning at twenty-four In a coma for twelve years In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. While her friends from the basketball team are coupling, uncoupling, recoupling,

agonizing over the first, making room for the second, debating a third, interviewing, negotiating, packing, relocating,

drinking wine, drinking better wine, learning to drink Scotch, giving up drinking,

cooking with arugula, cooking with hemp hearts, cooking with tempeh, working on the master’s, writing the book, driving the hybrid, driving the SUV, counting down twelve midnights, living in present participles,

her only participle is breathing.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. She waits for the infinitive,

for the Prince to hack through the thorns to climb the tower

to kiss her good morning.

19

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

inhale/exhale veronica ephgrave Inhale

Exhale

I fail

I’ll try

Exhale To see

This moment’s Pressing need.

Inhale

Exhale

I’m full of Inability.

I can’t let go

I simply don’t know

I say all the words wrong The days are long

The years are longer I grow fonder Of seasons Of reasons

Of my mistakes Never mind

Again.

I guess

It all depends

On my willingness to fall

My hope to bring me back

My feet to keep from slack.

Inhale

Exhale I hope

It’s not too late, I see it coming

The pale horse,

The horseman of fate.

I wish I could

Recreate every moment It’s too late.

That’s tomorrow’s problem,

Inhale

Exhale,

It’s here I will let go.

Inhale

I close my eyes to pray Inhale

Exhale

My mind runs away.

Inhale

20

Looks like

Exhale Inhale

Exhale

Time to face the unknown.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

marginalia

While you are reading this first sentence, you are undoubtedly breathing.

A column by douglas abel

If a person lives to be seventy-five, she will let in and let out about 630,720,000

A Breath, A Wonder

Probably without even thinking about it. But take a moment to think about it.

Because the fact of breath is, quite simply, amazing.

breaths. And 95% of those breaths will drop in and drop out unconsciously.

The body just breathes. Our much-vaunted conscious mind, our planning, pre-

paring and organizing faculties, are not involved in the vast majority of those hundreds of millions of breaths we take. We just do it.

And yet there is nothing so basic, so essential, so vital to life as breath. We come fully into this physical life with our first breath, and leave it with our

last. With that initial “inspiration,” we are moved into the world, are moved

by it, and react to it; with our last breath, the physical world no longer moves us, and we “expire.” And we must breathe, or we quickly die. We can survive

up to three weeks without food, about three days without water, about three

hours without shelter in extreme temperature conditions, but only three minutes without breath. If we miss fewer than 50 of those hundreds of millions of automatic lifetime breaths, we cease to be.

Think how fortunate it is that breathing does not require thinking. For one

thing, if breath were a conscious process, we could not sleep. We would suf-

focate if we stopped planning our breaths, or would have to startle awake, gasping for air, every minute or so. Or, at best, we would be unable to dream about anything but breathing. So automatically essential is breath that, while we can control it to some extent, we cannot do so completely. However often

angry children might declare that they will “hold their breath until they die!” they simply can’t. If we decide with determination to stop breathing, the body will tolerate our wilfulness for only so long (less than three minutes!). Then it will make us pass out, resume control, and get on with the job of being alive.

And what a complicated job breathing is. There are hundreds of individual mus-

cles, bones, ligaments, tendons and nerves involved, both large—the ribs, the

diaphragm—and miniscule—the delicate bones and muscles of the larynx. And the body sends regular, co-ordinated, sequential messages to each one of those pieces, millions of times. Imagine if each piece had to be sent a conscious com-

mand, every time: “All right, intercostal muscle seven-left, contract 10 per cent

now!” If breathing were a conscious process, there would be no time or space left in the brain for anything else. Our neural system would be hacked and overwhelmed by the basic and unavoidable need to breathe.

Let an easy, deep breath fall into you now, and sense how much of the body moves and responds as the air bathes us internally. A profound breath can

be felt from the top of the skull to the ends of the toes. We can massage

22

volume 3 | issue 4

all the vital organs of our body by simply letting relaxed breaths drop in and out. How amazing.

Breathing is also a constant, moment-by-moment affir-

mation that “the universe works.” Every breath verifies

fundamental “laws” of physics. The body moves its parts

in certain ways, so as to create a partial internal vacuum.

The universe responds with a flow of air into us. The body then creates a partial “high pressure” zone. The universe

responds with a flow of air out of us. While this is going on,

ferent depth, in sorrow, in anger, in joy, in fear. And the

link is incredibly strong. Anyone who finds themselves “tearing up,” and tries to hold back the tears by holding

breath, knows how useless the attempt is; the tears, and the need to cry, only become more insistent. In fact, the

way to “combat” the crying response is to let the breath flow, and let the tears come. We can re-assert control only

by giving in to the breathing and feeling impulses that are at the core of our being.

various quantifiable chemical and biological changes and

So strong is the link between breathing and feeling that

scientists could measure and verify the flows and changes

emotions. Every actor knows that, unfortunately, emo-

exchanges are occurring. For any particular (human) body, with minute exactitude. With each breath, we move the

cosmos, and the cosmos moves us. Moment by moment, breathing is our most direct and immediate and unrelenting interaction with the universal whole.

Yet, as a basic life process, breathing is also unique, because it is partially subject to conscious control. We may not know precisely how to make ourselves breathe, but we can control, within limits the body sets, the rate, the

depth, and the specific form (through the nose, through the mouth) of the inspiration-expiration sequence, in a way we simply cannot do with other functions. I cannot

consciously slow down my heart rate—except by controlling my breathing! I cannot consciously think my body

into digesting—or egesting—slower or faster. But I can decide to pant. I can take slow, deep breaths, and count

them, and make the rhythm regular. Almost all meditation starts with “breath control.” And if we do exercise such conscious control, we can start to see the world differently. What is unconscious and automatic in our mental

life can become conscious, and available for examination.

breath can, in fact, be used to generate and manipulate

tions cannot be summoned up at will. We cannot decide

to feel angry, and become so. But anger is linked to breath, and we can consciously alter breathing patterns. If we

replicate the pattern of “angry” breathing, very often something physically and emotionally similar to anger will be generated, and that feeling will result in many of the physical, psychological and vocal changes that anger “spontaneously” creates.

Again, meditation recognizes and uses the links between thought, feeling and breathing.

When we make our breathing slow and regular, focus on

the inhalations or exhalations, and then count the breaths, we do not do so simply to give ourselves something to do while sitting in an unusual and initially uncomfortable position. The slow, regular breathing pattern can create

an emotional state in which thoughts are calmed, desire

is muted, and patterns can be observed in a kind of “objective” serenity. Tranquil breath, calmed feelings, resting mind, muted desires.

It is precisely at this juncture between the uncontrollable

“I think, therefore I am,” is not a fundamental precept.

itation—consciousness raising, “pure” awareness—really

therefore I am.” For without breath, there can be no “I” to

flow, and the manipulation and perception of it, that medbegins to have effects on our whole being.

Our breath is also fascinating because of its links, whether by cause or effect—probably both—to emotions. An out-

side stimulus generates an emotional response, and with

that response comes an automatic change in breathing.

We breathe differently—at a different rate, and to a dif-

How much more vitally true it is to declare, “I breathe, be aware of “am.”

A breath. A wonder.

Millions of them make a life.

Just let them happen.

23

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

contributors

veronica ephgrave, a writer of very little brain, is a child in

douglas abel is a writer, actor, director, voice and speech

that really is. She has been published locally and is plagued

teacher, and novice digital documentary maker. He enjoys

with the finer details of college life. Of late, she has found

breathing a great deal.

solace in the grace of God and a pinch of jazz.

larissa betts was born in New Brunswick and raised in New-

jane jacques has lived in Fort McMurray since 1989. She

foundland. In Fort McMurray since 2008, Larissa is a stay at

spends her time teaching people to write and learning to do

home mom of a two- year-old and has been happily married

so herself.

for almost ten years.

the body of a legal adult, seeking to understand life and what

eileen lucas says, “ I was born and raised in St. George's, New-

sheldon betts loves his job as a Social Studies, Psychology

foundland. I love nature, writing stories, making aboriginal

and English teacher at Westwood Community High School.

crafts, and spending time with my family. I have an awesome

He and his wonderful wife Larissa have called Fort McMurray

husband Gregory, two grown children and five grandchildren.”

home since 2008.

adrienne norris has resided all across Canada in a variety

With a background in print journalism, dawn booth has

of cities, and communities, and has enjoyed working in an

been actively involved in the Wood Buffalo media commu-

assortment of occupations. Outside of teaching and writing,

nity since she moved to Fort McMurray in 2007 from the

she enjoys off-the-grid experiences in other countries, and

Ottawa Valley. Known for her past work as editor at the Fort

had covered most of the globe in her travels. It is only recently

McMurray Today and general manager of snapd Wood Buf-

that she has pursued publication of her work, and she is plan-

falo, as well as her current work as editor of the Connect,

ning soon to become a full-time writer.

Dawn loves calling Northern Alberta home. She is happily raising a family with her husband, who’s a life-long resident of Fort McMurray.

kevin thornton is a founder member of NorthWord. He is quite possibly the only person who has submitted something for every single issue, and is happy to note that he has been

kitty cochrane has lived in Fort McMurray for 25 years. She

published in less than half of them. He started writing at a

most often writes in those moments that are trying, won-

very young age for the fame and fortune. He is still waiting.

drous, confusing, challenging or hopeful.

theresa wells is a communications and media relations pro-

alyssa cooper is a Canadian author, poet, and artist, cur-

fessional who believes the written word has the power to

rently living in Kingston, Ontario with her partner, two cats,

inspire, compel and change lives. In addition to authoring the

and a Boston Terrier. She was first published in 2008, and has

“McMurray Musings” blog for over 6 years, she also contrib-

since authored three novels, a short story collection, and a

utes freelance work to several local publications. She always

poetry collection, as well as having had her short stories and

has time to listen to a good story, cuddle a stray cat or admire

poetry included in a number of magazines and journals, both

a pair of fabulous shoes.

Canadian and International. She is currently working on her fourth novel, titled Twisted, and her second poetry collection, titled Fevered Ramblings.

Emily Carr College of Art and Design graduate, liana wheeldon, has been living in Fort McMurray, AB since 2009.

Liana’s work is very influenced by her experiences traveling

natalie d’souza is currently studying botany in Calgary, but

and popular culture. She works primarily in drawing, paint-

calls Fort McMurray home. She is fond of dreadful puns and

ing and mixed media. Since coming to Fort McMurray, Liana

enjoys referring to herself in the third person. Natalie draws

has been very active in the arts community volunteering

a lot of her inspiration from nature and has taken a strong

for a large variety of art events including YMM Art Fest and

lichen to writing by the river.

Alberta Cultural Days. She also teaches art to adults, children and youth.

24

Brioche Breakfast

Artisanal Cheese & Charcuterie Plate

Meatball Panini

Veggie Wrap

call for submissions NorthWord Volume 3, Issue 5 northern canada

collective society for writers statement of purpose: To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.

deadline March 30, 2017 theme Dystopia

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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