Summer 2020 EZINE, Issue 75

2020 WRITE ON! CONTEST WINNERS $150 first prize $100 second prize $75 third prize Congratulations to all our winners! Thank you to everyone who submitted!

POETRY WINNERS (Poetry Judge: MEG STAINSBY) Poetry First Place: SUSAN McCASLIN – PERSEPHONE’S NOOK Poetry Second Place: Angela Rebrec – And their works shall follow (for Ellen Whatley) Poetry Third Place: Angela Kenyon – Traffic Poetry Honourable Mentions Barbara Carter – life after death H.C. Phillips – Rebellion in the Night Alan Girling – Lasagna

NON-FICTION WINNERS (Non-Fiction Judge: BRYANT ROSS) Non-Fiction First Place: KARIN HEDETNIEMI – THE TAIL OF A COMET Non-Fiction Second Place: Pete Crutchfield – Heartbreak Journal Non-Fiction Third Place: Jennifer M. Smith – The Jackknife Non-Fiction Honourable Mentions Leesa Hanna – Father’s Day Shopping Spree Janaya Fuller Evans – Walking Naked Alexander Hamilton-Brown – On My Way

FICTION WINNERS (Fiction Judge: DONNA TERRILL) Fiction First Place: V.J. HAMILTON – OUT OF WAWA Fiction Second Place: V.J. Hamilton – The Red Ukulele Fiction Third Place: Trish Gauntlett – The Cross Bones Gate Fiction Honourable Mentions Lynley Lewis – Extra Sugar in Your Chai Alvin Ens – Respect Doris Riedweg – Time to Go

8th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2020 Fiction Winners & Honourable Mentions

8th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2020 First Place Winner Fiction

OUT OF WAWA © V.J. Hamilton A man called out the window of his half-ton truck to the teenager at the side of the road: “Need a ride, son?”

Lachlan, who lately felt like no-one’s son, clutched the cardboard sign in one hand and his knapsack in the other. “Yessir. Toronto, if you’re going that far.” The Ford half-ton had a mirror-like shine, like it had just emerged from the spray-wash, deluxe wax option.

“Get on board, then,” the man said. His eyes nearly disappeared in the flesh of his smile. He nodded toward the knapsack. “Better put that in the back.”

Lachlan, hungry and light-headed, pretended not to hear and began nudging his pack into the truck’s cab. The passenger’s side floor was clean and commodious, certainly large enough for his feet and belongings.

But no. The man pointed at the worn, over-stuffed knapsack like it was radioactive. “That goes in the back.”

Lachlan hesitated. The knapsack contained the waterproof dossier that held his script, notes, diagrams, and a good-luck charm from Ellie. He glanced in the back of the half-ton: a toolbox, folded tarp, shovel, tire-iron, and two bales of hay. Everything, even the bales, looked tidy, like they were props in a photo shoot. He shrugged and complied.

“Been out there long?” asked the man as the truck roared into gear and Lachlan settled in his seat, inhaling the piny scent.

“Since sunrise.” Lachlan took in the clean jeans, the lumberjack shirt, and well-shined boots of the driver. His fingers looked like perfect pink sausages on the steering wheel.

The man whistled. “Sunrise, wow.”

“Must’ve been ten guys ahead of me,” said Lachlan. “So I guess I’m doing okay.” The truck’s interior was unnaturally un-dusty, as if the man had driven it out of a show room. Relief—not just to get a ride, but to get such a clean ride, with a guy happy to pick him up— flooded Lachlan’s chest.

“A boy could get bad sunburn.”

“Sunburn I can handle,” Lachlan said. “It’s the frostbite I’m worried about.”

The man laughed. “Sounds like you’re on a long trip.”

“No. Just to Toronto. My grandfather’s there.”

“He’s waiting for you, is he?”

And then, at this next point, Lachlan did something uncharacteristic: he lied. “Yeah. He expects me before sundown.”

“Oh.” They drove a while in silence. Lachlan’s mind was on his script, a pilot for a sitcom about a circus family living under the witness protection program.

“Do you hitch-hike often?” asked the man.

Lachlan paused. “I’d rather take a bus. But things are … well, complicated.” Shut up, he told himself. Don’t get into that. “I mean, I lost my ticket.” He rubbed the pimples on his jaw. “How about you?

Do you pick up hitch-hikers often?”

The man pursed his lips. “Whenever I want company.”

“Oh.” The word ‘company’ unnerved Lachlan, who now felt compelled to keep up the conversation. “So… pretty fine weather, eh?”

“Please. Weather bores me to tears. I’m no farmer.”

Lachlan laughed. “Yeah, me too. I just—well, conversation.”

“I’m no farmer,” the man said. “I hate farming!”

“Me too. Bo-ring!” Lachlan thought of his script, the zany antics of the circus family trying to live in a wasteland of Monopoly-houses. His pals Ellie and Mike had laughed themselves silly. “Well, what shows do you watch?”

“Shows?” the man frowned at him. “You mean, television?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing. Well, news,” the man said. A long pause ensued while Lachlan tried to think of recent news events.

“You a schoolboy?” The man said the word with a pleasurable grunt.

“Yeah.” Best to keep it simple, not get into the truancy, the souldestroying charade of geography and algebra. Lachlan had no interest in anything apart from media studies, taught by his hero Mr. Dobbs, and his class project that had blossomed into the circus family pilot. Ellie, Mike, and a dozen grade elevens were already pestering Lachlan for a part. He’d start off small, some web-isodes, recorded live single-take.

“How about you,” said Lachlan, wrenching himself back to conversational mode. “What’s your line of work?” Hey, maybe he could find some background… for a supporting character: Mr. Neatly.

The man smirked. “This and that.”

Lachlan couldn’t think what else to say next. The man sighed and clicked on the radio.

Lachlan expected to be put out at the side of the road any minute, like a bag of refuse. Never mind; he began to flesh out Mr. Neatly, a composite character of this guy driving, the school guidance counsellor, and the assistant produce manager at the Wawa ShopN-Save—super tidy guys, vigilant about something that others were not even aware of. Like being Louis Pasteur and knowing about germs—when no-one else knew about them.

After some minutes the truck turned off the main highway. “Stopping for gas?” Lachlan asked.

“Yeh. Gas. That’s it. We’re stopping for gas.”

Lachlan looked up and down the road for a gas station. He thought of all the plastic signs they’d passed leaving Wawa. Motel, Convenience, Gas. Lachlan could see the needle was on ‘F’—for full.

The man caught Lachlan looking. “Never mind the fuel gauge,” he said, “It’s broken.”

Lachlan felt his scalp prickle. Turning off the main road. He tensed his arms. He couldn’t move nearer to the door on his side of the truckcab without calling attention to himself. Nor could he jump out the door; they were travelling fast.

On the secondary road, the traffic was now downright sparse, maybe one vehicle every ten minutes. “I hope we find gas soon. I really have to get to Gramps,” said Lachlan. “He’s been waiting all day for me.” He forced out a laugh with the next words: “If I don’t show up, he’ll send out a search party.” It was the best way he could say: anyone who messes with me will have to bear the consequences.

“Some people think… something for nothing,” the man said.

“No, not me!” Lachlan said. He could feel the thickness of the wallet in his back pocket.

“What’s a fair price for this ride?” the man asked, turning off the secondary highway onto a gravel road. Bumps and noise, now.

Lachlan saw forest on one side, and trees and scrub grass on the other. The scrub grassland side had fencing, but where were the cows?

“Look, I’ll chip in for gas.” Lachlan said. “I’ll uh need to get my…” He motioned toward the back.

“Sure. When we stop.” The man grinned.

“Can I get out now?”

“Just wait.”

“I need to get out now. I don’t wanna throw up in here.” Lachlan made a hawking sound, covered his mouth with one hand, and pawed at the door with the other.

“Chrissake, can’t you hold it?”

“I’m gonna—I’m—.” Lachlan began retching.

The truck ground to a stop, gravel spraying. Lachlan yanked the door handle open. He swung onto the running board, holding the side of the truck box, pawing about for his knapsack. The man leapt out of the truck, snarling profanities from his red and glistening mouth.

Lachlan jumped from running board to hard earth. The man moved at terrifying speed to the spot where Lachlan had just been. Lachlan paused, as if expecting the man to pull out the knapsack and toss it out. The two-second pause—irrationally waiting for his knapsack, ohgodohgod the script—ended with a shriek when he saw what the man had in fact picked up.

The tire-iron.

Lachlan’s heart, a lump of writhing muscle, leapt into his mouth. He took off at a hellish run. Through squinting eyes, he saw no more of the man—only bushes and branches that tore at him. He heard the truck door slam and the engine rev. As he ran off-road, into the ditch and out, his legs pumping relentlessly, he heard the four-wheel-drive truck draw closer and closer.

Quick, which way: among the forest trees or inside the fence? The fence would offer temporary protection, but he’d have to slow down to climb through. The forest was more familiar. He ran and stumbled among the trees.

The truck engine heaved and rumbled, sometimes louder, sometimes softer, like it was chewing all things hard and soft in the landscape, all around the teen, until it could gobble him up, too.

Lachlan tripped on a tree root and his teeth clicked hard when his chin made impact with the ground. His ears filled with the crashing of his movement. And his hammering heart. His breath was jagged and raw. His mouth tasted of blood. He struggled to control his gasping and retching.

Listen. He had to listen.

A sound of the motor‌ a sound like a truculent bee floated on the air. There. Faint, and growing fainter. Soon he heard it no more.

Lachlan lay there, blinking his eyes. Mr. Dobbs had mentioned this once. Something about supporting characters who take over the show.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright V.J. Hamilton

8th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2020 Second Place Winner Fiction

THE RED UKULELE © V.J. Hamilton

A fug of disinfectant, old dentures, and steamed cauliflower hit me as I entered the long-term care facility. I’d planned to drop by and say hi to my great-grandfather Niall but was already having second thoughts. A harried-looking nurse glanced up from behind the counter and replied to my question, “His room’s 109.”

But no, it was in the big open sunroom that I found Gigi, a prince disguised among the geezers and grannies. Like all my cousins, I called him Gigi, as in GG, short for great-grandfather. He looked just as I’d known him since my childhood: a wiry guy with a big broad forehead and Buddy Holly glasses. His bushy eyebrows perched above the frames like two outspread wings. The lenses magnified his shining eyes to alarming proportions.

Across from him was someone I’d never seen before, a potato of a woman, all light-brown roundness and dimples. This must be Lucy, the one Mom and her sisters had warned me about. They hadn’t mentioned the laughing eyes, the flamboyant dress, the cozy chortle as she leaned into Gigi. Unlike the other women in the sunroom, her hair was more black than grey. And she had a red ukulele in her walker basket.

They were deep in conversation. Around them: shuffleboard, Scrabble, and thousand-piece cardboard jigsaws. A few slowpokes paused in their therapeutic perambulations to glare at me. Three TV screens flashed cooking – cars – bowling. A few dotards watched, open-mouthed. But not my Gigi.

Looking at this sleepy mob, you’d never guess what a hassle it had been for my family to get Gigi into this Long-Term Care Facility. A six-year waitlist! After a bad fall, he had agreed to “assisted living.” When a spot

had unexpectedly opened up, Mom and her sisters had packed his overnight bag and dropped him off the next day. They spent the rest of the year sorting and clearing out the 65-year accretion of family stuff at The Grange.

“Hey, Gigi.” I stood at his card table and watched the smile break out over his face, radiant sun after a storm.

“My granddaughter,” he boomed, causing heads to turn. I’m sure Gigi did this from vanity: passing himself off as my grandfather instead of greatgrandfather. Mom would have corrected him, but I never did. I figure, at nearly 90, he’s entitled to any scrap of vanity he has maintained.

He half-rose and we hugged. He felt lighter, more angular, like a balsawood plane in a shirt. He motioned to me to sit.

“Off to university,” he said to Lucy, who looked me over, neutrally, her smile neither fading nor deepening. With Gigi I was permanently “off to university.” In fact, I was now working as a web forum moderator and living in a polyamorous collective in downtown Toronto—but good luck explaining this back home. I set my case, heavy with its cargo, on the floor next to my chair.

On reseating, I saw Gigi take hold of Lucy’s hand. He wanted to marry Lucy; I’d been filled in on “all the nonsense” by Mom and her sisters during my visit. The thing is, to get a marriage license you need two pieces of government-issued ID. Gigi hadn’t held a valid passport or driver’s licence for over a decade. He couldn’t find his birth certificate, or honorable discharge papers from military service. “We looked and looked,” Mom had said. “Maybe it was for the best, what with gold-diggers afoot.”

“My last day on the cape until Christmas,” I said loudly to Gigi. My conversation opener was, in a way, the start of saying good-bye.

“Christmas! We were just talking about that,” he shouted, beaming at Lucy. “Carolling. Maybe a concert.” Again, heads turned toward us.

“We need to learn new songs,” Lucy said, patting his arm.

“Songs? We’ve got songs!” Gigi insisted we go to his room. The LTCF had a peculiar policy about music-making by residents. The TVs could blather away, but musicians were only allowed to play in their rooms.

We three trekked down the long linoleum hallway to Room 109. From the back I admired Gigi’s new threads. Gone were the button-up white cotton-poly shirts he used to wear. Instead, he sported a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt and cropped cargo pants that flapped against his spaghetti legs. From the back I also admired Lucy’s beads, perfectly matched to the colors of her capacious skirt. “I keep this walker just for balance,” she said breezily as she executed an ice-dancer’s turn into his room.

Gigi pushed aside some paperwork on a table. “Your mother… things gone astray... wipe out my existence,” he muttered.

“What?” I said.

“Don’t stress, Niall.” Lucy clucked sympathetically. “Point is, we are together.” He brushed his bad mood away and I plopped my fiddle case down on his bed. She picked up the red ukulele and strummed through the chords of a song I couldn’t quite place until she started to sing Bob Marley’s “One Love.” Her voice was low, breathy, and pleasant. She sometimes loused up a chord. But hey, it was a uke, the most forgiving of all instruments. Gigi and I sang along, too. It’s a song you can’t not sing along to.

“Hey. Git out yer axe,” he said, grinning, pointing at my case.

I unpacked my fiddle and tightened the bow. He watched me intently, hungrily. He’d been a championship fiddler in his day and I felt nervous, like a real duffer as I tuned to the red uke.

Lucy went to his closet, got out a blue uke, and handed it to him. Arthritis had frozen his left fist into a cluster of knuckles, a permanent position, say, of a G major chord. He could strum only that chord or play open string.

But he played.

We fell into a meditative Taizé-like version of “One Love.” My fingers played the melody while my mind unhooked itself and roamed. He doesn’t belong here! Not my Gigi. But, no. Falls. Personal care issues. And Mom’s got such a small place. I’m here just a few days. Who the hell am I to start sticking my nose in?

I recalled Gigi’s sandpaper jaw beside mine twenty years ago when he taught me the fiddle. I remembered his warm hand over mine as he’d gently repositioned my fingers. This guy always had a hug for me. A hug smelling of fried fish and onions. Sometimes, at house parties, the hug held a whiff of tobacco or whiskey too. Mom said when I was a baby, I used to fall asleep, “nestled in the crook of his arm.” And it was Gigi’s shoulder I’d leaned on at Dad’s funeral.

Eventually we wound down. Croaky voices, or, in my case, lump in throat.

I saw Lucy and Niall exchange a look of sweet amity. It was such a look, my heavens! I had to look away.

Just then an attendant knocked at the door: “Last call for lunch in cafeteria.”

“Oh Lord, how’d we miss first call?” Lucy said. She gave me a wink.

“I better get a move on,” I said, loosening my fiddle bow to pack it.

“Rudolph, Frosty—get them two ready for December!” Gigi hollered.

Lucy clapped her hands. “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire!”

“For sure,” I said. I unzipped the side compartment, the one where I’d stashed the manila folder—the one that had been lying in Mom’s filing cabinet all along. “Here,” I said, handing it to Gigi. “You might be interested in these documents.”

“What? What?” he said. He turned to Lucy. “What’s she talking about?”

I packed my fiddle away. “See you in December. Or maybe I’ll play at your wedding before.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright V.J. Hamilton

8th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2020 Third Place Winner Fiction

THE CROSS BONES GATE © Trish Gauntlett

In the old plague church hidden away behind the Tower of London we arrange ourselves into musical sections. Soprano, alto, descant, remnants of a long-ago school choir. Fitting our backs against the high, hard pews, we risk a glance at the women beside us. Who are you? Who were you then, when we were young? Do you remember me?

The music calls us to attention and we sing, sending our voices against the stone and glass, around the effigies of clerics and crusaders, into the sacred air. How can it be that we sound the same as we did then? After fifty years and worlds unraveled, we sound like schoolgirls, light, young and sweet. We sing our best for our ancient beloved teacher, as if she can hear us still. We soothe her soul with music and send her on her way. Peace at last. At last.

Afterwards, in the awkward balance of tea and conversation, we explore the past, gently disturbing the surface and moving on quickly in case we are revealed, discovered, exposed for all we have not become in fifty years. Who were you, when we were young? Head Girl, Prefect, favourite, troublemaker? Who are you now?

And then we walk - my friend, my dear old friend and I, towards the Tower of London. She knows the city’s ancient secret places and tells me stories as we walk, until I feel the ghosts around us. When she isn’t looking I glance behind. But there is nothing. Of course there is nothing. We walk across the bridge and into Southwark. The tide is high and the Thames has risen above the shards of pots and glass tossed into it for two thousand years, from the time of the Roman city. Arm in arm we walk, long skirts swirling in the summer dust,

talking in low, intimate voices. School days, children and men, England and Canada, old friends and new, homecoming and loss.

Do you remember?

It is unsettling, the bubble of solitude Londoners spin around themselves. On the street, eyes straight ahead. On the train, eyes down. I try to pierce it with my easy North American smile. Who are you? But it's impenetrable and I sink slowly back into the same refuge of anonymity.

Past the Borough Market, under the bridge that carries trains from Blackfriars to Charing Cross we find a flower shop, a tiny cave filled with the scent of roses and laurel. The roses are beautiful, with wide, woody stems and invincible thorns. White for purity and girlhood, red for love and courage, yellow for joy and friendship. We could take an armful to commemorate this day. But we are not here for that. We choose one rose, dark pink with yellow petal tips. Pink for sympathy and gentleness. Yellow for remembrance. One strong and perfect rose for the women we are going to see. Remember me.

We slow our pace, away from the urgency of busy Southwark streets.

Turning into Redcross Way we find ourselves alone. The emptiness and silence of the street distracts me. I look at the old sign, cracked and weathered, from the London Underground. The entrance is bricked up, holding back a surge of human disarray.

There are no echoes here of the sound and stress of the twenty-first century.

Then, with the smallest pressure of her arm in mine, she turns me and we are there. Unprepared, I see only what is right in front of me in a small, sharply focused field of vision. The Cross Bones Gate. The wrought iron stakes spill away tall and wide, covered in a tangle of ribbons, scraps of paper, toys, trinkets and flowers, whispers of grief reaching back eight hundred years to the women and children who lie here in this unhallowed earth.

It is unthinkably, impossibly small, this medieval graveyard, but here lie thousands of souls and among them the prostitutes, the

Winchester Geese. Lured from the countryside by the promise of work and a better future, they were trapped here, in this notorious place of brothels, pits and prisons, placed outside the law of London by the Bishop of Winchester so that he could grow rich and fat from their misery. We are overwhelmed by the cruelty of their time and fortune; women in fifteenth century England, destitute, desperate.

We stare at the rubble beyond the gate. No peaceful, dreaming, mossy cemetery this.

Dead of disease, poverty, exploitation, shame, above them there is only unmarked, unkempt, broken ground. They were of no consequence, nothing more than chattels to be used, broken and thrown away. Thrown here, beneath the Cross Bones Gate.

We will never know their names. For them, eight centuries too late, the notes, the ribbons, the roses, the poems. And for their babies who sleep here too, the toys, the tears.

We tie our rose gently to the wrought iron gatepost and bow our heads, more in pain than in prayer. Lost in grief. Reaching for them.

Across eight hundred years of indifference and neglect you struggle to the surface, reaching back to me, your thin arms straining against the bars of the Gate, hand grasping at air. I recoil, the silly, conjured romanticism of the rose falling away. This sudden rational ghost destroys my self- indulgence in the melancholy of the place.

Don't touch me. Don't ask me to seek the parallels in my own time. I want the shield of history between us, the long, cold view, the oblique lens. I want you to stay in the past.

And you, betrayed again, destroyed, discarded, lost, dissolving into earth, send out one final empty prayer. Remember me.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ copyright Trish Gauntlett

8th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2020 Honourable Mention Fiction

EXTRA SUGAR IN YOUR CHAI © Lynley Lewis

Saraswati shrieked aloud in agony but there was no one to hear her except her mother-in-law, Nirmal-Bai. Unperturbed, Nirmal-Bai continued frying delectable golden puris in the scalding hot oil she had casually and deliberately splashed on Saraswati’s bare forearm with her spatula.

Saraswati fled the kitchen, a rather grandiose name for the corner of the one-roomed shack shared with her husband and mother-in-law. She whimpered silently as she bandaged her hand with a wet rag. The oil burn was payback for serving Nirmal-Bai lukewarm chai that morning, even though it was Nirmal-Bai’s own distraction that had kept her from drinking her chai the moment it was given to her. Saraswati couldn’t even visit her own mother for help or comfort though the latter lived less than a seven-minute walk from Saraswati’s shack in the slum. Nirmal-Bai kept a tight rein on Saraswati’s movements. She banned Saraswati from working for a construction company carrying baskets of bricks on her head where she had worked since the age of ten despite the loss of income for the family.

Saraswati was barely eighteen when she married Nirmal's son, Krishna, a handsome twenty-three-year-old from her slum.

They lived in the Lohiyanagar Slum which was one of the biggest slums in Poona alongside an affluent neighbourhood.

India's burgeoning population lived in incongruous and parallel planes of existence, the two markedly different worlds of slum dwellers and ordinary folk interacting in a purely hierarchical structure of employer and labourer.

Saraswati had endured a constant barrage of abuse from her mother-inlaw ever since her marriage to Krishna six months earlier. Her mother had worked hard to provide Saraswati with a dowry consisting of some paltry

gold ornaments, saris and the pièce de résistance of her dowry, a small, albeit used, bar fridge gifted to her by her employers. It was the talk of the bustee when Krishna brought it to their hovel and Nirmal-Bai was very proud of their fridge until the day it spluttered to a standstill. Consequently, Nirmal-Bai’s demands grew in intensity, but unfortunately, Saraswati’s widowed mother was unable to provide any more gifts for her daughter’s avaricious mother-in-law. Her unpleasantness had escalated into a daily litany of fault finding. Nothing Saraswati did was ever good enough for Nirmal-Bai. After a while, the verbal abuse was accompanied by bonejarring slaps and yanking of Saraswati’s luxurious black plaited hair when Krishna wasn’t around to witness the assaults. Saraswati was powerless to stop her abuser and silently endured the battering. Krishna was aware of some tension between the two women but was ignorant of the full extent of Sariswati’s predicament.

Saraswati silently returned to the kitchen with reddened eyes. Nirmal-Bai unsympathetically jerked her head towards the abandoned puris Saraswati had been rolling out a few moments earlier. Saraswati worked diligently to roll the dough into perfectly formed and evenly sized discs destined for the hot oil but kept a wary eye on her unpredictable motherin-law.

Later, she sullenly watched Nirmal-Bai take her afternoon nap in the oppressive heat and wondered how long she could endure the torturous life NIrmal-Bai had inflicted on her. She recalled all her friends’ horror stories about mothers-in-law and their cruel nature. Saraswati was not unaccustomed to hard times. Growing up, she had endured grim years during the time of partition when the British left India. She had witnessed a lot of communal violence and, despite being only seven years old at the time, remembered the nationwide bloodbath that had plagued her with night terrors. Slum dwellers and middle-class families alike were not immune to the savage attacks on Muslims and Hindus. Her mother had protected her as best as she could when Saraswati was a child but was powerless now that Saraswati had moved into her husband’s house.

Nirmal-Bai had turned out to be a never-ending nightmare.

When Nirmal-Bai awoke, she sent Saraswati to the market to buy some spinach and intended to cook some rice for their evening meal while Saraswati was shopping. Saraswati stepped gingerly outside into the glare of the dwindling sun. The slum dwellers were used to the stench that emanated from the piles of rotting garbage. They apprehensively navigated the vermin infested gullies in the dark for fear of stepping into something distasteful. Saraswati dared not take any detours past her mother’s house, dreading Nirmal-Bai’s wrath if she returned home late.

She purchased the spinach and returned home walking briskly.

She found Nirmal-Bai standing frozen near the door shaking violently, her back to Saraswati. She called out to Nirmal-Bai but got no response. As Saraswati drew nearer, she noticed the back of Nirmal-Bai’s sari blouse drenched in perspiration. More sweat dripped down her neck and face.

Nirmal-Bai’s eyes were riveted to the kitchen and her mouth was frozen in an almost comical o-shape. Saraswati followed Nirmal-Bai’s gaze and found herself looking at the furry face of a large black rat as it peered over the edge of the rice bin. She decisively pushed Nirmal-Bai aside as she grabbed a nearby pan and a lid. She scooped the foot-long bandicoot in the pot and slammed the lid down. Then gathering a rolling pin in her hand, she stepped outside the shack where the rat met its unfortunate destiny with the rolling pin. Then she washed the utensils and returned to the shack.

Nirmal-Bai had sunk to the floor trembling in abject terror. She was mortally afraid of rodents having experienced a vicious attack when she was a child. A rat had climbed over her face while she was asleep one night and she brushed it aside only to be bitten on her cheek. She didn’t sleep for several weeks after that incident and would literally freeze in terror at the sight of a rodent, her pulse accelerated, her breathing rapid.

She was petrified of walking through the slum in the dark because she might encounter bandicoots. The mere mention of their presence was enough to encase her limbs in an iron grip and she would break out into a cold sweat.

Saraswati almost felt a wave of compassion for her but quelled the feeling. She could not forgive Nirmal-Bai for her escalating cruelty, meting out harsh punishments with regular monotony. She hated her with a vehemence that shocked her with its intensity. She knelt on the floor facing Nirmal-Bai.

“It’s dead, Ma-ji,” Saraswati said in a low voice.

Nirmal-Bai slowly raised her eyes and instead of thanking Saraswati, leaned forward and cuffed her hard, drawing blood from Saraswati’s lower lip. “Why did you not close the rice lid properly yesterday,” she screeched at Saraswati, knowing fully well that Saraswati had not cooked the rice the previous day.

Something in Saraswati suddenly seemed to snap. The months of vicious tyranny had taken its toll on her emotions. Her enduring subservience and complicity in accepting her mother-in-law’s behaviour had reached its tipping point. She knew she could no longer endure any more abuse.

She rose to her feet and stood over Nirmal-Bai.

“Ma-ji,” she hissed. “You should be thankful that I was there to kill the rat.

What would you have done if I was not home,” she spat out. She stepped thoughtfully towards the rice bin. “These rats creep in through every crevice. You never know where you’re going to find one.” She smiled slyly as she wiped a stray speck of rodent blood off her wrist. “Today it’s the rice bin; tomorrow it could be your bed,” she added ominously. She made an odd, chattering sound, mimicking a rat as she glared balefully, slit-eyed, at Nirmal-Bai.

Nirmal-Bai’s face visibly collapsed as she absorbed Saraswati’s thinly veiled threat and she slumped back to the floor staring at Saraswati in shock. Saraswati turned abruptly and left the shack to take a much needed uneven breath, dumbfounded at her boldness. She crowed silently over her unexpected victory.

That evening, after their spinach curry and rice dinner, Saraswati handed Krishna his chai while he listened to the radio news. She then handed Nirmal-Bai her cup.

“Ma-ji, I put extra sugar just the way you like it,” she said saccharinely.

Nirmal-Bai took her cup, and by force of habit, complained, “You put less salt in the spinach curry.”

Saraswati turned to fetch her own cup of chai. “Did I,” she answered demurely. As she turned away, she made a high-pitched chattering noise very softly. Nirmal-Bai’s expression changed. Her hands trembled as sweat broke out on her brow and the words she had planned to say next got stuck in her throat. Instead she stammered, “I’ve heard less salt is better for your health, so it was probably a good thing.”

Later that night, Krishna whispered softly to Saraswati in the dark.

“Ma-ji didn’t shout at you at all today. What’s come over her,” he asked, caressing her silken tresses.

Saraswati smiled to herself in the dark. “I think I’ve finally found a way to get through to her,” she said simply.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright Lynley Lewis

8th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2020 Honourable Mention Fiction

RESPECT © Alvin Ens

“Santas everywhere,” my mother observed as we entered the mall.

“Do you remember the year when Santa lost his beard?”

“Have you no respect, boys?” asked Miss Hubert as Rudy and I tussled. We boys had developed the habit, or technique, of shooting out a foot to trip anyone who came by us. I had attempted to trip Rudy, who had stumbled but gone right on to the bathroom. When he returned, he punched my shoulder as he went by. I tripped him up from behind and he fell right there in the aisle. As he got up, his hand grabbed at my foot and tugged. I slid off my seat to the floor with Rudy on top of me. Miss Hubert heard the commotion and came to separate us.

Rudy had crossed the invisible line of not getting caught, of tripping only when Miss Hubert’s back was turned, of suffering in silence lest she see or hear. Rudy had brought punishment upon me and I was bound to teach him better – to teach him respect. It became a byword for our little circle: “Have you no respect?”

That season, as we practised for our annual Christmas concert, we practised tripping as well when anyone came by. And the Christmas practice dictated a lot of coming and going. Especially when Miss Hubert’s back was turned, we tripped each other, suffered in silence, and looked for an opportunity for revenge. All went on

outside the purvey of Miss Hubert, but now with a mouthed, “Have you no respect?”

That Christmas season Miss Hubert announced, “And I’ve invited Santa Claus to join us for the concert.”

“There is no Santa Claus,” I told all my friends on the playground. “My Mom said so last year. The Santa is really a dad dressed up.”

Jackie Jensen rallied the positive forces. “I saw him. I touched him.

And he was fat, just like the books show. None of our dads are that fat. He’s for real.”

Rudy, ever the skeptic, took a neutral stand, “I need to see for sure.”

“Miss Hubert has even talked to him.”

Who could argue with such knowledge? We had all been taught to respect our teacher.

“Okay, you guys,” I countered, “let’s watch this Christmas and find out for sure.”

Our rural school traditionally featured a Santa handing out goodie bags while the parents had cookies and coffee brought by the mothers.

Last year Santa had mispronounced my name, Edgar Schroeder, to be Edgar Shredder and all the kids had laughed. Some kids still called me Shredder or Shreddie. My mother had told me quietly afterwards when I cried out my hurt, that there really was no Santa but only some father who was dressed up in red. Did my mother know this or was she just soothing my pain?

This year I was going to find out for sure whether my mom or my teacher was right. This year I would find out whose dad was parading as Santa.

As the school filled for the concert, I scrutinized each man’s face and figure. Not my dad, he was short and wiry. Not Jackie’s dad, he was bald and beardless. Not even the stranger, he was tall and thin.

Johnny Berg’s dad was the roundest man there; he’d make the best Santa. I would watch for him.

All evening we watched for movement in the bleachers we had so hastily made of planks. All the dads we knew were still there. We got to our last song, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and still no Santa.

So we sat down in the front rows as we had been coached to, just as in burst a jolly: ”Ho, ho , ho” from a tall, skinny Santa who looked like no dad we had ever seen in our school district.

We whispered a consultation. “Guys,” said Jackie, “all our dads are here. So you see you were wrong. It is really Santa.”

“But I thought Santa was short and fat.”

“Too tall for any dad I know.”

“Look at his beard. Looks real to me.”

“No one of our dads has a beard like that.”

“Or white hair neither.”

“Ho, ho, ho,” he spoke again, “Have youse guys all been good this year?”

“Youse guys”? Miss Hubert forbade us to use “youse guys” even on the playground. Our eyes held a silent consultation.

We each got a personalized goodie bag and had little opportunity to check for authenticity but several of the girls gave him a hug and even a kiss.

Then Santa spoke again, “Ho, ho, ho. Santa has a gift for Miss Hubert.

Would Miss Hubert come and sit on Santa’s lap and give him a kiss?”

We witnessed the drama unfold – from the front to the back of the room and back to the front. Standing in the aisle at the back, Miss Hubert said some words which we children were never to say – even on the playground. She finished with, “Have you no respect?” She grabbed a broom from the foyer and strode up the aisle onto the platform. To our great disbelief, she swatted at him. He jumped down the steps and raced along in front of us.

Then he stumbled right in front of Rudy, his beard flew off and he was on his feet again heading for the back door. The whole audience cheered as we exulted from the front.

As we exited the schoolroom, I asked Rudy, “Have you no respect?”

That Christmas my mother told me that a local bachelor, Lou Armiski, had been sweet-talked by Miss Hubert into being our Santa. Rumour had it that he did it for the price of a kiss. That year I became fast friends with Rudy who, instead of having no respect, gained my respect. That Christmas I also learned to respect Miss Hubert in a whole new way.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright Alvin Ens

8th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2020 Honourable Mention Fiction

TIME TO GO © Doris Riedweg

The winter snows were past. Hardy little snowdrops waved their white heads in an early spring breeze; masses of the tiny harbingers of warmer days encircled the house and even greeted me from grassy slopes which would soon feel the shearing blades of a mower.

I stopped my aimless wandering in the yard and looked towards the fields that stretched into the tree line at the rear of the property. Robins danced along fence lines as crows watched intently to determine the exact spots where these red breasted songbirds would make their nests. The sweet tones of a chickadee at the nearby feeder echoed the joys known here on this farm, joys soon to be but memories.

It was time to go. I averted my eyes from the garden plot which had nourished our family through summer and autumn months for more than fifty years. I could not bear to look at it, to picture the agile woman I used to be – hoeing, weeding and harvesting its bounty. How would I survive without the life-sustaining freshness of its harvest? How could I live, separated from the gardens and fields, the livestock and wildlife that were as much a part of me as the home on which I had lavished so much care and love from the day I came here as a bride?

Tears filled my eyes and found their way along the creases in my cheeks. I shifted my cane to steady myself as I fumbled in the pocket of my sweater for a tissue with which to erase the tell-tale signs of weakness. They must not see my tears; they must not know that the pain was almost more than I could bear.

They told me I was doing the right thing, of course. Why wouldn’t they? They hadn’t worked in this garden; they hadn’t fed

the animals or driven the tractor over the fields, or welcomed tiny swallows back to their nests in the barns every spring.

Would anyone – could anyone – ever love this land as I had loved it? Yet someone else had.

Together we poured our hearts and souls into this soil, these fields, these fruit trees which now raised weather-beaten limbs above the house, limbs as old and unstable as the ones that now required the support of my walking cane. Together we nurtured the cows and their calves; the chickens and spring lambs. Together we poured the love we had hoped to give a family into the pets which brought us substitutive, yet so much joy.

Would memories be enough? When folks I was bound to meet in the new place told endless stories of children and grandchildren, would I respond with brooding silence, or would I recite my own stories about pets, livestock, picking fruit and gathering eggs? Would they think my life shallow and uninteresting? Did it really matter?

The back door banged shut. Time to go. They said they would give me a few minutes to walk around – not to say goodbye, I silently thanked them for that – but to store up the memories. A few minutes? Decades could not contain the memories with which I would leave this home.

A car door closed. It was time to go. They probably wanted to rush off to whatever middle-aged people rush off to these days. She appeared around the corner of the house. I looked up, expecting to see an impatient frown. But no, she was smiling – a little sadly, I noted with some surprise.

“Sorry to interrupt, Auntie, but they’re expecting us at the hom ... the residence before lunch. It’s time to go.”

I slowly made my way over the winter worn grass to the car where he waited with open door. Refusing his offer of help I climbed into the front seat, glancing neither to the right nor to the left. As the vehicle began to roll slowly towards the open gate I focused intently on the road ahead. I could not, dare not, look back.

Was this what death was like? Not walking off into the setting sun, as they would have us believe, carrying with you all the memories and love you had ever known, content and serene that life had been well lived. No, this was death – a stripping away of everything good and pleasing and satisfying; a rending of the soul that no other human being could comprehend.

The scream rose in my throat. Take me back ..... take me home ..... I can’t leave ..... they all need me.

Frightened and embarrassed, I glanced around. Thank God, I had not yelled out loud. I willed myself to relax as I settled back against the seat and took a deep breath. I had to get through this day with as much dignity as I could muster. My man used to tell me that my feelings were written all over my face. In that case, my face must have announced that my heart felt like a frigid stone in my chest. I turned my head to focus on the passing landscape; all I saw was the house, the land, the gardens that I would never call home again. ***** The ringing of the telephone rouses me. I push myself upright in my recliner and fumble on the end table for the offending instrument. Lifting the receiver, I mumble into the mouthpiece, “Hello?”

“Well. Auntie, I’ve finally got you.” She sounds slightly miffed.

“I’ve tried for two days – no answer. Where in the world have you been? We were worried.”

Yeah, right, I’ll bet you were. Now, now, don’t be unkind; they mean well.

Hoping I hadn’t spoken aloud in my befuddled state, I reply, “Sorry, dear, I’ve been busy. Lots going on. Yesterday was the bus trip to the mall; the day before ..... Oh dear, what time is it?”

“It’s two o’clock. Why? Are you going out again?” She still sounds irritated.

“No, not out, not today. But we have choir practice at two, and I’m not ready; I must have fallen asleep. The girls ..... well. I mean the ladies ..... will be knocking on my door.”

“Choir practice? I thought you said .....”

“Oh, I know. I said I couldn’t sing anymore, but well ..... you know, I was just out of practice. I used to sing all the time on the farm. Your uncle used to say I was a regular nightingale.” I can’t suppress a chuckle.

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard that before. Anyway, it’s no wonder you fell asleep, you must be exhausted. You’re going to wear yourself out, you know. Try to take it a little easier. We don’t need you ending up in hospital.”

“I’m all right, never felt better. and I .....” Oh, what’s the use?

I glance at my wrist watch. “I’ll call you soon, I promise. Sorry, dear, I have to hang up. It’s time to go.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright Doris Riedweg

2020 RCLAS Write On! Contest Fiction Winners & Honourable Mentions

V.J. Hamilton was born in Saskatchewan and has lived in Germany, Japan, and New Zealand. She currently calls Toronto home. Her work has been published in The Antigonish Review, The MacGuffin, and Penmen Review, among others, and has been nominated for the Journey Prize. She won the EVENT Speculative Fiction contest. She has hitch-hiked out of Wawa and loves to strum the ukulele—but not at the same time.

Trish Gauntlett was born in Liverpool, grew up in Africa and has been a North Vancouver resident and proud Canadian for more than fifty years. She's worked in communications and community development, writing and producing several video documentaries.

Trish has won awards for poetry and short fiction and is a member of the North Shore Writers Association.

Currently, she edits an annual international newsletter and supports a poverty reduction project in Rwanda, through work both in Canada and in Africa.

2020 RCLAS Write On! Contest Fiction Winners & Honourable Mentions

Lynley Lewis is an avid reader but his interest in writing began only recently. His interests span art, music and exercise. He enjoys stories from other cultures because they reveal so much of the unknown. It is through these revelations that one gains an understanding and insight. Lynley writes so that he may attain some understanding of the human psyche through the process. His hope is that the reader is able to relate to his world.

Alvin Ens writes poetry, family history, humour, creative non-fiction, and short fiction. A retired high school English teacher, he is a member of two local writing clubs and writes for secular and Christian publications. He is considered a writing mentor and editor and has helped many people to publish. He has self-published eleven books. Transplants from the Canadian prairies, he and his wife now live in Abbotsford, BC.

A former registered nurse, Doris Riedweg began a writing career in 1962. Since then she has published numerous articles and short stories in major newspapers and literary magazines throughout Canada. She is the author of four professionally published novels, and the editor and coauthor of the book, The Hospital on the Hill, a history of Langley Memorial Hospital, 1948 to 1998. Three of her short stories have won awards in literary contests in Ontario and British Columbia. Doris lives on the family farm in Langley with her husband John, and pampered cat, Barney.

2020 WRITE ON! CONTEST COMMENTS FROM OUR FICTION JUDGE DONNA TERRILL 2020 Fiction Contest Winners First Place: V.J. Hamilton – Out of Wawa Second Place: V.J. Hamilton – The Red Ukulele Third Place: Trish Gauntlett – The Cross Bones Gate 2020 Fiction Honourable Mentions Lynley Lewis – Extra Sugar in Your Chai Alvin Ens – Respect Doris Riedweg – Time to Go First Place Out of Wawa by V.J. Hamilton We meet Lachlan who is hitchhiking his way out of town and on to Toronto. We never discover what prompted his get-away but he alludes to feeling like ‘no man’s son’ and that things were ‘complicated’. His clever references speak to his questioning mind and his passion for script-writing has replaced the ‘soul-destroying charade of geography and algebra’. The writer presents him as creative (the script in his backpack that he has written features a circus family in a witness protection program), cautious (of the immaculate truck and driver that offers him a ride) and oozing of the enthusiasm and optimism of youth. In his imagination he even casts the driver as a supporting character in his script and calls him Mr. Neatley. The dialogue is believable and portrays the caution that Lachlan suspects is warranted. The day turns bad but his ingenuity and will to survive prevails. The writing is vivid, well-paced, very alive and nuanced.

Second Place The Red Ukulele by by V.J. Hamilton The first sentence pulls the reader into the story and doesn’t let go -- ”A fug of disinfectant, old dentures, and steamed cauliflower hit me as I entered the long-term care facility.” The writer tells of a young woman’s visit to her great-grandfather in a care home using unique and fresh descriptions. The visuals are exquisite, depicting his ‘special’ friend Lucy, as “a potato of a woman, light-brown roundness and dimpled”. The great grand-daughter’s love for ‘GiGi’ is palpable and there’s a heart-wrenching scene where she plays her fiddle to accompany the pair on their ukuleles. They play One Love by Bob Marley, a perfect fit. An underlying family conflict calls upon the young woman to make a brave choice that may threaten her ties with her mother but will honour the love she has for her GiGi.

Third Place The Cross Bones Gate by Trish Gauntlett The setting of a plague church near the Tower of London intrigues the reader right from the start. The main character is attending, along with her old church choir a memorial for a favourite past teacher. The description of the reception following the service captures that mix of curiosity and reluctance that reunions often hold. -- ‘After fifty years and worlds unraveled’… and moving on quickly in case we are revealed, discovered, exposed for all we have not become.’ The main character and her friend walk and reminisce, past the old city’s secret places and see the tide rising on the Thames, as the writer describes it -- ‘the Thames has risen above the shards of pots and glass tossed into it for two thousand years, from the time of the Roman city’. They finally stop at a flower shop to choose, with great discussion, a commemorative rose for their next destination, The Cross Bones Gate. It is the humble, unembellished graveyard for women known as Winchester Geese, prostitutes from 800 years ago. The gate has been decorated as a shrine with ribbons, letters and trinkets in the memory of these women. A rush of empathy overwhelms our character. The writing is graceful and delicate at times and at other times, intuitive and meticulous. It relays intriguing historic information against an eerie backdrop.

“I really enjoyed the process! Thanks so much!

– Donna Terrill

Donna Terrill divides her time between New Westminster and the Slocan Valley in the West Kootenays and enjoys the literary scenes in both communities. She has been a long time member of RCLAS, Ren Writers, Federation of BC Writers and a regular attendee at Vancouver Writers’ Festival, Lit Fest New West and Elephant Mountain Literary Festival in Nelson. She has a passion for reading and has been a member of the same book club for 16 years. Donna has currently completed her first draft of a novel and enjoys travel, cycling, kayaking, gardening and keeping track of eleven grandchildren.

Thank you to our judges!

Please watch for the winning Poetry and Non-Fiction entries to be published in our Fall Issues #76 and #77

The Wind (December, 2009) Š Kathy Figueroa

Carried on the wind And whispered by the breeze Is the story of Nicole Who went north to plant trees Twenty-five years old, an artist At the start of her career She came from Alberta From a place called, 'Red Deer' After labouring to keep The wilderness green She decided to visit her sister In Smithers, on Highway 16 With places to go And people to see Sometimes it's hard to get From point 'A' to point 'B' Bus service is infrequent And doesn't run for free So people hitch rides Up in northern B.C. The first day of summer Usually dawns bright and clear It has the most daylight Hours of the year It's the Summer Solstice And National Aboriginal Day June 21st... in 2002 That's when Nicole went away Prince George, or P.G. Is also called 'Prince'

That's where she was seen last There's been no trace of her, since She was standing In front of a gas station On the road side With a pack on her back Hitching a ride When she was gone The reaction was swift And the hunt was on For the person that gave her a lift

The Wind, Part II Winter up north Is filled with ice and snow The temperature drops To more than forty below People stay inside because To go out is to freeze And you can hear the wind scream As it rips through the trees Does the wind know secrets That some tried to hide?

Does it mourn for all The First Nations people that died?

Maybe in those dark months The wind shrieks with rage Because of what happened To girls like Ramona Wilson Who was only fifteen years of age She'd just called home to say That she'd be there, soon That day, in Smithers 1994, on the 11th of June

Here's something that It's hoped someone explains: A native, aboriginal First Nations man Made a call to the Smithers Royal Canadian Mounted Police And told them where They'd find her remains But the R.C.M.P. did nothing So it appears Until a 'discovery' On April 9, 2005 Confirmed her family's worst fears This was ten months After she'd vanished Seemingly without a trace Was the lack of police action Because of her race?

Delphine Nikal was also fifteen June 13th, 1990, hitchhiking From Smithers to Telkwa Was when she was last seen Lana Derrick was enrolled in Forestry Studies At Northwest Community College Her age was nineteen years She vanished hitchhiking Near Terrace, west of Smithers On the road where sanity disappears Tamara Lynn Chipman, 22 Lana Derrick, 19 Alishia Germaine, 15 Nicole Doreen Hoar, 25 (she wasn't aboriginal) Delphine Nikal, 16 Aielah Katherina Saric-Auger, 14 Roxanne Thiara,15 Alberta Gail Williams, 27 Ramona Lisa Wilson, 15 These are among those missing or found deceased

On Highway 16, the Highway Of Tears Their families hope and pray That the memories Of these people won't fade And that one day soon Arrests will be made Prince George, Burns Lake Smithers, Terrace and Prince Rupert Haven't been very safe places to be Especially if you've got First Nations ancestry So now a question looms very large Why haven't the R.C.M.P. In British Columbia, Canada Laid even one charge?

It really puts their credibility to the test When the police in B.C. Haven't even made one arrest When the part of society That is well served by the police Is the part that's mainly white It's easy to see how First Nations women Can just vanish from sight And why people who Might have knowledge of what happened Just don't want to talk to the law So they won't come forward To say what they heard Or what they saw And if, by chance, they do There's an unusual complication The police in P.G. have, in effect, said "Well, we can't just listen to you We need not one, but two People to come forward With the same information" That they need two people To come forward and talk

Sounds like some sort of loophole To let the bad guys walk One day the wind Might carry the news That justice has been done And that, in Canada 'Human rights' means 'Rights for everyone'

This poem is included in Kathy Figueroa's books, "Paudash Poems" and "The Cathedral of the Eternal Blue Sky," which were published by Brian Wrixon Books, and in his anthology, "Women of One World."

THE MARBLE ROAD

© Jerena Tobiasen

Atticus Valerius gripped the corner of a marble slab and bent with his mentor to place it next to a previous stone. Justus Pompeius Marius tapped its edges to ensure that it sat squarely in a neat row of rough-hewn rock, the precursor of another road built by the Roman Legions.

Remnant of marble used by Roman soldiers to build the roadway into Petra, Jordan c. 100 BC; Photo by Jerena Tobiasen, 2019

Atticus had dreamed of becoming a centurion since he was a young boy. By the time he was ten years old, he had a better understanding of how a Roman legion worked and changed his mind. A centurion would do for a start, but he intended to surpass that to become a great leader, just as his father, Appius Magnus Valerius, had been. His father, now too elderly and infirm to travel abroad, had ensured that Atticus was accepted into the very legion that he had commanded in his prime.

“You will have to earn your right to be a member of my old cohort,” Appius Valerius had said many times in response to Atticus’ pleading.

“I will be the best, Father,” Atticus had always replied. “and, just like you, one day I will be primus pilus of a powerful legion!”

His father had chuckled in response and ruffled his golden curls.

Atticus’s eyes shone momentarily as he remembered those occasions. The shine disappeared abruptly, however, hooding a longing to see his father again. He had left home on his sixteenth birthday and had been marching for two years, digging trenches, hauling stones, grading roadways, training for battle - whatever the commander ordered, the cohort obeyed. Many legions were ordered north of Rome to lands of extreme cold where a man’s breath froze, or east from whence spices came on the backs of camel caravans, or west to the shores of the great seas that had no end. Those treks kept men from their homes for years, often a decade or more. Atticus had heard stories of strange people and even stranger animals, and many battles hard fought for the glory of the Roman Empire.

The cohort to which Atticus belonged had been sent south, across the assure sea to an arid land of red desert sands and heat, peculiar animals and curious fowl.

“Atticus Nero Valerius!” Marius said, yelling into the young man’s thoughts. “I thought you were to learn how to build a marble roadway.” He snarled at Atticus, scowling with eyes that seemed to pierce the young man with frustration. “If you want to be anything other than an immune, you must concentrate! Every skill you learn is an opportunity to rise within the army and earn a higher pay.”

“Marius, sir!” Atticus replied sharply. “I apologize. My mind wandered homeward.”

“And that’s where you’ll be going, if you don’t pay attention,” Marius said with a bark. “I promised your father that I’d look out for you, but that won’t happen if you get sent home, or worse . . . charged for dereliction of duty. You must focus, if your dream of being primus pilus of this legion is ever to come true.”

“Yes,

sir,” Atticus replied with humility. “I apologize for my inattention.

It won’t happen again.” He rubbed his hands on his tunic. “Another stone?”

Justus Marius nodded curtly.

“Roman-built roads are the best in the world. One day, all roads will lead to Rome. But, before that comes to pass, what needs to happen?”

“They must be built!” Atticus said enthusiastically, grunting with the effort required to heft another slab of marble.

He turned it toward his mentor, who grabbed the extended corner.

The motion released a swirl of fine red dust. It drifted and swirled from beneath their fingers.

“And why must the roads be built?” Marius said, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“To allow Roman legions easy access to anywhere they are ordered to march!” Atticus replied smartly. “Sir!” Days passed, and the marble blocks were placed side by side along the ancient riverbed that led to the wealthy Nabataean city of Petra. Neither man noticed the red dust that danced through the gorge on the gentle breeze, caking in the sweat that purled at their temples and glistened on exposed skin. Each evening they bathed in a pool of sun-warmed water, screened by palm trees and bushes of fragrant flowers: an oasis of relief Marius had called it one evening. Dreaming of the pool’s soothing qualities, Atticus paid no heed to his physical discomforts. Completing the Roman road held his attention.

The first time Atticus had marched into the dusty gorge, he had marvelled at his commander’s fearlessness. The canyon twisted and turned, seeming to terminate constantly in dead ends. The young

man had been amazed when each bend revealed yet another tributary of rust-coloured silt. The gorge meandered in the same manner as the river it had once been. Red sandstone walls towered above them, on occasion so close that the sides almost touched, so narrow that not three men could lie foot to shoulder across. Atticus had imagined any number of battles that might have been fought in the restricted spaces.

Narrowing of the gorge, Petra, Jordan,

Blind dead-end, Petra, Jordan,

Photo by Jerena Tobiasen 2019

Photo by Jerena Tobiasen 2019

Marius rose to his feet, placing his gnarled hands on his hips and stretched his back. Atticus stood next to him reaching his hands to the sky and groaning with the pleasure of it.

Remnants of Roman roadway and aqueduct (on right), Petra, Jordan, Photo by Jerena Tobiasen

“Once the water trough is complete and our stones reach the city,” Marius said, his voice hoarse from dust, “our work here will be done.”

He retrieved a wine-filled bladder and drank deeply. “And until the water is flowing, this old, camp fall-back will have to do!”

Remnants of Roman aqueduct, Petra, Jordan, Photo by Jerena Tobiasen

“Where does the water come from?” Atticus asked. “It hasn’t rained since our boat landed months ago. Yet, the inhabitants have more than enough for all of us.”

“The people who live here – the Nabataean,” Marius said, “are nomads and traders. They have learned how to harvest water during the rainy season and store it in deep wells dug into the sandstone.

They control the water and irrigate the land nearby so they can cultivate it and grow food. They are also renowned for their ability to carve this red stone!” He waved his hand above him, then caressed the side of the water-worn wall opposite the aqueduct. “I have worked with stone my entire life and have an admiring eye for the best Roman sculptures. But . . . the carvings in these walls are every bit as good, perhaps even better if you consider the circumstances, than Roman carvers.” He released a puff of air between his lips.

“I think I understand,” Atticus said. “The finest Roman sculptors create busts and statutes, but these people . . . they carve the facades of buildings into the stone, then dig in behind to create

vestibules and interior spaces for their use. We, on the other hand, break stone into blocks and pile them one upon another to build pillars, walls and temples.”

“I overheard the commander explain recently,” Marius said, “that, when these people carve, they remove the excess to reveal what lives within. For example, you’ll recall the arch at the entrance to the gorge-” He swiped his arm across his forehead, leaving a muddy streak behind. His dark eyes stared beyond Atticus as if deep in thought. “When the earth parted to form this vast fissure, a connecting stone at the far end did not break. The Nabataeans carved it away to reveal the arch.”

“Like the buildings of Petra!” Atticus said. “They were carved into the walls of the cliff.”

The Treasury, Petra Jordan, Photo by Jerena Tobiasen, 2019

“Yes,

from top to bottom,” Marius replied, his voice gruff. “A fascinating engineering feat!” He ran a hand through his greying hair. “The Nabataeans are a rich and clever people. They can build wherever and whatever they want. They chose the basin of this gorge to establish their city – a tribute to their faith, their skill and their wealth. It is well hidden from this approach, and when a man passes through that last narrowing and steps out into the theatre, he can only gape at the enormous beauty of it all!”

“Then, I suppose,” Atticus said, “that we are providing the perfect complement for it.”

“How so?” Marius asked.

“A road built of white marble by the Roman Empire’s best legion will lead right to it!” Atticus said, daring to infer that he was amongst the best of his legion. His grin sliced from ear to ear, his hands resting on his hips.

“Exactly so, young man!” Justus Marius dusted his hands and clapped Atticus on a shoulder. “Now . . . let’s get back to work, or visitors to Petra will never find their way!”

-

-------------------------------------------- The Marble Road copyright Jerena Tobiasen

GERTIE’S HIGHS AND LOWS

© Angel Edwards

Her finger has grown numb from pushing the button on the slot machine. She always hit the maximum button. When she loses she will say that it was a mistake or that her elbow hit the max button. A ratio of win to loss was in the black at the moment.

Gertie used the slot machine as an extra income. It brought in an easy $500 a week so Gertie quit her part-time job in the restaurant and became a full-time gambler. She also became a part-time mother, a part-time wife and a full-time liar and cheat.

Her rationalization was that when she made it big she would stop but then came the terrible worry of 'how would she explain all the money to her family'.

Gertie lost about 8 pounds in six months in the time she had been gambling and all of her friends were sure that Gertie was working out at the gym.

Once in the casino Gertie had no interest in food or in anything other than playing her three favourite slot machines.

Now inevitably one October evening Gertie hit a streak of bad luck. She had spent $650 and had won absolutely nothing.

Gertie hit the machine the ATM conveniently located in the casino, got out another $500 which she also lost. She was then forced to use her credit card, took out another $500 and she lost that too. After one brief win, she was $100 to the better, she gambled it all and now she was empty-handed!

The realization hit her that she was also really hungry. She doesn't have cab fare home.

It's pouring rain and she doesn't even have an umbrella.

Gertie felt like crying but what would be the point.

A young woman in the casino uniform came by offering free snacks and a free coffee which Gertie gratefully accepted ignoring the dirty look she received for not leaving a tip.

Gertie sat in the corner listlessly watching the other players and hoping that the rain would abate a little so that she could walk home before it became dark.

Well the rain let up slightly and she decided that she better go home.

She was almost at the door when she heard a voice behind her “excuse me ma'am, did you drop this...?"

A well-dressed handsome young man with piercing dark eyes held out a slot machine voucher. He looked oddly familiar.

Gertie reached out and took it not really sure why she did. She looked at it gasping. It was a voucher for $272.08.

When she looked up there was no young man. Now Gertie thought of nothing except that she should gamble.

"This time," she thought "I'm going to use a slot machine I've never tried before". She walked to the other end of the building and sat down in front of a quarter machine "Lord of the Rings".

She inserted the voucher, hit maximum and won the bonus round. She won 7 bonus rounds in a row and then the jackpot!

Her winnings were now $9799.

Bills and whistles were going off as attendants rushed to her side.

In a daze Gertie handed over her ID and said that she would like her winnings in cash please.

"Are you sure Madame? That's quite a bit of money..."

"Yes in large bills please..."

"Please come with us" They escorted Gertie to a small office where she signed a piece of paper, checked her ID again and counted out $9799 in 97 hundred dollar bills, one $50 bill ,two $20 bills, one $10 bill, one $5 dollar bill and a couple of toonies.

Gertie asked if they would call her a cab and one came within 10 minutes waiting for her just outside the casino door.

She got into the back seat of the black car and shut the door.

"Where to Miss?" asked the driver turning around to face her.

Gertie gasped in shock.

The driver was the same man who had given her the money voucher.

"Aren't you forgetting something ?" he sneered.

"You owe me a lot of money!"

"Oh "said Gertie "Okay" Gertie opened her purse and counted out $300.

The man grabbed it from her and laughed in a nasty kind of way "You can keep the $300‌ I want the near $10,000 that you just won".

"But I won it at the Lord of the Rings machine".

"You took something that didn't belong to you, that voucher didn't belong to you!"

"But you gave it to me" said Gertie.

"Get out of my car" said the man.

Gertie did so. She was very frightened and she then saw that she actually was not in a cab after all but a sleek black car.

She was feeling disoriented and had a headache from hunger. She was shivering in the rain and very puzzled.

"Look I'll tell you what my dear - you keep the money" He turned full face to her.

"If I ever see you around this casino again you will be very sorry that's all I can tell you" Gertie turned to walk back inside the casino. And just then a yellow and black cab pulled up. She got inside and had a safe uneventful ride back home. She would never understand fully what had happened. Perhaps the man was an angel. Perhaps he was a spirit.

Her great uncle had been a notorious gambler back in his day. Maybe it was his ghost!

Perhaps that was why he seemed so familiar. He reminded her of a picture she had seen of her great uncle who was the black sheep of the family but he was spoken of in a most affectionate way.

Anyway for better or worse there were no more wins or losses for Gertie at the casino because she never ever gambled at any casino again.

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JUNE 2020 Wordplay at work ISSN 2291- 4269 Contact: janetkvammen@rclas.com RCLAS Vice-President/ E-zine

We Came From Water RCLAS Co-operative Poem, National Poetry Month April 2020 © 2020 by the poets Compiled by Janet Kvammen The sun shines at the river's mouth And the Spring wind softly stirs on the bank.

W. Ruth Kozak

Water when a source of reflection uncovers what's lying underneath.

Aidan Chafe

Upon the river's glassy face patches of cloud soft as lace.

Hope Lauterbach

On life’s parchment paper of sorrow, joy and pain We are ink stained pages falling through the rain.

Candice James

Internal living waters of the heart, express mortal pain as rivers; healing tears falling from our eyes.

Deborah L. Kelly

sky in the river, river in the sky long bridge to forever where souls can fly.

Julia Schoennagel

They said the river couldn't be spanned But they weren't dreamers, so didn't understand.

Kathy Figueroa

The river is deep—so, too, are the philosopher’s ‘thinks’— Fed when angels weep; the sparkles are the angels’ winks.

H.W. Bryce

There’s nothing we can’t learn by taking time to see, how water paints her face with sky, land and trees.

Carol Johnson

In the year Twenty-Twenty the River silently winds along.

Amid lives mingled feelings the stream of consciousness, prevail upon.

Una Bruhns

Fraser river radiates with brilliance, infusing into my empty heart, A million rays of light, I become water and shine.

Ashok Bhargava

Sinuous clouds in a river bluer than sky break into foreground brushstrokes.

K.B. Nelson

The sky reflects on the water clear as a wind chime in summer.

Stephen Karr

The river flows, the river flows From the mountain down to the sea it goes.

George Chris Michas

Nothing is painted on river skin but sky, mirror sliding, hiding secrets underneath.

Ruth Hill

stretched from bank to bank separated yet connected history flows beneath fluid ghosts.

Warren Dean Fulton

Old man river, "Mighty Fraser" is his name Opens his arms for the salmon to come home.

Jenny Ihaksi

Where the river enters the larger body, we drift seaward to warm and rise and be translated into light.

Angela Kenyon

The Mighty Fraser River is becoming clearer, cleaner & healing.

Stand here, listen to it sing a ‘thank you’ song.

Lozan Yamolky

Mirror still surface hides the roiling, merging river and sea Humans and technology live beside this timeless traveller.

Glenn Wootton

The mighty Fraser River flows New Westminster love shows.

Angel Edwards

when the river is a picture window to the sky I sit back, my world turned over, carried off, commended.

Alan Girling

An azure sky reflects on river as muse, infinitely yours, we return, home to the water from which we came.

Janet Kvammen

Still part fish, I crawled from the river. Skin raw, still burnt from the big bang, my phone in hand.

Alan Hill

Contributing poets in order of appearance: W. Ruth Kozak | Aidan Chafe | Hope Lauterbach | Candice James | Deborah L. Kelly | Julia Schoennagel | Kathy Figueroa | H.W. Bryce | Carol Johnson | Una Bruhns | Ashok Bhargava | K.B. Nelson | Stephen Karr | George Chris Michas | Ruth Hill | Warren Dean Fulton | Jenny Ihaksi | Angela Kenyon | Lozan Yamolky | Glenn Wootton | Angel Edwards | Alan Girling | Janet Kvammen | Alan Hill | Acknowledgements Ekphrastic Writing Prompt: “river as muse” artography by Janet Kvammen Poem Title: Thanks to Alan Hill, title inspired by his book We Came From Water (Silver Bow Publishing) Youtube: https://youtu.be/usAEob91xkM