Royal City Literary Arts Society Board of Directors
JANET KVAMMEN is a published poet, mixed media and lens-based artist. A founding RCLAS board member in 2012, Janet is the President of Royal City Literary Arts Society. Active on both the literary and arts scene of New Westminster, Janet is a host and coordinator of local reading events and art exhibits as well as the graphic designer/editor of our RCLAS online magazine. A 2019 Bernie Legge Cultural Award nominee, she has won awards for both poetry and photography and was the recipient of a 2016 Nehru Humanitarian Award.
CAROL JOHNSON has been the RCLAS Treasurer since 2018. A sometimes challenging position (learning the ropes) but always a stimulating undertaking given the Board's stated purpose: promotion of the written arts. At heart, Carol is a poet who is currently writing a fictionalized family history. But most importantly she is a mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. Carol and her husband Paul plan to reclaim their love of travel.
DEBORAH WHITE is an emerging writer. She enjoys writing short stories and is currently working on an historical romance novel. She is active in the writing community and has been a member of the Port Moody Writers group for over 7 years. Deborah has been a RCLAS board member since 2018.
Royal City Literary Arts Society Board of Directors
LISA STRONG has been a Director-at-Large with RCLAS since 2018 and is the coordinator for our website rclas.com. Lisa is a teacher-librarian in Burnaby for over twenty-five years. She has articles published in education journals and line dance magazines in the UK, Australia, and New Zealand. Her favourite pastimes include reading and spending time in nature with her dog.
SARAH WETHERED has been on the RCLAS board for 3 years. Sarah is a teacher-librarian at New Westminster Secondary School and an online instructor for Queen's University's teacher-librarian program. She is currently on leave from NWSS as she is serving as New Westminster Teachers' Union president. In January 2020, Sarah won the Canadian School Library's Angela Thacker Memorial Award, for her outstanding contributions to teacherlibrarianship both provincial and nationally.
ANGELA KENYON joined the Board after enjoying so many RCLAS sponsored events on Zoom during the pandemic. She has a long history of volunteer involvement in her community but this is the first time she’s been part of a literary arts organization. Angela retired from full-time work in communications, administration and event planning in 2017. She spends most of her time now enjoying writing and exploring her neighbourhood. Angela graduated from the SFU Writers’ Studio in 2014. She is currently finishing revisions of a historical fiction novel. She also loves writing poetry and short fiction.
Evelyn Lau is a lifelong Vancouverite who has published thirteen books, including eight volumes of poetry. Her memoir, Runaway: Diary of a Street Kid, published when she was 18, was made into a CBC movie starring Sandra Oh in her first major role. Evelyn's prose books have been translated into a dozen languages; her poetry has received the Milton Acorn Award, the Pat Lowther Award and a National Magazine Award, as well as nominations for the Governor-General's and a BC Book Prize. Evelyn's work has appeared in over a hundred magazines and anthologies, including the Best American Poetry and Best Canadian Poetry series. From 2011-2014, she served as Vancouver's Poet Laureate; she has also served on numerous national grant and prize juries. Evelyn's most recent collection is Pineapple Express (Anvil, 2020).
2022 POETRY IN THE PARK POETS Candice James was appointed Poet Laureate Emerita of New Westminster BC by order if City Council in November 2016 after serving 2 three-year terms as Poet Laureate She’s founder of Royal City Literary Arts Society, and Fred Cogswell Award For Excellence in Poetry and past president of the Federation of BC Writers. She’s a member of the League of Canadian Poets and The Writers Union of Canada. She’s the author of 20 books of poetry through 6 Publishing Houses. Her first book A SPLIT IN THE WATER was published in 1979 by Fiddlehead Poetry Books, University of New Brunswick. Poet Elliott Slinn was named New Westminster’s fifth (and youngest) Poet Laureate in June 2021. Slinn was born and raised in the Queen’s Park neighbourhood of New Westminster and still resides in the Royal City today. In addition to being a poet, is also a singer-songwriter whose first single, It’s You, was featured on Apple Music’s “Hot Tracks” list and in BeatRoute magazine. Slinn’s poetry and lyrics focus on the existential events of our day-to-day existence. Slinn’s work has been described as immediate and accessible, as he aims to transform his personal tale into a shared experience. He is currently working on his first book of poetry and aims to record more music in the future. You can find excerpts of his work on his Instagram account: @elliott_slinn Joanne Arnott is a writer, editor, arts activist, launching her fourth poetry chapbook, pandemic friendship (above/ground press 2022). Poetry Mentor for The Writers Studio (SFU) and Poetry Editor for EVENT Magazine, she is one of the co-founding members of the Aboriginal Writers Collective West Coast. Mother to six young people. Isabella Wang is the author of the chapbook, On Forgetting a Language, and her full-length debut, Pebble Swing, currently shortlisted for the Dorothy Livesay Poetry Prize. Among other recognitions, she has been shortlisted for Arc’s Poem of the Year Contest, The Malahat Review’s Far Horizons Contest and Long Poem Contest, and was the youngest writer to be shortlisted twice for The New Quarterly’s Edna Staebler Essay Contest. She is completing a double-major in English and World Literature at SFU. She is also a youth mentor with Vancouver Poetry House, and an Editor at Room magazine. Vancouver's 6th Poet Laureate, Fiona Tinwei Lam has published three collections of poetry and a children’s book. Her poems have been featured in Best Canadian Poetry and thrice with BC’s Poetry in Transit, as well as in awardwinning poetry videos made in collaboration with filmmakers that have screened internationally. She is the editor of The Bright Well: Contemporary
Canadian Poems about Facing Cancer, and has co-edited two nonfiction anthologies. Shortlisted for the City of Vancouver Book Prize and other awards, her work has been included in over 40 anthologies. fionalam.net Jude Neale is a Canadian poet, well known nationally and internationally. She has written eleven books including: Impromptu, The River Answers, Inside the Pearl and the Flaw, all written during the pandemic. She is known for drawing focus to those small and forgotten things that often get overlooked in our ordinary daily lives.
Tawahum is a Łutselkʼe Dene, Plains Cree poet and spoken word artist from unceded Musqueam, Squamish & Tsleil-waututh Territory (Vancouver). Their Scorpio-moon-ass poems expose growth, resistance & persistence as a hopeless Two Spirit Nonbinary sadboy on occupied Turtle Island. With a BA in Creative Writing from KPU, Tawahum has performed at countless festivals with poems featured in numerous publications including Red Rising Magazine, Prairie Fire, CV2 and Arc Poetry Magazine. Their land protection work versus Trans Mountain pipeline expansion had him face incarceration in 2020. Tawahum’s debut collection of poetry Cut to Fortress published by Nightwood Editions is available now. Find him online @Tawahum on Instagram, twitter and more.
Poet D Fretter ‘s mother jokes that he’s had a way with words since before he could talk. His self-published collection Joy + Misery peaked at number six in Canadian Poetry and Number one in African Canadian literature. D’s performances have earned him praise from poets such as Sabrina Benaim, In-Q, and Brandon Leake. He is a self-reflective, deeply emotional writer who hopes to encourage and empower his audience to access their own vulnerability and find strength in it
Evelyn Lau is a lifelong Vancouverite who has published thirteen books, including eight volumes of poetry. Her memoir, Runaway: Diary of a Street Kid, published when she was 18, was made into a CBC movie starring Sandra Oh in her first major role. Evelyn's prose books have been translated into a dozen languages; her poetry has received the Milton Acorn Award, the Pat Lowther Award and a National Magazine Award, as well as nominations for the Governor-General's and a BC Book Prize. Evelyn's work has appeared in over a hundred magazines and anthologies, including the Best American Poetry and Best Canadian Poetry series. From 2011-2014, she served as
Vancouver's Poet Laureate; she has also served on numerous national grant and prize juries. Evelyn's most recent collection is Pineapple Express (Anvil, 2020).
Iraqi-Canadian author Hasan Namir graduated from Simon Fraser University with a BA in English and received the Ying Chen Creative Writing Student Award. He is the author of God in Pink (2015), which won the Lambda Literary Award for Best Gay Fiction and was chosen as one of the Top 100 Books of 2015 by The Globe and Mail. His work has also been featured on Huffington Post, Shaw TV, Airbnb, in the film God in Pink: A Documentary, Breakfast Television Toronto, CTV Morning Live Saskatoon. He was recently named a writer to watch by CBC books. He is also the author of poetry book War/Torn (2019, Book*Hug Press), children's book The Name I Call Myself (2020, Arsenal Pulp Press) and Umbilical Cord (Book*Hug Press). Hasan was the 2021 LGBTQ2s+ guest curator for Word Vancouver. He lives on the unceded territories of the Kwantlen, Katzie, Semiahmoo and Tsawwassen First Nations with his husband and their child.
Joseph A. Dandurand is a member of Kwantlen First Nation located on the Fraser River about 20 minutes east of Vancouver. He resides there with his 3 children Danessa, Marlysse, and Jace. Joseph is the Director of the Kwantlen Cultural Center. Joseph received a Diploma in Performing Arts from Algonquin College and studied Theatre and Direction at the University of Ottawa. He has just completed his residency as the Storyteller in Residence at the Vancouver Public Library. He sits on a committee for the Canadian Museum of History and is tasked with consulting on the redesign of the new Children’s Museum. He has published 13 books of poetry and the latest are: I WANT by Leaf Press (2015) and HEAR AND FORETELL by BookLand Press (2015) The Rumour (2018) by BookLand Press in (2018) SH:LAM (the doctor) Mawenzi Press (2019) The Corrupted by Guernica Press (2020) his children’s play: Th’owixiya: the hungry Feast dish by Playwrights Press Canada (2019) his book of short stories and short plays for children: The Sasquatch, the fire, and the cedar basket will be published by Nightwood Press along with his poetry manuscript: Here we come (2020-21) He also is very busy Storytelling at many events and Schools.
Jessica Lee McMillan (she/her) is an emerging poet with an MA in English. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Blank Spaces, Pocket Lint (gnurr), Antilang, Tiny Spoon, The South Shore Review, Dream Pop Journal, Pinhole Poetry, Lover's Eye Press and SORTES, among others. She is currently completing her first poetry chapbook. Jessica lives in New Westminster, British Columbia on stolen and unsurrendered lands of the Coast Salish and
Halkomelem-speaking Peoples, in particular, the QayQayt and Kwikwetlem First Nations. Twitter: @JessicaLeeMcM Website: https://www.jessicaleemcmillan.com
Carlie Blume was born on the unceded and ancestral lands of the Musqueam, Squamish and Tsleil-Waututh (Vancouver). She is a 2017 graduate of Simon Fraser University’s The Writer’s Studio and the author of Gigglepuss (2022). She currently lives on Salt Spring Island, B.C with her husband and two children.
Catherine Lewis is a bisexual Chinese Canadian writer based in Vancouver. Her debut queer poetry chapbook Zipless (845 Press, 2021) is in its third printing. Recently featured at the Verses Festival of Words and the Real Vancouver Writers’ Series, she has been interviewed on Vancouver Co-op Radio’s Wax Poetic. Shortlisted for Pulp Literature’s 2022 Magpie Award for Poetry, Catherine was a finalist in the 2021 creative nonfiction contests hosted by The Fiddlehead and The Humber Literary Review. A graduate of the Writer’s Studio at SFU, she is a Banff Centre Literary Arts alumna. Catch her on Twitter or Instagram at @cat_writes_604 or at www.catherinewriter.com.
Alan Hill was born in the UK and immigrated to Canada in 2005 after meeting his wife while working in Botswana. He is the former Poet Laureate of the City of New Westminster, BC (2017-2020), former president of the Royal City Literary Arts Society (RCLAS), and was the editor and curator of A Poetry of Place: Journeys Across New Westminster, published in partnership with New Westminster Arts Services. His writing has been published internationally and his poetry has appeared in Event, CV2, Canadian Literature, The Antigonish Review, subTerrain, Poetry is Dead, among others. He works in the field of community development and immigrant settlement and lives in New Westminster, BC.
Kevin Spenst is the author of Ignite, Jabbering with Bing Bong, and Hearts Amok: a Memoir in Verse (all with Anvil Press), and over a dozen chapbooks including Surrey Sonnets (JackPine Press), Upend (Frog Hollow Press) and a holm with the Alfred Gustav Press coming out at the end of 2022. His most recent writing has appeared in the anthologies Event 50: Collected Notes on Writing and Resonance: Essays on the Craft and Life of Writing. His book launch during the pandemic was featured in a book about creative practices: The Creative
Instigators' Handbook. He teaches creative writing at Vancouver Community College and Simon Fraser University and he lives in Vancouver on unceded xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish) and səl̓ilw̓ətaʔɬ (TsleilWaututh) territory.
Jónína Kirton is Red River Métis/Icelandic poet and a graduate of the Simon Fraser University’s Writer’s Studio. Jónína's third book, Standing in a River of Time, was recently released in the Spring of 2022. A late-blooming poet, she was sixty-one when she received the 2016 City of Vancouver’s Mayor’s Arts Award for an Emerging Artist in the Literary Arts category. Her first collection of poetry, page as bone ~ ink as blood, was released with Talonbooks in 2015. Her second collection, An Honest Woman was a finalist for the 2018 Dorothy Livesay Poetry Prize. We are also pleased to add that Jónína was our 2021 Cogswell Award Judge.
Cecily Nicholson is the author of four books, and past recipient of the Dorothy Livesay Poetry Prize and the Governor General’s Literary Award for poetry. She has held the Ellen and Warren Tallman Writer in Residence at Simon Fraser University, and Writer in Residence at the University of Windsor. Her forthcoming poetry collection HARROWINGS considers Black rurality and art history.
2022 WRITE ON! CONTEST WINNERS $150 first prize $100 second prize $75 third prize Congratulations to all our finalists! Thank you to everyone who submitted!
POETRY WINNERS (Poetry Judge: NATALIE HRYCIUK) Poetry First Place: JESSICA LEE MCMILLAN – INTERLOPER Poetry Second Place: Alan Girling – tree cognition Poetry Third Place: Susan McCaslin – Drawing Four Breaths Poetry Honourable Mentions Celeste Snowber – Water Litany Dean Gessie – Diary of a Dead Eel Boy Alvin Ens – I Am The Poem
NON-FICTION WINNERS (Non-Fiction Judge: JUDE GOODWIN) Non-Fiction First Place: CHERYL ANDRICHUK– THE FUNERAL
Non-Fiction Second Place: Mark LeBourdais – Mr. Mumbles Passes the Test Non-Fiction Third Place: Karin Hedetniemi – Nudging Destiny Non-Fiction Honourable Mentions Alline Cormier– More Regard for Dogs Neil McKinnon – Slipsliding Away Donna Terrill – Homeward
FICTION WINNERS (Fiction Judge: ANNE RAMALLO) Fiction First Place: MARLET ASHLEY – DESIGN
Fiction Second Place: Wren Handman – Bad Hersfeld Fiction Third Place: Janaya Fuller Evans – Recollecting Hannah Fiction Honourable Mentions Dean Gessie – Nobody Knows How Much You Love Him Alvin Ens – A Wet Right Hand DK Eve – Wrapped in Brown Paper
10th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2022 Fiction Winners & Honourable Mentions
10th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2022 First Place Winner Fiction DESIGN © Marlet Ashley From his vantage point above the beach, he took in the waves whispering against the sand. A motorboat slipped its trailer at the tip of the boat launch. Two boys shouted as they ran along the hard-packed sand. A girl and a woman braved the cold water. The energy from the sun and the activity on the shore below the parking strip reinforced his connection to life. The tide was outgoing. Today, he would not see the offerings the ocean left behind when it completely receded. He closed his eyes and let the sounds stitch a fragile connection to a not-so-long-ago past. Yet upon their departure for home, those fragile threads would snap, hurling him back to the reality of his illness and the present. She drove him to Point Holmes a few times a week, and he was grateful even though he could not leave the car. The thrice-weekly shuffle into the car wasn’t easy for her or for him, and soon it would be impossible. He had set a limit for how much he would allow both of them to endure. The ocean shimmered with giddy wavelets in the warm afternoon. Driftwood piled in a giant pick-up-sticks array along the drop. She made her way over the debris. Her stubbornness prevented her from using the boat ramp, as he would have. The path of least resistance. He watched her stumble and right herself. He smiled as he imagined her string of curses. After all these years, he knew her litany of oaths muttered just under her breath. He was often bothered by that mulishness of hers. Once her mind was set, nothing could change her course. If he’d try,
he’d be the one to weaken first. Her tenaciousness was, in their early years, the source of heated arguments and eventually their retreat into separate but parallel lives, comfortable enough. She’d been angry these last few months, but he knew it was his illness she hated. It was something over which she had no control. Her research into ALS only increased the imperviousness of the wall against which she threw herself. He saw her watching the boat speed off into the brilliant water, and when she turned away, he followed her measured steps until she reached the impassible limit of the cove. He watched her now as he did at home when she was busy around the house or if she sat with him on occasion in the afternoons. But in the very early morning, she sat outdoors and was still. He could not join her in that silent reverie without her help. She did not offer. He did not ask. She deserved whatever moments of serenity she could manage. Hard, physical work was the answer to just about any problem that came her way. When she’d miscarried, and was then told they would never have children, she’d scrubbed the house from attic to basement. She reorganized the shed and the garage, redesigned and planted the garden. Built a small greenhouse. At night, after those exhaustive days, she fell into bed and to sleep without a moment in between to think, without time for them to talk. He lifted a bottle of water to his lips. She’d removed the cap thinking he might not manage on his own. He took a swallow. On a second swallow, his airway burst into spasms, his gasps loud, grabbing the attention of a jogger returning to the car parked by them. He’d been told not to panic should this happen, to simply ride out the fit, but the well-meaning Samaritan pummelled his back, adding to the chaos. He tried to hold up his hand as a gesture to stop, but exhaustion from gagging and gulping for air overtook him.
She was there. He opened his eyes. She leaned into the car and rubbed his back in large, strong circles. At last, he wheezed in and out finally getting the air he needed to lessen the panic, rasping as he inhaled and exhaled. Slower, slower, deeper, deeper, almost normal breaths. She turned to the startled jogger and thanked him for trying to help. They would return home now, and he would sleep.
He woke in the morning. All was silent and near dark. He tested his arms. He managed to sit up. Always one step ahead, she’d prepared for the day when he would have difficulty swallowing. Nine small vials of Teglutik stood in military precision on his nightstand. After his coughing fit yesterday, she’d opened one and spooned out the liquid form of his usual medication. Pill or liquid, the medication made him tired. He took the remainder of the bottle. He reached for another. The cap was loose. He paused for a brief appreciative moment. That sweet solution downed, he reached for another being careful not to knock over a bottle. All caps were loose. He lay down again after draining the contents of the ninth bottle. Each empty vial was replaced as if untouched. In the beginning, he had loved her sense of order. He was the middle child of seven. Pandemonium reigned in his childhood home. He was the peculiar kid in school who hated field trips, hated the disorder. He despised the days when substitute teachers showed up and students
ran amuck. It was her self-control, her control of whatever came into her sphere, including him and his disordered life, that he had loved. At first. Later, he’d hated it. All of his papers or tools put back in their proper place. Yes, he knew where to find them, but sometimes he wanted her to leave things as they were. Accept him as he was. He resented her control so much that he messed up her plans, her orderly rooms, their lives, as much as he could, believing he was asserting himself in the world. It was bullheadedness, of course. He’d had plenty of space to be himself. He did not know why he had to challenge her. Perhaps on those long walks away from the fights, he’d discovered splendour in the unforeseen. He thrilled to glorious sunsets, thought them gifts for him alone, peace offerings to counteract his resentment and his hurt. On the beach, the small treasures he found exhilarated him—the sea was generous—sand dollars, a bottle with a note, pleasant chats with strangers. He could not share these priceless gifts with her. To her they would seem useless, purposeless, easily explained, without meaning. He longed for her to finally understand the beauty of the unexpected, the joy of astonishment, the liberation the messiness of life offered and to which life would inevitably return. Their home was immaculate. Nothing out of place, nothing unnecessary. No need had they of a storage room, for if a piece of furniture or some accessory was not in use, she gave it to the thrift store or sold it. As a child, he’d run around in socks and pants with holes and shoes worn through, but he’d never thought enough about them to be embarrassed. She, however, replaced his clothing at the first sign of wear. Once, she threw out a favourite plaid shirt because the collar was frayed just a little. He’d been furious, made toothless threats, became ridiculous.
He’d long since apologized and more recently forgiven her and himself for that and for all of the other nonsense they struggled through trying to impose themselves on each other. He looked over to the chair she occupied when sitting with him some afternoons. In the struggling light, he saw the sea-green throw she laid over him when he’d felt cold. It had fallen and lay in a heap on the floor. Its gentle folds seemed to undulate like waves with the rhythm of the sea. It would be an easy thing for her to square away. She would see in his act his concern for her, his acknowledgement of her inability to accept uncertainty. She had prepared the way for him, but the choice was his, even if he was taking the easy way out. Years ago, before they were married, they had taken a walk together along the ocean. They’d collected sea glass and made mosaics to surprise each other. She’d arranged the glass in patterns of colour—greens with greens, blues with blues, and frosted clear pieces clustered together, all framed by the ubiquitous worn brown fragments. His spelled out a multi-coloured uneven I LOVE YOU, and she’d kissed him for it. Through the soft sea-foam haze that filled his mind, he heard her stir. He smiled, or felt he did, when he heard her stand by his bed folding the errant throw. She would soon have her coffee outdoors. Today, he’d join her as she sat alone in silence on the deck. He could do nothing more for her. Later, he’d make a long-overdue visit to the shore to see what gifts the ocean had scattered for him there.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright Marlet Ashley
10th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2022 Second Place Winner Fiction
BAD HERSFELD © Wren Handman
“Have I told you that story about my uncle Jack? It was in the late 50s, when Germany started the compensation fund. He decided, since it was on someone else’s dollar, to go back home.”
I catch the bus in Frankfurt. I admit I’ve had some fun, seeing the city with adult eyes, but I know there won’t be much fun going forward. Frankfurt was one thing – when the war started, I was a teenager who’d only seen glimpses of the big city. But as the bus takes me closer to where I grew up, I get a sick feeling crawling up my throat like spoilt air. It’s all so damn picturesque, those rolling green hills just like a postcard. Good old Bad Hersfeld is supposed to be a healing place. That’s what my wife told me, anyway. “It’s a healing place, Jack, you oughtta go back and heal up some of them scars.” Course she spent the war safe in Montreal, only heard about the ghettos and the camps. You can hear about a thing like that, I guess, and think those kinds of scars are the kind that heal. So here I am, crammed on a bus with fifty strangers, bouncing down a road into the centre of a town that’s missing all of the faces that made it home.
“Those times after the war were hard. The town was close to the Soviet border, and everyone was starving. But no matter how much things had changed, it was still his home. He even recognized some of the same people in the streets.”
I hardly recognize their faces. It’s been ten years since the war ended, and more since my family was first dragged out of Bad ol’ Hersfeld. The streets look the same, though. The city escaped the bombing, from the looks of the place. No blasted-out holes in the sidewalks, no buildings so brand new you can still taste paint in the air. But it’s not my home in some intangible way. The people stare at their feet as they walk, and there’s hunger on their faces. Not just for food, even though I know they line up sometimes just to get their hands on a loaf of bread; this is something else. What they crave is forgiveness, or barring that, lethe. No one wants to know what they’re capable of; and having known it, everyone wants to forget. Some of the shops are the same. I see Frau Braun at the window of the hairdresser’s. My mother used to go there to get her perm, but it was for the company that she stayed. My brother and I would sit outside, eating the sweets she used to bribe us into obedience. It took hours, but we didn’t mind. I never told her how the first time I was old enough to stay home alone, I cried, losing that ritual of the bench and the sunshine and my brother’s company. I’ll never tell her now.
“So the first thing he does when he gets to town is check out the old neighbourhood. He lived in a small house with his father and mother, and of course his younger brother. He had promised his brother lots of photographs. I think I have a few around here somewhere…”
I can’t quite bring myself to go home, so I wander the town. An hour goes by. Two. I’m still wandering. Hersfeld used to have a moat, and that moat has been a huge ring road as long as I’ve been alive. I use this as a fence, denying myself the right to leave Old Town. I keep to the parks and streets of my childhood, rubbing salt into memories of happier times. I do walk through the monastery ruins, finding something peaceful in destruction so many centuries old. No one remembers the dead here. No one has scars still expected to heal. This wall where I sat and threw stones at the girls playing in the pond has been broken for centuries, and no one intends to fix it. I stop at the site of the synagogue. For a moment I see fire, smoke in my eyes. I have to turn away, have to keep walking, or the thoughts will dig in and never leave.
“So he finds the old homestead, and can you believe – they’ve turned it into a restaurant.”
It looks so much the same, and so horribly different. This is my home, the place I grew up. The place my parents should have lived and loved and died. This is a place filled with memories and ghosts. And it’s a damned restaurant.
There’s a sign on the porch, looks handmade with love and care, a little picture of a strudel below the curlicue name. It’s late, later than I meant it to be, and my stomach gives a traitorous growl. Well, and? I came here to heal, didn’t I, to face up to the past. I take my camera out from my bag and snap a picture of the house, and another. Then I stow the camera safely and walk up the steps. The third one creaks, and the fact that I knew it was coming makes me want to vomit, and suddenly I’m not hungry anymore. I still put my hand on the doorknob, though, still walk through the door. They’ve oiled the hinges, changed the drapes. These little changes make it easier to bear. I walk into what should be the living room, which has been converted, with little money, into an open eating area that eats up where the dining room used to be. There are tables with checkered tablecloths and little candles at their centres. It looks inviting, warm. A waiter arrives to show me to a seat. I mean to tell him why I’m here, but the words don’t come out. Instead, I follow in a daze. As we approach my table I stop flat in my tracks. I can feel the blood draining from my face, and for a horrible moment I think I might faint. “Sir? Are you alright?” I hear from beside me, and I turn slowly to face the waiter. Whatever he sees, his face pales to match my own. “Sir?” he gulps.
“And they’re using his mother’s dishes. Can you imagine? Someone just walked in and picked up where his family had left off. When I think about Uncle Jack walking into that house and seeing his mother’s dishes on the table, I can’t help but think...if he can forgive them for that, there’s hope for the world.”
I can’t say anything – not words, at least. Instead, I scream, until my throat is raw and my face burns. The waiter freezes, caught so off-guard he doesn’t know what to do. I grab the edge of the table nearest me, the table laden with my mother’s dishes, and with a heave, I toss it over. Food and dishes cascade to the ground with a terrible crash, and frightened tourists scatter. I move to the next table, and the next, stopping only long enough to take in breath for more screams. People run out of the kitchen and throw themselves at me, and we go down in a flail of limbs. I’m not seeing them anymore, not seeing this town or the destruction I’ve caused. All I can see is the delicate blue border of my mother’s best China, and the expression of grief and fear on her face the last time I ever saw her. Bad Hersfeld is a healing place, my wife said. But my wife didn’t see my mother’s dishes. Based on a true story, and the version that survived it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright Wren Handman
10th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2022 Third Place Winner Fiction RECOLLECTING HANNAH © Janaya Fuller Evans
“You have, or had, short brown hair that curled around your face. I think your eyes were green. You had freckles across your nose when we wrapped up in April but not when we began in January. They came on soft and subtle, sort of like I tried to…” “You realize this is the obituary section, right? Not the Dating Game, not your online dating portal, whatever you call it these days? Obituaries? Dead people?” I said, “yes” softly into my phone, feeling ridiculous. I’d tried every other avenue from social media to the ‘I Saw You’ section of the newspaper. This was an unlikely place to find love but maybe if she read the obituaries obsessively like me, maybe if she subscribed to The Globe and Mail, Hannah would see it. “It’s your dollar,” the voice on the phone replied. “Anything else?” “Your name is Hannah and you were in my Medieval Philosophy class at UVic. You can reach me at this number, if you’re interested.” “Uh huh,” the voice said. “I’ll send the proof to your email. Can’t say this is my typical write up but good luck to you, I guess.” I got off the phone and sat on my couch, feeling the solitude of my red cheeks and brimming eyes.
This has gotten out of hand, I thought. I had not seen Hannah since 1999, when we had one class together in university. Just one, and I never saw her around campus. But I never forgot her, either. She would be there before anyone else, hoodie pulled over her head, curls winding around her face like vines. She was always reading, usually poetry. That’s what made me try the fine arts writing program first. I had friends there. But no one knew her. Her favourite was ee cummings. Once, when I sat beside her, she showed me her favourite poem of his. In Just-, about the goat-footed balloonMan. It always stuck with me. She always stuck with me. I pushed myself off the couch and walked to the kitchen. It was really just a stove, sink and mini fridge, not much of a room on its own. The little counter space there was covered in wine bottles. I used my corker slowly, carefully, and then warmed the red wax in a tin plate on the stove burner. I dipped the top of each bottle in the wax, sealing it. The small piece of paper inside rattled around as I did so. The walk to the beach was brisk and biting. The wind snapped at me as I made my way. I walked down the shore to the water and, looking around me, reached into my messenger bag. I pulled out one of the green glass bottles and tossed it quickly, hoping no one would see me. By the time I finished, three had washed up on the sand beside me and a cop was walking my way. I gathered the bottles and stuck them back in my bag. I could feel the red rising in my cheeks again. “What have you got there?” the officer asked, striding quickly toward me.
“Just, I know it sounds silly,” I began, my voice quavering. “Just sending a message in a bottle.” I pulled out one of the bottles to show him. He grunted. “That’s littering,” he said. “I should give you a ticket for that.” “Please, don’t,” I said. “I just wanted to find someone…” “Don’t we all,” he said, laughing. “Ok, now, get out of here. Have you tried going online?” Older people were always saying that, like the Internet was still a new invention, something I couldn’t think of on my own. But they had no idea how many Hannahs were out there. There were a lot, as I was about to find out. The first call came a week after I sent the balloon messages flying over Stanley Park. The second came the same day. “I’m not your Hannah, but…” They were lonely. I guess I was too, though I hadn’t seen it that way. I was on a mission. Hannah had meant something, and I needed to figure out what. I got together with the first two at a café in New Westminster. It seemed central – one was in Surrey, she read the obituaries, and the other was in Burnaby and found one of my balloons in a tree. What kind of people would respond to these messages? I wondered, trying not to think about what kind of person would write them.
I was the first one there, which confirmed what they’d both said – they weren’t my Hannah, either of them. She would have been there first, book in hand. We talked for two hours, comparing lives and loves and it was weird, but they both got why I would look for someone I’d barely known 20-some years before. They thought it was romantic, though I’d always thought of it as more of a puzzle to solve. I’d never found anyone who fit me and I believed Hannah would have. Was I right? Hannah Field was a nurse, a straight nurse, who was looking for straight love. She made that clear. But she didn’t have many friends because she worked so much and she really wanted to talk about why love was so elusive for her. Hannah Jenkins was into ceramics and didn’t worry too much about straight or gay, she said. She was happily bi and open to all possibilities. She came to the meet up not so much to discuss love as to explore another avenue. What if she was my Hannah, just not the original? It was a flattering proposal and if I wasn’t so set on finding the first Hannah I might have been tempted. But really, it had been so long, and I’d tried so hard. The problem was, I waited too long to look. I approached my old fine arts friends after two decades, when they barely remembered me, let alone who I had a crush on. It was embarrassing. The balloons, the psychics, the obituaries, all of it happened after I turned 40. I know what you’re thinking and you’re right, I’m probably not chasing Hannah, I’m chasing my own youth. I get it. I’ve been to the therapists too, I know the deal.
But it’s also loss I’m exploring, and nostalgia, and the almosts of our lives. It’s bigger than me, bigger than dating, bigger than whatever I felt in that classroom so many years ago. It’s the why of things. After meeting up with Field and Jenkins, I got other calls. Other women who weren’t the original Hannah but who were also searching for something and wanted to play a part in my search. Some of them tracked down other Hannahs for me. Soon there were 13 of us. Field decided to host a Hannah night at her house in Surrey. A sleepover with movies and of course, Hannah Gadsby: Nanette (I was relieved to find out there would be no Hannah Montana playing in the background – Field did love a theme). We all congregated in the small, white house with the perfect lawn. A motley collection of Hannahs and me. Some of the new Hannahs were there, ones I hadn’t met yet. It was exciting, how much this thing had spread. A search for a lost connection had led to so many new ones. After dinner and a few drinks, we crammed into the living room. I leapt on the couch squishing the woman who was sitting nearest the arm rest. “Hey!” she said, struggling to make room and laughing. “Sorry,” I said, looking at the smattering of freckles on her nose. “What?” the Hannah said, tilting her head a little. “Nothing,” I said and smiled. “Nice to meet you.” -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright Janaya Fuller Evans
10th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2022 Honourable Mention Fiction
NOBODY KNOWS HOW MUCH YOU LOVE HIM © Dean Gessie This is how your story begins. Your mother-in-law sings to your two-week old son, his hairless head droll contrast to her own stacked ash layers: “Fais dodo, Colas, mon p'tit frère. Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo.” We’ll call that mood, a rosy blush in the sunroom. It leaves you completely unprepared for the hook. Says Claudine, “He’s not breathing very well.” That catches your interest. You’re out of the sunroom and out of doors, contemplating space debris. But Claudine’s tone is composed, like she’s questioning the efficiency of a furnace. She frowns, shrugs her shoulders and channels your own denial. Now, of course, neither of you is to be believed. You fear a whopper at the end of that hook. Your wife appears. Her smile is amiable but dopy, the result of sleep deprivation and a ten pound six ounce, graduation gift. But a twenty minute nap is anesthetic only, causes a reversible loss of consciousness and sensation. There will be plenty of that soon: consciousness and sensation and terror. We’ll call that foreshadowing. You kiss your wife on the cheek, mention the weather, breakfast and the breathing thing. Emma immediately presses her ear close to Sebastian’s nose. It’s true. His breathing is shallow, but that’s normal, right?
You listen, too. There’s a game you’ve learned about willing data into the shape of your own desires, the shape of a fish, a game, it seems, whose returns improve if you’re the one frowning and shrugging your shoulders. In fact, you imagine the kinds of items that will kill this story from the get-go: bronchodilators, steroids or diuretics. Later, you can take him to the water, develop his lungs. Claudine keeps her distance, skulks, prowls, feigns indifference. You read respect for the parents, an admirable move. Only much later do you reimagine the moment as self-preservation, her glances behind and askance like those of a wild animal fleeing dogs. But not everyone escapes the dogs. The next day, they force you and Emma up a tree. We’ll call it the complication. You’ve been keeping an eye out and things aren’t looking good. That eye out is a compound lens, corrects and magnifies unpleasant truths. Sebastian will not nurse. The milk (lolo) makes a splatter sheet of his cheeks. He gasps for air almost as often as he sucks. You look at Emma; she at you. Foreboding is an iceberg on a fixed course. Suspense accompanies you into the Emergency Room at Southlake. As short fiction goes, this one’s a page-turner. The suspense is killing you. The triage nurse has a marked up copy of your story. You go directly into an examination room. The doctor’s face is the emotional colour of all things kind. His kind face and his white coat are the perfect plot device: deus ex machina. You invest in him the powers of a beneficent god. Problem solved. Case closed. “Thank you,” you say, “for seeing our son so quickly.” You imply that the doctor is making some kind of personal choice. Is it hubris or fear or imbecility? The doctor corrects you, says, “We don’t take chances with babies.”
Momentarily, you think of the suffering bipeds for whom health care is roulette. You feel self-conflicted about the suffering bipeds, but not for long. While the doctor looks at your son, you look at your wife. When did she arrive? Is it possible that she, too, has feelings for your son? You hug Emma because you need to be reintroduced. You need to be forgiven. “Something’s wrong,” says the doctor. “His lips turned blue when I used the tongue depressor. We’ll run some tests.” You stop listening after that. What these tests are, you have no idea. You and your wife stand in the waiting room. You hug and you cry. Ironically, the air conditioning makes cold comfort of Emma’s shoulder, the kind of imagery you get from a tearjerker. You fear it will end badly, this story of yours, that you will become parents whose loss is greater than the sum of their fears. The seedlings in the ground are blame. The kind doctor in the white coat says, “His heart is working too hard. We’re sending him to Sick Kids.” Emma is in the ambulance with Sebastian. You follow in the Dodge Sundance. It’s the middle of winter and the heater in your piece of crap car still doesn’t work. The ice on the windshield might as well be ice forming over a lake. You’re beneath the surface, peering up and into a reality that is increasingly opaque, rationing your oxygen, dreaming of cremation. You start to sob. Tears drop from your lashes onto the steering wheel. You imagine yourself an empath: I am my son struggling for life. The ambulance is travelling fast. You feel obligated to remain in its slipstream. The thought occurs to you that any sudden de-acceleration on the part of the ambulance could cause a
rear-end crash. You measure the lesser evil in your mind, living with the loss of your son against an apocalyptic inferno for the three of you. You keep the results to yourself. But the new doctor is less circumspect with her results. She’s looked at the tests and made her diagnosis. We’ll call it the crisis. Sebastian has coarctation of the aorta. He needs immediate surgery. You hear the rest of it through cottony walls of psychotropic drugs: congenital heart defect and localized deformity of the tunica media. You feel like an astronaut in space, one whose tether has been cut and whose oxygen is low. The doctor says Sebastian’s odds are very good. Of course, gamblers play good odds all the time. Gamblers lose more than they win. All you can think about are action verbs, gerunds like cutting, opening, retracting and sewing. You have no comfort zone with great odds and great verbs. Hours are compressed into minutes. Sebastian is on a gurney on his way to the surgery theatre. An attending nurse says, “Do you want to give him a kiss?” Did you hear final kiss? You don’t know. You press your lips against your son’s cheek. This can’t be the last time you see him alive. Hemingway might have written that story. You’re glad Hemingway is dead. At this point, the setting becomes important. You top up miles of pacing by going outside and navigating the block around the hospital. You fill the bowl of your pipe and light it because self-harm is the least of your worries. A sinister idea enters your mind. Maybe your son’s localized deformity is the product of your inhaling ammonia and arsenic? The seedlings of blame have found fertile ground here. Plot twist. You discover the real enemy. You discover religion. You conjugate the word fuck many times and it’s not a pleasant conversation with God. You don’t see that very often in popular fiction. Who would dare? You know who would dare. The hospital is full of parents
negotiating similar Faustian deals, adding and subtracting souls like beads on an abacus. In fact, you create of your lungs zeppelins of tobacco smoke, think, take me, instead. Ice pellets awaken you from self-absorption. You have an epiphany. Your wife is suffering, alone. Apparently, the world isn’t big enough for your feet and your hysteria, but your wife remains a point of light flickering in the holy of holies. In the waiting room, you hug Emma because you need to be reintroduced. You need to be forgiven, again. The next day, your baby becomes that astronaut in deep space, connected to life critical systems. He is lying in an adult bed with tubes attached to his side, his neck and his arm. A ventilator pumps breathable air into his lungs. He is still and alive and beautiful. The climax is as promised. You feel euphoric and buoyant. You feel like you’re floating in the salt water of a sensory deprivation chamber. All your years as an English teacher have prepared you for this one artless moment, the legendary happy ending. But don’t get too comfortable. It turns out that the denouement is a black hole from which Nobody returns. It turns out that this story isn’t your story, after all. In fact, it’s not even your son’s story or your wife’s story. Nobody writes this story. Nobody takes responsibility for its structure and outcome. If it will give you closure, imagine a ghost writer and a different kind of sensory deprivation chamber, the horizonless, salt water of a Dead Sea. But, really, Nobody’s in charge and Nobody listens to your prayers. You’ve won this round, but you can’t possibly win them all. So, you’re best to hug your baby while you can, smell and kiss him while you can. Because Nobody knows how much you love him and Nobody gives a shit.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright Dean Gessie
10th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2022 Honourable Mention Fiction
A WET RIGHT HAND © Alvin Ens
“So,” I say, “air pollution’s getting really bad in the valley.” “Unbelievable,” he responds, “even twenty years ago, when I came to the valley, had never heard of the ozone layer. Now the particulate count just keeps growing. Hadn’t heard of particulate either.” “Know what you mean,” I murmur, as I excuse myself and move on. I wander over to the punch bowl and help myself, being careful to hold the glass in my left hand so that my right hand is free. The etiquette manual reminds me, I don’t want a cold, clammy, perhaps wet, right hand to shake with. I introduce myself to a good-looking blonde next to me who is helping herself to the nibbles. “Hi, I’m Reg, work in Shipping.” Then add, “Floor manager,” hoping to impress her. She extends her hand, “Cherie, from Accounting. I recognize the name. Had no face to associate it with." “Bad day for air pollution in the valley,” I say. “No wind, just a slow drift in from the coast. The ozone layer’s taking another beating. Fifteen years ago, I hadn’t even heard of an ozone layer.” “You got that right,” she replies. “The latest nitrate count is up again over last month. I’m thinking of moving to the prairies.”
“Won’t help, with ozone depleting. Particulate’s probably better, especially nitrate count. But...” She moves on and I wander over to a group of three conversing quietly. I shake hands with each, glad that I followed the dictum of keeping the right hand free. They are all from Planning and I listen in; the talk is about fishing in northern lakes. I’m no fisherman but manage to add, “Must be nice to get away from all the air pollution in the valley.” My comment is ignored, and after some moments of learning about fly tying, which triggers a quick check with my right hand that my fly is closed, I decide to move on. I find more people in a little knot and join, shaking hands with a fellow on the periphery who needs to shift his drink from right to left to take my hand. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “nice evening.” My hand is much warmer than his clammy grasp. I take the lead, “It’s been unseasonably warm but at least it cools off for the night. Too bad the air quality is so bad. Makes you wonder about opening the window for night.” He brightens, “A lot of automobile emissions- a bit better in the morning at least. Maybe less industrial pollutants at night too. I like to breathe in at the open window first thing in the morning.” We listen to the on-going conversation. They are discussing teen pregnancy and abortion. Not safe topics for a plant social evening. We’re supposed to build rapport, staff morale. Tomorrow we have workshops on teamwork and increasing productivity. Can’t do that by raising conflict. I wander on, back to the snack table where I take a plate of nibbles, being careful to leave one hand free. I stand waiting for an opportunity to mingle to present itself. I meander back
across the room; I can’t find anyone from Shipping. Perhaps I could wander outside for a bit of fresh air. I step out the door and into a circle of people. The fellow next to me smiles a welcome and after a moment’s awkward wait he notices, “You didn’t bring your cigarettes?” I reply, “Yes, I mean no, I ...” “Here, have one of mine,” he says as he offers me his package. “No thanks, I don’t smoke, I...” “Then what are you out here for?” By this time the two of us are the centre of the conversation. “I came for a breath of fresh air,” I state. There is a sarcastic laughter as I realize that I am the only one not smoking in the circle. “I mean, I was hoping to ...” “Smokers have rights out here,” he speaks emphatically. “The fresh air is inside.” His companion adds, “I hear they’re thinking of bringing in a new loitering law. Thou shalt not stand at the entrance of a building with a cigarette in your hand. It’s a sin worse than panhandling.” The first turns to me, “So what are you, a spy for the environmentalists, checking on who’s poisoning the atmosphere?” I reply quickly, “I’m no spy. But do you know that there are eighteen carcinogens in tobacco?” Across the group an older man answers, “Yeah, there’s poison in everything. I heard the other day there’s toxins in mothers’ milk. So what are you going to do? I figure you might as well die doing what gives you pleasure.”
There’s a general chorus of agreement. “Yeah,” adds a youth, barely old enough to buy cigarettes, “just keep it in moderation.” They start discussing how much is moderation. I back away and re-enter the building. There is a small cluster in animated conversation and I stand at the edge and listen in. The group makes no attempt to be inclusive (rule number two). But then, rule three says introduce yourself. Shall I be impolite and butt in, or stand and wait to be noticed? I could walk away, but I resolve to stay and wait for a lull in the conversation. But it just won’t come. They are comparing prime ministers: Harper and Trudeau. Not a safe topic for building good will. I have just decided to withdraw when there is a bit of a lull and I say to the man on my left, “Hi, I’m Reg from Shipping.” He acknowledges me with a nod and asks, “Don’t you think this county would be better off if Harper had resigned three years earlier?” I hedge. I don’t want to offend and I’m on thin ice on a topic I know little about. I obfuscate and try to shift the subject, “It probably doesn’t matter much who’s in charge. It’s up to the whole country working together to fight ozone depletion and environmental pollution.” There is a distinct silence and then a rather loud retort, “Oh. What are you, a tree hugger, or something?” I reply evenly, “It’s not only trees. Do you know that a good sized lawn produces enough oxygen to sustain eight people?” Another pause, and then, “Oh. And what do your eight people do all winter when the lawns are not producing?” I have no answer, but it wouldn’t be heard above the laughter anyway. Someone continues, “Fertilizing, watering, mowing- takes more energy than the oxygen it puts back.”
There is a rapid burst of gunfire. “I like my lawn. It’s worth the cost.” “Lawns should go brown in summer- let em die; they’ll come back when it rains.” “No way. I didn’t come to BC to stare at brown lawns.” “People who let their lawns go brown have no self-respect. It’s shameful.” “I let my lawn go brown. I consider that responsible citizenship when the water reservoirs go down in summer.” “Three weeks without rain and you’re going to worry about a reservoir? Give me a break!” “About the only thing that needs a break is your nose!” I back away and flee the scene. I find another wanderer who’s carrying his drink in his right hand. I greet him without extending my hand, “Hi, I’m Reg.” “Hi, I’m Hugh.” “Nice to meet you, Hugh,” I say, hoping that I’m not accentuating a cheap pun. I don’t recognize him and ask, “Where ya from?” “Edmonton,” he tells me, “came here half a year ago.” The etiquette book reminds me that air pollution is a good ice-breaker topic and here is a perfect in (What is the air quality like in Edmonton? Or how does Edmonton compare for air pollution?). I ask instead, “So what brought you to a new province?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright Alvin Ens
10th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2022 Honourable Mention Fiction
WRAPPED IN BROWN PAPER © DK Eve
Hannah snatched the kettle from the stove before its piercing shriek could disturb her mother. She poured steaming water into a warmed pot and rested her elbows on the counter, observing the garden while the tea steeped. The back yard burst with blue, pink, and yellow of sweet peas, dahlias, and lilies. What a change from the mess it had become. Only two years before, the garden had been abundant with beets, beans, and rutabaga. Then, abandoned and neglected after her father died, creeping morning glory and thorny blackberry canes took over. Hannah, and her mother Ursula could not keep up. Hannah finally placed an ad offering the back yard to a gardener who needed space. A young woman from down the street was only too happy to clean up the space for her budding flower business. In exchange, Hannah and Ursula received a large bouquet each week. Hannah filled two rose-patterned cups with fresh tea, added honey and cream, and placed them on a tray to carry downstairs to Ursula’s suite. Their character home was in an established neighbourhood of arts and crafts-era buildings and mature oak trees in a city on the west coast. When they found it twenty-four years earlier, it was perfect for Hannah, her husband and baby
daughter, with a suite downstairs where her parents could stay when they visited from out of town. Hannah’s father had a way of filling every space he inhabited, talking loud and demanding attention, and he didn’t get the hint when she moved from Montreal to the west coast to put distance between them. There was no arguing with him when he had his mind made up, and when Hannah’s husband left within the first year, her father insisted they move in to help with the mortgage and the baby. Her parents took little time to pull up stakes and settle in the suite. “How are you, Mom?” Hannah asked. “Less pain this morning,” Ursula said, struggling to sit up. Hannah leaned over to prop pillows and help Ursula settle, then she handed her the teacup, picked up her own tea and took a seat next to the bed. Ursula loosened her robe, inspecting the scar etched like a red zipper on her chest. “It looks better,” Hannah said. Ursula blew on the tea, took a sip, and set her cup on the bedside table, between a vase of fresh flowers and a framed photograph of Ursula and Albert the year they were married. In the glossy black and white image, they could have been movie stars—Ursula with blond curls and cat’s-eye sunglasses, wearing slim, cropped pants, a blouse knotted around her narrow waist; Albert, tall, with slicked, dark hair, his arm over her shoulders, protective, gazing at her.
As she did every morning, Ursula adjusted the photo, straightening it on the table beside her. Hannah drank deeply from her tea, still hearing the words she shouted the last time she saw her father alive. “You stubborn old ass,” she’d said. Hannah had been making dinner for the three of them. She’d minced onions and garlic and was stirring the fragrant mixture in oil. “Needs more garlic,” Albert said, pushing her aside and butting in. He grabbed her knife and started peeling and chopping. “Hannah has it under control, Albert,” Ursula said, setting a salad on the table. “Don’t you start,” he replied. “This is my family recipe, you don’t know anything.” “Why don’t you stand up to him?” Hannah snapped at her mother. She grabbed a wine bottle from the fridge and filled a glass, stomping out to the front porch, while Albert took over the cooking. After dinner they played cards. Hannah fuming silently at her mother, knowing she was letting him win. “It’s easier this way,” Ursula had once said. “I know he’s overbearing but he means well.” Hannah kept her wine glass filled to tamp down her anger until her parents said good night and returned to their suite downstairs. Later that night she got the call. Her mother, weeping, “something’s wrong with Albert.” The scream of the ambulance, louder and louder as it approached. The paramedic’s futile attempts at chest compressions.
Albert on the gurney, his face grey and slack, his chest, clad in a partially buttoned pajama shirt, frail and sallow. Looking at his photograph, smiling and handsome and full of life, Hannah fought to forgive herself. In the months that followed her father’s death, Hannah helped her mother sort through paperwork, banking, and pensions. The overgrown garden was transformed. Together they filled a box with his clothes and delivered it to the Salvation Army. Uncluttered, the home felt airy, freer. Ursula seemed to blossom. She started travelling—San José to visit her son and granddaughter, Montreal to see her nephew, and back to Germany with her sister. A few months later inexplicable fatigue hit, and her doctor diagnosed heart disease, told her to take it easy until he could operate to open a blocked valve. “I think there’s cake in the freezer,” Ursula said. “Can you find some?” Hannah shook off the memories, placed her cup on the table, and walked to their shared storage area in the basement. Hand built wooden shelves lined the wall, stacked with jars of preserves. Some had an off-colour, greyish hue, and all were labeled in black marker. Garlic Beans 2002. Cucumber Relish 2010. Pickled Beets Ursula Likes 2018. Hannah shook her head. 2018: He would’ve canned those beets not long before he died. She rummaged the freezer, digging through icy blocks wrapped in brown paper, all marked in the same lettering. Big Salmon from Fishing with Gunther. Venison Sausage from Vern’s Buck.
“Mom,” Hannah called. “Your freezer’s overflowing. You should throw this stuff out.” She gave up and returned to the bedroom. Ursula was hugging the bedside photo. “He took good care of us, of everything.” She dabbed her eyes. “Where’s the cake?” Hannah sighed and returned to the freezer, plunging through chunks of old meat until she found the brown block in a transparent freezer bag. She brushed the layer of frost to reveal her father’s writing. Bundt Cake for Hannah 2019.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright DK Eve
2022 RCLAS Write On! Contest Fiction Winners & Honourable Mentions
Marlet Ashley.
After earning an M.A. in English Literature and Creative Writing at the U. of Windsor, she taught creative writing. Moving to Vancouver, B.C. she was a tenured instructor of literature and composition at Kwantlen Polytechnic University. Her publications include a novel, The Right Kind of Crazy (2018); travelogue picture books Crumblies do Skye and Crumblies do Paris; and seven children’s books in the Revelry on the Estuary Series. She facilitates a fiction writing group, The Group of Glacier Writers, who have published a collection of short stories Re-Collections (2021). She was a finalist for the 2012 John Kenneth Galbraith Literary Award. Her short story “A Day’s Work” was performed at the 2021 Woodstove Festival in Cumberland, BC. Two of her stories were published in Canadian Stories recently, “Scars” receiving honourable mention. Marlet lives with her husband, artist Pieter Molenaar, in Comox, BC.
Wren Handman
is a novelist, fiction writer, and screenwriter based in New Westminster, BC. She has published five novels, for adult and teen audiences, including Wire Wings (Parliament House Press) and Havoc & Happiness (Wandering Roots Press). Wren was the lead writer for The Switch, a TV comedy, and has written several films that are currently in production.
Janaya Fuller Evans
is a queer, non-binary person who is a former award-winning journalist turned fiction writer. They also have bipolar disorder and write about the liminal spaces between mental illness and wellness. They have contributed to multiple local and international publications. They were published in Pastel Pastoral Magazine, C*nsorship Magazine, and they received honourable mentions in the Royal City Literary Arts Society's Write On! Contest two years in a row, in 2020 and 2021. They live with their partner and children in a forest on a mountain in Burnaby, B.C.
2022 RCLAS Write On! Contest Fiction Winners & Honourable Mentions
Dean Gessie is an author and poet who has won dozens of international awards and prizes. Among other honours, Dean was included in The 64 Best Poets of 2018 and 2019 by Black Mountain Press in North Carolina. He also won the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award in England, the Allingham Arts Festival Poetry Competition in Ireland, the Creators of Justice Literary Award from the International Human Rights Art Festival in New York and the UN-aligned Poetry Contest in Finland. Dean’s short story collection – called Anthropocene - won an Eyelands Book Award in Greece and the Uncollected Press Prize in Maryland. He has a book of poetry forthcoming [goat song] from Uncollected Press.
Alvin Ens
was a high school English teacher. He calls himself a mentor, editor, poet, and writer of prose; he is a member of Fraser Valley Poetry Society and Fraser Valley Christian Writers and several clubs beyond. In 2005 the Abbotsford Arts Council awarded him Abbotsford’s outstanding literary artist.
DK Eve is grateful to have grown up in T'Sou-ke traditional territory. She’s a graduate of SFU’s The Writers Studio and lived in Victoria, Regina, Ottawa, and Montreal before returning home to Sooke. Vancouver Island’s characters and settings inspire award-winning poetry and short prose published in several journals and anthologies.
2022 WRITE ON! CONTEST COMMENTS FROM OUR FICTION JUDGE Anne Ramallo Fiction First Place: MARLET ASHLEY – DESIGN Fiction Second Place: Wren Handman – Bad Hersfeld Fiction Third Place: Janaya Fuller Evans – Recollecting Hannah Fiction Honourable Mentions Dean Gessie – Nobody Knows How Much You Love Him Alvin Ens – A Wet Right Hand DK Eve – Wrapped in Brown Paper First Place Design by Marlet Ashley An artful mosaic of moments and actions come together in this story to portray a long, often fraught marriage. Its husband and wife embody the cliche opposites attract. He’s an easygoing guy who sees beauty in life’s messiness; she’s an extremely competent person who possesses an unyielding sense of orderliness. As the husband, languishing with late-stage ALS, contemplates their life together from his picturesque vantage point on the beach, we see how these qualities drove them apart, and ultimately bring them together. Like the seaglass the characters used to create mosaics for one another as young lovers, these people have been tumbled smooth by the conflicts of a lifetime together, and have forgiven one another for the ways they “struggled through trying to impose themselves on each other.” Their actions toward one another are remarkably tender. This is love, brought to life. The author leverages the ocean setting to enrich the theme, extending the metaphor even into the couple’s home, where his blanket “seemed to undulate like the waves with the rhythm of the sea. It would be an easy thing for her to square away.” Every carefully wrought detail in this story makes its bittersweet ending as inevitable as an outgoing tide, but it still hits with a wave of emotion.
Second Place Bad Hersfeld by Wren Handman Ten years after surviving the ghettos and camps of World War II as a teen, Jack is returning to his small German hometown in search of healing. This narrative uses a creative dual structure, weaving family legend, told years later by Jack’s nephew, together with the immediate first-hand account of Jack, whose experience is packed with heartbreaking details. Jack’s observations gently evoke the horrors he has endured and add poignancy to his pilgrimage, “rubbing salt into the memory of happier times”–familiar faces from before the war, a familiar creak in an old stair, and the old monastery ruins where Jack finds “something peaceful in destruction so many centuries old.” His journey ultimately leads to Jack’s childhood home, where the emotion intensifies in a powerful way. By contrast, the family legend of Jack’s trip is short, bereft of detail, and ultimately positive. This interwoven structure illuminates the emotional chasm between personal experiences and the accounts that survive them. But it’s in this distance, the author implies, that healing and forgiveness can ultimately be found.
Third Place Recollecting Hannah by Janaya Fuller Evans
Sometimes, “the almosts of our lives” can grow into obsessions. Here, a middle-aged narrator embarks on a funny, unconventional, and ultimately moving search for Hannah, a girl from his Medieval Philosophy class twenty years prior who “had meant something.” But there are so many Hannahs in the world that finding the right one takes much more creativity than a simple Internet search! This story is a self-aware look at sentimentality and nostalgia, rife with tension between the rational and the romantic. The narrator throws messages in bottles into the sea, only to be threatened with a ticket for littering. The opening gripped me with its vivid dialogue and drew me in with the near-absurdity of the narrator’s antics as he attempts to solve a lingering puzzle from his youth and understand “the why of things.” The author seems to imply that this curiosity–though an incredibly personal experience–can be a uniting force, connecting an unlikely community of sentimental dreamers.
Fiction Honourable Mentions: Nobody Knows How Much You Love Him by Dean Gessie It starts with a simple observation: “He’s not breathing very well…” From there, the narrator follows his young son through a frightening series of medical procedures, grasping on to what he knows–storytelling, “willing data into the shape of your own desires.” This uniquely deconstructed story uses wordplay, occasional humor, and bountiful figurative language to make sense of a terrible incident. It shows how writing is our attempt to control and impose order on chaos.
A Wet Right Hand by Alvin Ens Reg From Shipping is determined to build rapport and morale during a company mixer. He’s read up on etiquette; he knows that it’s important to hold his glass in his left hand so he doesn’t end up with “a cold, clammy, perhaps wet, right hand to shake with.” This quirky, understated story shows a failure to connect. Even a supposedly safe ice breaker topic like air pollution drives people apart as Reg wanders awkwardly through the mixer. It’s not until he goes off script and follows his instincts that a potential connection opens up.
Wrapped in Brown Paper by DK Eve Two years after the death of her father, Hannah is still grappling with his absence, torn between her relief and her sense of guilt. He was one of those people who “had a way of filling every space he inhabited, talking loud and demanding attention.” Over the course of a quiet morning with her mother, Hannah’s perspective shifts. This touching story culminates in the basement freezer, where her dad’s careful labeling of provisions tells another side of his personality. “Thank you for the opportunity to judge this year’s Write On! fiction competition. It was a very eye-opening experience. I’ve entered several competitions, but this is my first time judging and I was shocked by how challenging it was. You received many high-quality entries–engaging narratives, artful use of language. What stood out to me about each of the winners was how they told a story bigger than the words on the page. They evoked detailed personal histories and exciting futures. They grappled with big questions. They placed me in the moment with their characters through strong voice and vivid detail, and their impact lingers after the last word. I hope you and your members enjoy the stories I’ve selected as much as I enjoyed them.” - Anne Ramallo