To Our Valued Members: All Royal City Literary Arts Society events held at Anvil Centre and other locations are cancelled until May 30, 2020. RCLAS events will continue with the reopening of city facilities. In Their Words, Tellers of Short Tales, Writing Workshops, Songwriter Sessions, and any National Poetry Month events have all been cancelled. In addition, Poetic Justice and Cat Musings have also been cancelled. Please watch for any updates on our website and social media. Thank you for your understanding during this difficult time. We must all do our part to keep everyone safe and stop the spread of Covid-19.
We will get through this together. Be kind. Be calm. Be safe. Be well. Please do not hesitate to contact RCLAS if you have any questions. Best Wishes to all our members and their loved ones. Keep on writing and bringing art into this world!! Sincerely, RCLAS Board of Directors March 21, 2020
Links for updated information and assistance: Fraser Health Authority https://www.fraserhealth.ca/ BC Centre for Disease Control http://www.bccdc.ca/health-info/diseases-conditions/covid-19 Public Health Agency of Canada https://www.canada.ca/en.html For artists, arts workers, and arts organizations, the GVPTA has created a COVID-19 Impact Survey where you can give a detailed breakdown on how you have been impacted, financially and otherwise. https://gvpta.ca/covid19_survey
WRITE ON! CONTEST 2020 Deadline April 1, 2020 Winners will be announced May 15, 2020 Submission Rules:
3 Categories: o Non-Fiction (1500 words max) o Fiction (1500 words max) o Poetry (1 page single spaced max)
Submit entry as a Word Document (Font Times New Roman, Size 12) 1st prize - $150, 2nd prize - $100, 3rd prize - $75 for each category. 3 honourable mentions in each category. Winners and honourable mentions will be published in RCLAS E-Zine, Wordplay at Work. Fees $10 per submission for members, $20 per submission for non-members. Annual RCLAS Membership $35 a year. Maximum three submissions per person, total combined in any of our categories. Previously published work will be accepted as long as author retains copyright. Cover letter to include Name, Address, Email, Phone, Category, Title, Payment option. Submissions to judges are anonymous. Visit www.rclas.com for list of judges. Current Board Members are not eligible to submit. Winner’s Reading Event: Date to be announced.
SUBMISSION and Payment OPTION 1: Pay via Paypal at www.rclas.com AND email entry and cover letter to writeon@rclas.com
SUBMISSION and PAYMENT OPTION 2:
Mail your cheque or money order to: Royal City Literary Arts Society Box #308 – 720 6th Street New Westminster, BC V3L 3C5 AND email entry and cover letter to writeon@rclas.com (DO NOT mail submission) For further information Email: writeon@rclas.com
“rclas members”
march issue 72
MASTER OF THE DANCE Š Jerena
Tobiasen
To me, a worn pair of dance shoes was an illustration of commitment to craft. That is, until one day in 2011 and a particular dance lesson. Twenty of us were assembled in a classroom, waiting for an instructor. Ten men and ten women stood in segregated lines against opposite walls of a long room. The men stood with their backs against a blank wall, facing a mirrored one where each of them was expected to observe their frame and how they held their partner within it. The women backed against the mirror. Precisely on the minute that the lesson was to begin, the senior instructor slipped through the door, which had been left ajar, and closed it quietly. He did not apologize or explain why our regular instructor was absent. He simply began the lesson with a scrutinizing glare that swept the room. We waited patiently while he sized up the skill set of each student; waited for him to invite us to cross the room and find a partner; waited for him to begin the lesson. I saw and heard it all, and yet, I saw and heard nothing, so focussed was I on the instructor’s shoes. Even now, I can see them clearly. They were black leather-topped shoes used for smooth dances like waltzes and foxtrots, creased
where the foot needed to bend, and worn from constant use. The condition of his shoes, I thought, confirmed his commitment to the art of his craft: ballroom dancing. The condition of his shoe tops, however, was not what attracted – and held – my attention. It was the sole of his right shoe. The stitching on the sole had worn through. With each step, that sole flapped ever so slightly. The instructor never took his eyes off of us. He watched us as a hawk watches a mouse, ensuring that we maintained our poise, that we understood the steps, that we placed and pressed our feet into the wooden floor, that we bent our knees, rolled our hips and held our frame. He watched us practise over and over until he felt us capable of advancing to the next sequence. Never once did our instructor mention his shoe. Never once did he misstep. He held his head erect and his back straight. He glided across the room from one couple to the next, fixing our flaws. As the class concluded, I realized that, while a worn pair of dance shoes may symbolize a commitment in time and an effort to craft, they do not a master make. It was that senior instructor’s unflappable presence, his skill, his dedication and his passion for dance that transcended the trifle of broken shoes. That day, I learned what it means to be a master of the dance.
------------------------------------------------- Master of the Dance copyright Jerena Tobiasen
Guard Dog Š Margo Prentice
October 19, 1918, when the troops were returning home from World War I, the first cases of the flu were reported in Winnipeg after three sick soldiers were taken off the train. They died two days later. This was a fast killing deadly epidemic. Within days thousands in the city were sickened with the Spanish Flu. Men returning from the Great War had carried the virus home. War wearied men came home to die and pass the flu to their families. The young and healthy were most vulnerable. It began as a cold and soon turned into terrible aching pains with fevers reaching 105. Death came quickly with a break down of the immune system as the lungs filled with mucus. A public ban closed schools, colleges and churches. In a small town outside of Winnipeg lived my grandparents Rose and her husband Omar. They owned a building that was grocery store, part restaurant, pool hall and barber shop all under the same roof. They lived in the back part of the store down the hall from the restaurant booths.
My grandmother Rose told me about the nut-cracker dog and how the horrifying flu epidemic of 1918 had affected them in their small town. The kitchen tool she used was an eight inch long, solid, heavy nutcracker shaped like an English sheep dog. It was popular in English households, a remnant from the Victorian era.
When the long tail was lifted the mouth opened. Into its
gaping mouth were placed nuts of all sizes. The tail was pulled down and the nuts were cracked open.
She pulled the front window curtain open and put the heavy alloyed silver dog onto the window sill so it would be in full view to those who looked to see if Rose was home. Townsfolk would know she and her husband were in the store and ready to serve them. The day was grey and cloudless with a cold wind blowing from the north. She could see that the big white outdoor thermometer read ten below and was slowly dropping.
The townspeople had gathered on the path leading to the front door of their store. White breaths of cold air blew upward as they moved slowly, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together. The first to approach Rose at the counter was James Arnold, whose two children had died a few days earlier. He had six other children recovering from the flu. This terrible epidemic had no boundaries; nearly every family in the town was affected, with one or more family members dying. There were seven people in line waiting for Rose and Omar to fill their orders for groceries. With pencil and paper in hand she was ready to begin.
James was the first to speak. “I’ll have some tea, a bag of garlic cloves if you have any left, pound sugar, a small ham and a big bag of Harcourt beans. Do you have aspirin?”
“Yes,” she replied. Rose took James’ order and handed the list to her husband Omar who gathered the items and put them in a brown paper bag.
“I hope the children recover soon,” she said. “I am very sad to hear about Sally and Johnnie.” Tears rolled down James’ cheeks as he turned and walked away without another word.
After the last customer left, Rose and Omar began to sort the new supply of groceries. When they were finished Rose sat down. She tried to hold back the tears, after all she was lucky. She had survived the flu herself and did not suffer the dreadful symptoms that had killed so many. Rose and Omar knew many of those who had died.
Rose took the dog “guard dog”, her name for the nutcracker, off of the window ledge to signify they were not open for business. Omar then prepared for the next round of customers by emptying boxes and stocking shelves. She was preparing herself to make the rounds with Dr. Springer to visit the homes
where the suffering was greatest. Omar would put the guard dog back on the window sill when Rose returned home.
Rose waited for Doctor Springer’s black model T Ford car horn to blast for her to come with him. She put on the clean white coat the doctor had given her and took out a fresh white mask. Doctor Springer had given her a bottle of an alcohol and water mix to wash her hands to help prevent infection. The Doctor had cared for hundreds of people and never caught the flu himself. Every day at the same time, Rose and the doctor would visit the sick. She wasn’t a nurse, but she helped Dr. Springer, by feeding and washing the sick. When she returned home the dog went back onto the window sill to show that she was home and they were open for business.
Everyone was nursed at home. helped each other.
If they were able, neighbours
The Catholic Women’s League cooked meals in their
church kitchens. The food was delivered by healthy older citizens to those too sick or ill to cook.
The Winnipeg Tribune newspaper was delivered to their home once a week. Rose read that eight-five percent of the Indians on the reservation near Norway House had died. She read the sad story of the death of Alan McLeod of Stonewall, who lived not too far from her town. Rose had met Alan at a barn
dance once. He died days after his return home. She read that at eighteen he was Canada’s youngest Victoria Cross winner. He had returned from the war, survived a burning plane crash but not the silent killer.
The winter of 1918/1919 was the worst. During the deep drop in freezing winter temperatures, the ground was too frozen to bury the dead; some were placed on the roof tops to wait until spring to be buried. The overflow of bodies was stored in silos as well. In the spring when the ground was soft enough to dig, a mass funeral was held. Rose and Omar walked down the main street of their town to the small village church in the long funeral procession to bury all those who had died during the winter.
Lists of the dead and missing from the war had not been washed away by the time the spring thaw came. The names faded as the wind blew against the list of heroes on the lamp posts. The flu ran its ravaging course and subsided in 1919 with a total of 50,000 Canadians dead from the flu. Others left weakened by the disease died later.
* My grandmother left me ‘guard dog’ and I have kept it at my front door ever since it was given to me after her death. I never used ‘guard dog as a nutcracker. He is a token of her protection over my home. He sees to it that no evil or illness enters my house. ----------------------------------------------------------- Guard Dog copyright Margo Prentice
Muriel’s Journey
Poetry Prize Prizes up to $100 Deadline for submissions: March 31st, 2020 Prize announcement: May 20, 2020 Poems will be judged by people in the writing community. Please see the contest rules at https://www.facebook.com/murielsjourney
If you’re not on Facebook, email us below for more information murielsjourney@gmail.com
Flash! By Isabella Mori Karen Schauber, one of the Queens of Flash Fiction, gave a great workshop at RCLAS in January about this delightful genre. She is definitely one of my inspirations. If you have a chance to catch one of her workshops, go! You can find her here: https://vancouverflashfiction.weebly.com/. Another inspiration is the online magazine Every Day Fiction, where I have been a slush reader for a while. My latest one, though, is the hashtag #vss365 on Twitter. The hashtag stands for “very short stories, 365 times a year.” And it’s really very short – 280 characters or less. Every month, a new writer sends out a daily prompt, and then dozens of writers tweet their stories and poems. Here is one I wrote a few weeks ago: “How many times do I have to tell you?! Don’t speak until you’re #spoken to!” The blow made his glasses fly across the room. The little boy never uttered a word again. Not even, years later, when his father asked for forgiveness. @moritherapy Look for yourself and enjoy the wide variety of stories – humour, science fiction, fantasy that looks almost like free verse, tragedy … There’s room for just about anything you can imagine. Or better yet, come join us, write your own story!
I have now begun a book of the unexplained. If you have any experiences, i.e., supernatural, psychic, ET/UFO, ghostly visits, etc., you know, all those events that you have seen from the “unseen” around you, the ones that you have never told anyone for fear of ridicule or worse. Having had experiences myself, I would have to say, people not believing me would be the worst. Any kind of experience which cannot be explained through conventional logic, rationalization or understanding; those things generally ignored or denied by much of the human populace. The only identifiers used will be first name only and the country in which you live. If you wish to use a fake first name, please, do let me know when you send your story. This book is an outlet for you; a place where you can finally share that amazing experience. I am inviting stories from all around the globe. I am not sure at this point (as I am just beginning), how big the book will be, or how many stories will be included. These things, along with the title of the book, will come as we work through this process. Guidelines stories
should be sent to heartworkspoetry@gmail.com, be sure to include your contact information stories should be kept to a maximum of 3 pages in length because of the book nature, I cannot really put a deadline on this. It is a sensitive project and will take some time for those who have experienced these things to feel that they are/are not ready to share. All entrants will be advised when it is felt enough experiences to complete a book have been received. At that time, the decision for inclusions will be made, and each contributor will be notified by email. (You can submit a maximum of 3 stories/events) no racism, no inappropriate language, or any of the other concerns as this book will be a book all will be able to read. I invite you to submit and look forward to hearing your story. We. Are. Not. Alone Thank you, Deborah L. Kelly Poet/Author/Artist
some “stuff” we did!
In Their Words with host Ruth Kozak on Jan 16, 2020, Anvil Centre Franci Louann read Elizabeth Bachinsky (poet) Sherry Duggal read Mary Oliver (poet) Neall Ryon read Richard Bach Top: RCLAS Members Stephen Karr, Lozan Yamolky, & Janet Kvammen with Sherry Duggal, Neall Ryon.
Bottom: Janet, Sherry, Franci Louann, Host Ruth Kozak, Neall Ryon.
Director Carol Johnson introduces facilitator Joan B. Flood at her February workshop, It’s Alive! Putting Inanimate Objects to Work.
We have all have a choice about how we react to difficult situations. Here at the Creative Academy for Writers we choose community. We choose connection. We choose to come together around our common passion—storytelling! We are opening our doors wide to welcome in our writing friends who need a little extra support right now. Some company, some positive distractions, and a whole lot of great content and events to bring us all together is waiting for anyone who needs it. No credit card required. Want to join the writing party? All you have to do is click the link and come on in... doors are open! https://creativeacademyforwriters.com/ Sharing is caring, so if you're part of a writing group or have a writer friend you think could use something to brighten their day, pass along the signup link!
Crystal Hunt, Donna Barker & Eileen Cook