May/June 2019 RCLAS Wordplay at Work, Issue 64

2019 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: Jude Goodwin) Poetry First Place MEG STAINSBY – TILLIE’S COLANDER Poetry Second Place: Carlie Blume – Boxing Day Poetry Third Place: Chelsea Comeau – Girls in Summer Poetry Honourable Mentions P.W. Bridgman – A Family Gathers Fran Bourassa - Birthright Meg Stainsby – Late Comfort

NON-FICTION WINNERS (Non-Fiction Judge: JENNIFER M. SMITH) Non-Fiction First Place BRYANT ROSS – JACK PLANE Non-Fiction Second Place: Alexander Hamilton-Brown – Crocs in Cottage Country Non-Fiction Third Place: W. Ruth Kozak – Fire Dancing Non-Fiction Honourable Mentions Don Smith – First Lesson Susan Flanagan – What a dragonfly taught me Bryant Ross – Priorities

FICTION WINNERS (Fiction Judge: CLAIRE LAWRENCE) Fiction First Place: DONNA TERRILL – SUMMER GONE WRONG 1979 Fiction Second Place: – Tatjana Mirkov-Popovicki – Welcome to Canada Fiction Third Place: Annis Teller – Fly Away Fiction Honourable Mentions Patricia M. Evans – The Iron Maiden Aaron Barry – A Fair Critique V.J. Hamilton –

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2019 WRITE ON! CONTEST COMMENTS FROM OUR POETRY JUDGE JUDE GOODWIN 2019 Poetry Contest Winners First Place: Meg Stainsby – Tillie’s Colander Second Place: Carlie Blume – Boxing Day Third Place: Chelsea Comeau – Girls in Summer 2019 Poetry Honourable Mentions P.W. Bridgman – A Family Gathers Fran Bourassa - Birthright Meg Stainsby – Late Comfort First Place Tillie’s Colander by Meg Stainsby This is a beautiful tribute to a mother’s love for her daughter. At the same time, it is a thoughtful recognition of the confusing mix of pain and pride a mother feels when her child is grown and ready to move out into the world. The setting - a shopping trip for the daughter’s new apartment - is perfect. The daughter is excited and “neglecting to conceal her zeal / or slow her gait” while the mother lags behind, steeped in nostalgia. The fulcrum of their interplay is a colander and what a delightful metaphor! Will a cheap plastic colander be good enough to keep the daughter fed and safe? Indeed, mother thinks not and switches it for enamel which will be “strong / enough to withstand bacteria and loss.” The bacteria symbolic of all things threatening the daughter once she’s out of the safety of home. And loss, of course, symbolic of the mother’s new life which will be, like the colander, full of holes. In the final lines of the poem we come to understand that with the help of her mother’s love and support, the daughter too will be “free-standing, sturdy, strong.” The use of everyday settings and objects to show so completely these kinds of bittersweet moments in life demonstrates skillful technique. Well done.

Second Place Boxing Day by Carlie Blume It’s impossible not to connect viscerally to this poem, which deals with the topic of sexual abuse. Immediately we are devastated both for the child and the mother. But the poet doesn’t languish in sentimentality. The speaker is a strong little girl who is angry but will survive and we celebrate her courage. I enjoyed the extended metaphor of water and the sea. The daughter’s revelation leads to a ‘deep sea sting,’ she is ‘oyster shucked/feather plucked’ like a sea creature.

The visual layout of the work aids in the story with the horrible details off to the right, separated from the interactions between daughter and mother. In the left aligned segments we are shown the love the girl has for her mother, and the sorrow she feels having to tell her mother what the grandfather did. There’s skill in the telling of this tale, with rhymes so unforced they seem almost accidental. It is a well-crafted poem dealing with a most difficult subject. Bravo to the poet.

Third Place Girls in Summer by Chelsea Comeau There’s such wonderful detail in this fun poem which captures a perfect summer day – the sprinkler, the ice cream truck, the sleeping bags, and of course, the girls. The story is grand. But what really makes this poem stand out is the language. “Warblers bloom.” Girls leap ‘scissorlegged’ through the sprinkler, and the “water holds onto the light and gleams like broken glass flung into the air by an earthquake.’ The imagery takes us elsewhere – into the halcyon days of our own youth when we stood on the threshold to adulthood. That the crickets could rise ‘like a lullaby’ then abruptly rise ‘like the roar of kerosene stars’ is testament to the wild contradictions of those times. I especially loved the close. A full moon rising reflects the womanhood rising in the girls, a womanhood that will certainly ‘light up the pale hairs on their arms / and set their skin on fire.’

Additonal Comments for Honourable Mentions:

1st HM A Family Gathers by P.W. Bridgman This is a quiet poem packed with illuminating detail. A family sits around a table with their lawyer, going over a will. They are being required to accept that the deceased man (husband, father) had sired a son unknown to them. The 16 lines tell a huge story which spans history, nationhood, secrets, and family. Amazingly much of the telling is through descriptions of chipped dishes, a frayed tablecloth and the family arms. Skillfully, the poet also uses a solid rhyme scheme that does not interfere with the tale. I look forward to hearing the poet read the piece out loud.

2nd HM Birthright by Fran Bourassa In this riveting piece about family tragedy which comprises both a drowning and a suicide, the poet skillfully tells their tale with stark images. “Footprints dug deep into the beach” shows us a man running into the water to save his drowning son. “Striped umbrella upset, sand / scattered over the tablecloth” speaks to the catastrophic disruption caused by the event. The language is highly restrained in contrast to what is actually going on and makes the whole scene very vivid. As well, the juxtaposition of the baby in his mother’s womb and the churning sea is very cleverly extended metaphorically throughout the poem. A truly sad story adroitly told.

3rd HM Late Comfort by Meg Stainsby Late Comfort is a touching story of a woman who watches two young people flirting at the drugstore and remembers suddenly what that was like - “skin pressing skin / the arch of a back.” Desperately wanting to be touched, she returns to her barber – even though it’s too soon since her last visit –so she can “surrender to his hands.” where it’s not the woman but her hair that is ‘wanton’ – as soon as it is cut, it’s “aching to grow.” I enjoyed the amusing contrast between the two young people full of life and the senior woman “one aisle over, clutching/creams and magazines.” This is a fun poem with a deeper undertow that speaks to the loneliness and loss experienced by many people as they age. “ Congratulations! Thank you” Jude Goodwin

2019 WRITE ON! CONTEST COMMENTS FROM OUR NON-FICTION JUDGE JENNIFER M. SMITH

2019 Non-Fiction Contest Winners

First Place: Bryant Ross – Jack Plane Second Place: Alexander Hamilton-Brown – Crocs in Cottage Country Third Place: W. Ruth Kozak – Fire Dancing 2019 Non-Fiction Honourable Mentions (in no particular order) Don Smith – First Lesson Susan Flanagan – What a dragonfly taught me Bryant Ross – Priorities First Place Jack Plane by Bryant Ross It was not difficult to choose this piece as the winner among the NF submissions. It is a perfectly executed story that takes you on a journey through generations all set in the small space of a woodworking shop. I could smell the wood shavings and hear the jack plane move. It is beautifully yet simply told tale of passing the torch from father to son to daughter. Not overly sentimental, but deeply heartfelt, Jack Plane will put a lump in your throat and tears in your eyes. It will make you glad for all the good things your parents gave you.

Second Place Crocs in Cottage Country by Alexander Hamilton-Brown It was not as easy to choose the second and third place winners. This was a close call. I enjoyed the tightly written Crocs in Cottage Country. I was impressed by the character development through dialogue. The story brings a Russian immigrant and a Texan croc wrangler to life in just 3 pages. It left me with a smile on my face. Well told.

Third Place Fire Dancing by W. Ruth Kozak As I mentioned, it was a difficult decision between 2nd and 3rd place. Fire Dancing is also a well told story, an amusing adventure travel tale that was both informative (about the Anastenarides dancers) and humourously entertaining. The story closes very well, tying in the experience of the accidental overdose with the out-of-body experience of fire dancing.

“Thank you for trusting me to judge the 2019 Write On! Contest non-fiction entries.

I enjoyed the experience.”

Regards, Jennifer Smith

2019 WRITE ON! CONTEST COMMENTS FROM OUR FICTION JUDGE CLAIRE LAWRENCE

2019 Fiction Contest Winners

First Place: Donna Terrill – Summer Gone Wrong 1979 Second Place: Tatjana Mirkov-Popovicki – Welcome to Canada Third Place: Annis Teller – Fly Away

2019 Fiction Honourable Mentions Patricia M. Evans – The Iron Maiden Aaron Barry – A Fair Critique V.J. Hamilton – A New Start

First Place Summer Gone Wrong 1979 by Donna Terrill This story is rich in characters, subtext, and vivid sensory descriptions. The writing is tight and well-paced. The reader is welcomed to an isolated, slow-paced summer town. A place where locals meet and gossip in the bar. However, “this summer felt out-of-step, the normal cadence, off-tempo. For one thing, there was a beer strike.” Everything is off, including the main character. Fiona, mother of preschoolers, always stops by the bar after work to “change gears.”

From her we learn about the town’s puzzling incidents “someone tried to burn down the post office.” And, two local “boys” go missing. One of the missing is a vulnerable man-child. His description is one to remember. I was hooked, and didn’t want to stop reading this exceptional story. Congratulations!

Second Place Welcome to Canada by Tatjana Mirkov-Popovicki “When the endless umbrella of the Vancouver sky opens up above your head for the first time, you will have just become an immigrant in Canada.”

The story unfolds lightly, even though it addresses the hard truths of being an immigrant. What emerges is a series of instructions for new comers, and what to do if the money runs thin or you find yourself living in the shady neighbour. I enjoyed the fluid writing, and understated descriptions like, “You and your friends will see yourselves as clumps of tumbleweed in a flowering meadow.” Anyone who has left their homeland will relate to this story. Those who have never left their birth land will get a glimpse into the struggles of adjusting to a new culture.

I hope this author continues to write engaging stories as this one.

Third Place Fly Away by Annis Teller It is difficult to convey a story about a character’s emotional limitations in under one thousand words. The writer for this piece did an excellent job. The main character finds himself at an airport, and by coincidence sees at a girl who could have been part of his life. But, he was and still is emotionally incapable. This story had to be read with care. A whole backstory was tucked into a single sentence. “He moved toward security with restless feet, followed the ropes that outlined a serpentine path instead of a boxing ring, thick ropes that could abrade naked skin and made him studiously avoid thoughts of his childhood basement.” I’m sure we’ll see more writing from this talented author.

“It was a pleasure and honour to read so many wonderful stories. I read each several times.

The winner stood out. I made remarks on the top three stories, and selected three honourable mentions.”

Warm Regards, Claire Lawrence

Watch for the winning submissions to be published in upcoming issues of “Wordplay at work”.

Summer 2019 ---- Fiction September 2019 ---- Poetry October 2019 ---- Non-Fiction

Claire Lawrence has been published in Canada, the United States, United Kingdom and India. Her work has been performed at the National Gallery, UK, and on BBC radio. Claire’s work has appeared in numerous publications including Geist, Litro, Ravensperch, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Curating Alexandria and Bangalore Review. Her creative non-fiction appeared in Just for Canadian Doctors Lifestyle Magazine. Claire Lawrence has a number of prize winning stories, including winning RCLAS Write On Fiction Contest 2018. She was nominated for the 2016 Pushcart Prize. Her goal is to write and publish in all genres. She lives in British Columbia, Canada.

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Claire Lawrence, 2019 Judge 6th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2018, First Place, Fiction

Claire Lawrence

Silenced I wake with a dull headache, deathly, disoriented. A murder of small, dirty children, pinked lipped and snotty are squawking. Twelve days now living in the school gym.

A mother calls out, “Has anyone seen Mr. Binky? Please, I need to find him!”

Her child has lost his stuffy. The mothers commiserate and search.

The boy is about three, with thick, black hair. He reminds me of my knobby-kneed colt, and I feel ill and angry. Some things you can’t carry away with you in an evacuation.

I lash out, “It’s just a toy.”

His mother gives me the evil eye and tugs her son into the soot-filled creases of her arms. The child continues to howl. I rise and drift away.

Gliding through the obstacle course to the canteen, I note the sum of someone’s life grabbed in minutes: toys, a collection of small wood carvings, a hockey trophy, photo albums.

There is nothing under my cot. More screeches, moans, people crying. The racket is insufferable. I need a coffee and must get outdoors. There’s a map at the canteen. The red zone means the fire is raging out of control. My home is in that area. It’s grim. Coffee in hand, I slip out the door into the dim morning light.

At the playground, I sit on a bench and look at the swings and a cluster of small bushes. I spill my coffee. It disappears into the dust.

“God help me!” I cry and stomp on the cup. An empty plea.

With a shaking hand, I light a cigarette and inhale deeply. Ribbons of soft, grey smoke meld with the fetid air. The alien sun has risen burnt orange and casts a golden glow through the particles of carbon. An eerie calm. West, the sky is charcoal. Lightning set fire to

a bush, which beget a blaze the size of a small Canadian province. I breathe in the bitter taste of carnage—insects, deer, camper vans, and Hydro lines. The toxic fumes will cure in my lungs long after the flames have burnt out.

Another long drag on my cigarette. I chuckle. I’ll blame the fire for my lung cancer, should it appear. The dirt near the swing moves. The ground is bubbling upward. I butt out my smoke and investigate. A small rock rolls down the mound, and a brown pointed nose with flaring nostrils appears.

It’s a vole.

Seeing it gasp for air makes me think of home and how I tried to kill every vole on my property. The beastly vermin had carved tunnels into my lawn and vegetable garden. I tried to drown them with the garden hose. They lived.

Can voles survive a fire that burns trees to the roots? They’re resourceful creatures. Like cockroaches. I’m sure they will.

What about the other animals? My horses? I don’t want to think about them, but I do. It’s spring and Ellie’s in labour. I couldn’t get a vet to help with the delivery. I stayed with her as she struggled, and the foal came out ass-backwards and floppy. I filled his lungs with air, with life. He snorted and kicked. A tough little fella. Though his coat is jet black, I called him Bailey, after the drink I needed that arduous night.

The summer brought drought and a plague of flies. Ellie whipped at them with her tail. Bailey went bonkers and hit his hind leg on the stable door, causing a limp. The summer fires began. I thought they were miles away. The government brought in extra firefighters.

Planes flew by. Evacuations happened. Not for me. I believed I was in control.

The winds picked up, salting the sky in ash. Phone lines went down. In twenty-four hours, the nearby hillside was roaring. Still, I thought I could wait it out. The whoop of a police car told me otherwise.

The officer shouted. “Move out. That’s an order.”

“My horses!”

I took off towards the barn. A car door slammed and heavy steps came after me. But he didn’t take me down—he beat me to the stable. I grabbed Ellie’s rein and handed it to the cop. Bailey refused to budge, so I put a sack over his head and hauled him out the door. At the edge of the property, I cried Go! They disappeared.

It’s all my fault.

I hear the creak of a swing and realize I’m on my knees. My throat is clotted and tight, yet a prayer escapes. I flop on the ground bawling unconsolably until I’m cried out. I heave and breathe. My nose is planted by the vole hole, fresh and metallic. I snuffle and sneeze.

Lying sideways, I follow the irregular flight of a butterfly. It evades a predatory dragonfly and flits to safety. A tingling sensation on my hand announces the presence of an ant. It scuttles over my liver spots before disappearing between my index finger and thumb. The world isn’t grey and dead. There are patches of life.

I hear rustling coming from under a bush. Sitting up, I spot a squirrel— and Mr. Binky.

“Found you!”

I hug the black bear. He gives me hope.

Inside the gym, I hand the stuffy to the wailing child. He calms and we sit, silenced.

Jude Goodwin’s poems and prose have been published in print and online by various journals and anthologies.

They have won or placed well in the IBPC: New Poetry Voices competition, were twice shortlisted in the CBC Radio Literary Awards, and were recent winners in the 2018 RCLAS Write On Poetry Prize and the 2018 Jack Grapes Poetry Prize.

Jude is a founding member of the Squamish Writers Group, founder and co-editor of The Waters, an online poetry workshop and founder and co-editor of the Sea to Sky Review. Jude is currently pursuing a degree in Creative Writing with Douglas College. Her first chapbook, The Night Before Snow, was published in the fall of 2018.

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Jude Goodwin, 2019 Judge 6th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2018, First Place, Poetry

Jude Goodwin

There I was again writing urgently about the rain as if it would ever stop or change somehow into something ordinary like brushing ones teeth or filtering the cat litter through a slotted scoop.

Truth is, if you walk outside and water falls from the sky that's pretty amazing.

Or a breeze filled with petals from the cherry tree on Eagle Run, or once what sounded like hail turned out to be thousands of green caterpillars dropping from the sky onto our fibreglass porch cover.

One long weekend in May a few years back it was ash that fell, covered everything and pretty much ruined the summer. I read about a man in Alaska driving along at night when a moose fell from the sky onto the road in front of his car.

Well it's not really falling though is it.

More like an elemental joining of things above with the things already below.

Even light wants to be here It clings to the raindrops looking for weight.

If you walk outside and water falls from the sky and someone kisses you that can be amazing and elemental and probably the cells of a thousand poems will slough off and fall to this extraordinary earth.

Jennifer M. Smith is an offshore sailor and a writer. She writes essays and memoir in short stories. Her work has been published in print in The Globe and Mail and Canadian Stories, and on line on Feminine Collective, CommuterLit, Scottish Book Trust, Quick Brown Fox and 50Word Stories. Her work won first prize for non-fiction in the 2018 Royal City Literary Arts Society Write On Contest. She currently lives a land-life in Burlington, Ontario.

Jennifer M. Smith, 2019 Judge

6th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2018, First Place, Non-Fiction Jennifer M. Smith

In A Laundry Room On Virgin Gorda

I was on Virgin Gorda, ashore at 8:00 a.m. doing my last loads of laundry before the trip south. Out of the wash and into the dryers, I was waiting to start folding. In came the cleaning lady, an older black woman, local, probably in her late sixties.

“Good morning”, I said.

“Good morning”, she replied, her speech thick with an island accent. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Jennifer,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Ariel,” she said.

Her childlike directness and something about her mannerism, a slight slur in her speech, a limping eyelid, had me wondering if she might be slightly handicapped. A laundry room cleaner at a little beach hotel, a Sunday morning, mopping up the floor around the leaky washing machines, who wants that job?

“You on a boat?” she continued with her frank queries.

“Yes” I said.

“How many?”

“Two.” “Your husband?”

“Yes,” I said elaborating, “my husband and I are here on our boat, we’re anchored just out there.”

“Where are your children?” she demanded to know.

“I don’t have children,” I answered. “It’s just me and my husband on the boat, just the two of us.”

“No children?” She peered into my face. What kind of woman has no children? she seemed to be thinking. I was shaking my head. She paused. Maybe she had misunderstood. Maybe I had children but they were somewhere else. She felt the need to double check. “No children?” she asked again with a note of incredulity.

“No, I don’t have any children,” I answered.

She stared, sizing up the wrinkles around my eyes, my skin damage, my hair, natural or colored? I suspected she was trying to determine my age, maybe there was still time for me. Maybe there was hope.

“No babies?” she asked a third time just to be sure.

I never want to answer that question. It brings back too much. If I answer at all I keep it short and move the conversation along. But sometimes I just blurt it out - a blunt answer to a blunt question.

She plunged the mop head into the wringer.

“No babies,” I said. “I had one baby but the baby died. After that no more babies.”

This was final. She stopped mopping. She looked me in the eyes.

“One baby? Baby died?” she asked stunned.

“Baby died,” I said.

Her head dropped a little and shook from side to side. No. This news was not okay.

“Baby born dead?” she asked bluntly. She needed to understand this.

“Yes, I said,” simplifying.

“At hospital? Baby dead at hospital?”

“Yes,” I said again. This was not the whole story, and not exactly the truth, but I was not going to try to explain. It was complicated.

“Baby born dead and no more babies?”

“The baby died at the hospital and after that I had no more babies,” I said as a matter of fact. This was all true. Paralyzed, she tried to take it in. Sensitive to her discomfort I summed it up for her, “It was a very sad time,” I said.

“Very sad,” she agreed.

Slowly she resumed her work, moving her mop in semi-circles over the smooth cement floor. “Very sad,” she said again before shuffling out of the laundry room to continue her chores on the porch.

In a moment she was back.

“Your baby, boy?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “a boy.” Again, not the whole story but not having answers is so difficult. I know. So, I gave her the answers she needed.

“Boy baby, born dead,” she summarized. She was picturing it now and looking at me, hard, searching my face, questioning my eyes.

How had I survived this? How had I gotten up every morning and lived each day after this, after a baby died in the hospital? Again, she wandered out muttering to herself, “Boy baby die no more babies.”

The floor by now was perfectly clean, she had mopped up the puddles and emptied the garbage bins. There was no more cleaning to be done, but Ariel kept coming back. It was as though she couldn’t bear to leave me alone with this news, as if this had all just happened. On this sunny Sunday morning a woman in the laundry room had a dead child. Someone should be with her. She kept swinging back in to check on me.

I was folding the last of my clothes. She could see I would soon be leaving. She had one more question.

“Your son, how old is he?” she asked using the present tense.

“Nineteen,” I said without a moment’s hesitation. “He would be nineteen now. He would be a young man.”

“A young man now,” she repeated, knowing all that I had lost.

“Nineteen.”

“It was a long time ago,” I said, jamming the smalls into my laundry bag. “It was a sad time, a long time ago.”

Jennifer M. (“Duffy”) Smith

A House for Duffy

“Hawk,” my Dad said, lifting a finger from the steering wheel.

“Where, where?” came a chorus of three eager voices from the back seat. My sisters and I looked out the car windows, searching, each of us wanting to be the first to see it.

“Back there,” my Dad said, “on a post.”

“Ahh,” we answered dejectedly. We missed it.

We were driving from Oakville to Cambridge on a Sunday afternoon to visit Granny and Grandpa Drew. I imagine my Dad resented it a little. He worked six days a week as a teacher and housemaster at a Private boys school and spending a Sunday with the in-laws on a day that was perfect for a game of golf was probably not his idea of fun, but he said nothing. He wasn’t a complainer. He was a man of few words.

He drove with his freckled left arm out the window, tapping his fingers on the roof of the car. My Mom rode shotgun and my sisters and I lined the back seat of our red Rambler station wagon. Having forgotten to shout “Dibs no hump!” ahead of my siblings when we loaded up at home, I was stuck in the middle.

A game of I Spy With My Little Eye lasted for a while until my younger sister and I got tired of being outwitted. A couple of rounds of “Found A Peanut” killed some time, but it was an hour’s drive and that was long enough for us kids to get bored. At the mid way mark my parents were struggling to keep us entertained by noting any thing of interest flashing past on the rural route.

“There’s a house for Duffy,” my Dad announced pointing out the window. Our heads snapped around and we sat up straight, craning our necks to see. In the middle of a dusty field sat a derelict farm building, windows smashed in, front door hanging from its hinges and holes through the roof. My sisters giggled. My Mom rolled her eyes.

I looked at that house and I panicked. My house? Why was that my house? Was this some kind of prophecy being spoken by my Dad? I was a serious and thoughtful kid and as that shack disappeared in the distance I went quiet while I pondered my Dad’s prediction.

We were heading north to my grandparents house where my Mom used to live when she was little. My Mom had grown up and married my Dad and we all lived together now, in our house. But, I didn’t know how that worked. I couldn’t picture the transition. The whole process of becoming an adult frightened me. I didn’t know how you did it. What would become of me when I grew up? Where would I live? These were big questions and I had no answers. I began to imagine myself poor and ragged and hungry living alone in that tumbled down shack and I began to weep.

“Mom, Duff’s crying,” my older sister reported from the backseat in a bored tattletale whine.

“What?” my Mom asked turning around in the passenger seat.

“Duff’s cry-ing,” she repeated with exasperated emphasis.

“What’s going on back there? Duffy, what’s the matter? Why are you crying?”

“I-I-I d-don’t wa-want to live in a hou-house like that,” I stuttered, my lower lip a-tremble.

“What?” my Mom asked.

My Dad burst out laughing, which for him was not an audible response. He was not only a man of few words, he was a man with a silent laugh; you never heard it, you only ever saw it in action. His blue eyes crinkled up at the corners and he blew out through his nose, “Hff-hff-hff”, while his shoulders lifted and fell and his chest heaved convulsively in a sidesplitting chuckle. He shook his head in disbelief.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to live in a house like that. Daddy didn’t mean it,” my Mom consoled me.

“B-but he sa-said it was a house for m-me.”

“He didn’t mean it. He was only joking,” she said, then turning to my Dad, “Honey, don’t say things like that to the kids. It upsets them.”

“Jesus Christ!” my Dad said again. “It was a joke!”

My sisters smirked beside me, no doubt feeling superior, in on the joke with Dad. My Mom dug in her handbag and passed a crumpled Kleenex to the back seat.

The warm breeze coming in the driver’s side window fluttered the tissue as I blew my nose. My Dad’s strawberry brown hair ruffled in the wind. His fingers resumed tap-tapping on the roof of the car.

Relief settled upon me as the countryside flew past. It hadn’t been a

prediction. Only a joke. I didn’t need to figure out how to become a grown up, not today anyway, not yet.

“Hawk,” my Dad said pointing out the windshield.

“Where?” we asked in unison from the backseat as the family Rambler rolled on.

Previously Published: Smith, Jennifer M. “A House for Duffy.” Website post. CommuterLit. 7 Nov. 2017. Web. http://commuterlit.com/2017/11/tuesday-a-house-for-duffy/ Smith, Jennifer M. “A House for Duffy.” Canadian Stories. Ed. Ed Janzen. Fergus: The Gentle Edge Publishing Co. Ltd. Volume 20, No. 118, December/January 2017/2018, p 45. Print.

Visiting Neruda’s Houses

by W. Ruth Kozak

“So through me, freedom and the sea will make their answer to the shuttered heart.”

Pablo Neruda “The Poet’s Obligation:

I learned about the poet, Pablo Neruda, from a Chilean friend who brought me books of Neruda’s poetry. Pablo Neruda was one of Chile’s national heroes. Born in 1904 in Parral, Chile, his real name was Neflato Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. He chose the name “Neruda” after a Polish poet???. Pablo Neruda was not only Chile’s Nobel Prize winning poet, but also a political icon. His picture appears everywhere alongside that of the late president, Salvadore Allende and the renown folk singer, Victor Jara who were brutally murdered by the military during the 1974 junta. Neruda’s poetry is the soul of Chile and he played an important role in Chile’s recent history.

I didn’t dream that one day I would visit Neruda’s houses in Chile. My friend, exiled from his homeland after the military junta, always longed to return to his homeland but unfortunately passed away from cancer. So it was I who would go to Chile to explore the poet’s familiar haunts.

My first stop was Santiago. It’s an impressive city. The grand colonial architecture of the Plaza de Armes is a contrast to the ultra-modern high-rises of Barrio Las Condes, Santiago’s financial district. A sleek modern metro system makes it easy to get around.

My first stop would be Barrio Bellavista, where Neruda’s house, La Chascona, is located in the bohemian district.

A walk through Barrio Bellavista is pleasant, with craft shops and sidewalk cafes where the young folk from the local university congregate. It’s a community of artists, writers and craftsmen. The streets are shaded by trees and there are interesting shops and buildings. I found an artisan’s market and jewelry shops full of lapis lazuli. (Chile has major deposits of this semi-precious gem.) The sidewalk cafes are lively with the chatter of students from the nearby university.

La Chascona It wasn’t difficult to find the poet’s house, La Chascona, on a little back street, set on a hillside overlooking the city. “La Chascona” means “wild hair” and the house is named after Matilde, his third wife, who had a tumble of unruly tresses.

When he was young, Neruda was awarded a diplomatic post and his subsequent travels brought him international fame. Despite his Leftist beliefs, he had a flamboyant life and was friends with artists such as Pablo Picasso and Diego Rivera whose painting hang in his houses. As a diplomat and ambassador for Chile, Neruda travelled to many countries. He collected mementos of all his journeys and these souvenirs, everything from ash trays to primitive carved masks from the South Pacific and Africa, decorate the rooms.

Neruda was fascinated by the sea, although he didn’t like to sail on it, and each of his houses are built in a ship motif. He even wrote his poetry in blue and green ink, sea colors. Some of his hand written poems are on display as well as his books. My favorite collection is Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, and what a thrill to see the original publication of it in Neruda’s library collection!

Until the military coup, La Chascona used to be crammed with Neruda’s treasures. The military ransacked the house and partially burned it. Restorations have been made, but many of his precious collections were destroyed. What is left is an amazing assortment of curios and whimsical items. The house has tiny rooms, so only a few people at a time are allowed in with a guide who explains everything in a most enjoyable and informative way, telling little anecdotes about the poet who was a fun loving and whimsical guy just as he was a serious political and literary figure. The Neruda Foundation maintains the house and has its headquarters there.

La Sebastiana On the coast at Valparaiso, the second of Neruda’s houses, La Sebastiana, is set high on one of Valparaiso's many steep hills commanding a view of the harbor. I took an ascendor from Espirito Santo up Cerro Bellavista where the house is located. I found my way through the maze of narrow lanes, past a colorful hodge-podge of houses and eventually found the poet’s house.

Neruda didn’t spend as much at La Sebastiana as he did at his other two houses, but he always went there for New Years to watch the annual fireworks from his lookout. The house, which was built by an Italian carpenter named Sebastian (for whom it was named) was, Neruda said, ‘a poet with wood’. Like the other houses it follows his style of the eccentric layout and the ship motif. The first floor was owned and occupied by two of Neruda’s friends and the ceiling murals and beautiful stone mosaics were done by the woman, who was an artist. In the lobby are two paintings by Neruda’s second wife, who was an artist twenty years his senior.

Neruda’s living quarters were on the second floor, ascending several floors up to the top room which was his study and lookout, with a broad spectacular view of the whole harbor and ocean. Each room in the house is full of the usual trinkets and beautiful knick-knacks he loved to collect. There are some lovely stained glass windows. You are allowed to wander around at will. Visitors are given booklets to read describing the history of each room and the furnishing and objects although no photographs are allowed other than the many breathtaking vistas from the windows.

One of my biggest thrills was to stand at Neruda’s desk and look around at what he could see from there while he was writing. As in each of his houses there was a magnificent view. And surrounding him were all the objects he loved, including his books and manuscripts. I stood in the poet’s study as I did in each of his homes, and looked around at what he would see as he sat at the desk to write -- the panoramic view of the sea from the window, the shelves of books, the pictures of Walt Whitman he had in each of his studies, his personal treasures, and on the desk a manuscript, as always written in green or blue ink, the colors of the sea.

Isla Negra I took a bus down the coast to Neruda’s house at Isla Negra, which isn’t really an island.

The house is built on a rocky headland overlooking the Pacific close enough to the shore to give that effect. The original stone buildings were erected in the late ‘30’s and

were completed in the 1950’s. Neruda added to it bit by bit including various rooms to hold all his eccentric collections. The rooms are full of nautical treasures including a room full of sea shells and priceless ship’s figurines that he collected from around the world.

The house is built to resemble a ship, even to the low doorways. Being so near the crashing waves of the ocean, it has a realistic effect. Neruda’s impressive collection of ship’s figureheads decorate nearly every room. As well, there are masks and other wooden carvings from various places in the world. An entire room is devoted to his massive shell collection, even the tusk of a narwhal which he brought from Norway. I was most impressed by the bedroom which has windows facing the sea and a bed at an angle so the ocean can be clearly viewed.

During the junta, when Neruda was dying of cancer, the military stormed the house, but it has been mainly preserved just as it was, intact with his marvelous collections (even more fantastical than those at La Chascona). It is exactly as it was when Neruda and Matilde lived there, even to the place settings at the dining room table: place mats of sailing ships and one (the captain’s) of nautical instruments.

“I am the captain and the guests are my crew,” he would say. In the middle of the table is a large crystal brandy snifter still containing brandy, because Neruda lost the key to open it.

As in the other houses, there’s a well-stocked bar where Neruda played the role of bartender. I can almost imagine him standing there, pouring drinks as he engaged in jolly banter with his guests. And outside, beached on the shore, is a small boat where he would also entertain (The boat never went into the water!)

Neruda is buried at Isla Negra, alongside his third wife, Matilda who died some years later. Their tomb faces the ocean, on a round stone platform, surrounded by a bed of flowers. His will left everything to the Chilean people through the Neruda Foundation who now is in charge of his properties. Neruda had returned to Chile when Allende was elected and twelve days after Allende was killed in the bombing of the Presidential Palace, he died of cancer. Some say he died of a broken heart.

As I stood by Neruda’s graveside and looked out over the blue Pacific, I thanked my friend who had introduced me to the poet, and thought of the poet’s words in his poignant poem, A Song of Despair: “The memory of you emerges from the night around me.

The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea Deserted like the wharves at dawn It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!”

ABOUT THE POET: Pablo Neruda’s bio: http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1971/neruda-bio.html

The Houses: La Chascona: http://www.virtualtourist.com/travel/South_America/Chile/Region_Metropolitana_de_S antiago/Santiago-1558248/Things_To_Do-SantiagoLas_Chascona_Pablo_Nerudas_House-BR-1.html La Sebastiana: http://www.welcomechile.com/valparaiso/pablo-neruda-house-museum.html Isla Negra: http://gosouthamerica.about.com/cs/chile/l/blpixIslaNegra.htm

Easter Raisins!

by Jerena Tobiasen

Janet, her mother and her sister, Norma, were visiting her Uncle Ernie’s turkey farm. Uncle Ernie’s wife had gone to the hospital for another baby. They already have seven, Janet marvelled. Why do they need another one?

Two days had passed since her mother had received a phone call from Uncle Ernie asking her to look after his children while his wife was at the hospital. Mommy had packed enough clothes for several days, then driven the ‘53 Chevy from North Burnaby to Surrey. Mommy said that the turkey farm was near King George Highway and 90th Avenue. Janet could not imagine where that was, she knew only that it took what-seemed to-be-forever to reach it. ~ Mommy drove along Willingdon to Grandview Highway, then up the big hill to Imperial Street. Near the top of the hill, she steered the car into a gas station. When she paid the man inside for the gas, she bought each of them a chocolate ice cream cone. The cone had twin tops, made to hold two side-by-side scoops.

“This will be your Easter treat,” Mommy said, “since we won’t be home to hunt for Easter eggs this weekend.” She smiled at the little girls, born almost two years apart. While similar in many ways, including their long blonde hair drawn up into pony tails and their identical sailor-trimmed outfits, they were different in personality. Janet was reserved and thoughtful.

Norma seemed to have a sense of adventure.

“Three cones,” the ice cream man had said, “Thirty cents, please.”

Mommy led the two young girls to a bench under a huge oak tree. When they were seated on the bench, she handed them each a cone, then sat beside them. They ate their ice cream with enthusiasm.

~ “Can we play with the ducks and the geese and the bunnies,” Norma asked.

“Uh huh,” Mommy said, licking her ice cream.

“Do they have baby cows?” Janet asked.

“I think they have one,” Mommy replied. Then she said something about veal, but Janet had no idea what that word meant either.

Soon, they were back in the car, passing through New Westminster, over an old bridge that Mommy called the “Patula” and up another big hill. On King George Highway, Mommy told the girls to watch for the big sign that advertised the sale of fresh turkeys. When they drove into the large carpark in front of the farmhouse, Mommy reminded them to stay out of trouble. ~ Before they could step clear of the car, Uncle Ernie and his children had it surrounded. He thanked Mommy again and again for coming to his rescue, while the older children tried to convince Janet and Norma to “come and play”, and the younger ones, held firm by their father, nattered to be free of his restrictions. As soon as Uncle Ernie was satisfied that Mommy had things under control, he hopped into his own car and drove off to the hospital to see what kind of a baby his wife planned to bring home.

Uncle Ernie returned the next day and announced that his children had another sister. “Six boys and two girls!” he had boasted.

Janet was amazed that he had so many children, and that Mommy had only two. Her thoughts on that matter were interrupted, however, when Uncle Ernie said that his wife would be in the hospital for a few more days. Excited at the prospect, Janet began to imagine the things that remained unexplored on the turkey farm. ~ On the first day after their arrival, Uncle Ernie’s son Chris had taken the two sisters to the rabbit pen. Chris was tall and slender with dark brown hair. He looks like Uncle Ernie, Janet thought, except for the bald head. Chris was older than Janet, he had bragged, then added that he was almost seven.

He had lifted from the pen a pale brown bunny with soft, down-like hair and long floppy ears, and set it at their feet in the unmown grass. It had hopped once, then began chewing on the green grass stems. The girls had watched, then pulled some limp lettuce leaves from a basket and fed the cuddly animal.

A while later, Chris had returned the rabbit to its pen and led the girls to a small stream that ran through the property at the back of their big house. They had thrown seeds and grains on the bank of a stream and watched the frenzy that erupted when the ducks and geese greedily started fighting over the unexpected feeding. ~ The following day, Janet followed Chris around the farm, helping him with chores that happily included the feeding of milk and bread to a baby cow that Mommy had called “the fatted calf” when she handed Chris a bucket of warm milk a short while before.

Norma had decided not to accompany Chris and Janet. Instead, she announced at the breakfast table that she preferred to help Jens, the hired man, feed the turkeys.

“Alright,” Jens had agreed, “but you must wear gum boots and hold on tight to the railing.

The bridge over the turkey muck can be tricky. Just ask your sister.” He peered at Janet, who sat quietly munching on a slice of toast and peanut butter. “Do you remember what happened last year?”

Janet frowned and nodded that she remembered. I sure do, she thought, recalling the day clearly. The last time her family had visited the farm, she had insisted on accompanying Daddy when Uncle Ernie suggested a tour of the turkey barn.

The barn turned out to be a curious arrangement: a small wooden hut in which the turkey eggs were kept warm so they would hatch into turkey chicks, and large, detached cages made of chicken wire on five sides, including the floor, with a make-shift roof on top. The chicken wire cages were suspended several feet above the ground, on wooden stilts. Along the length of the cages, parallel to their floor, ran the bridge to which Jens had referred. As Uncle Ernie had described it a year ago, the bridge was made of two rows of two-by-four beams – one for each foot – and a third that was mounted to the bridge, supposedly for use as a railing.

As she had examined the bridge, Janet recalled, a chill had run down her back bone.

“Easy to assemble,” Uncle Ernie had said. “Easy to dismantle, if we have to move the cages.”

Daddy had taken Janet’s hand and led her up two wooden steps to the bridge. The steps were uncomfortably high for Janet and she had tightened her grip, so Daddy could pull her up.

“Why is it smelly, Daddy?” Janet had asked, interrupting the ongoing discussion above her head.

“That’s just the turkey muck,” Uncle Ernie had explained. “That’s why we keep them in wire cages. They poop a lot. It’s easier to let the poop fall through open wire than to have to clean floors all the time.” He had stopped and gazed at Janet. “Keep a tight hold of your daddy’s hand. There’s at least six feet of muck down there. If you fall in, you’ll disappear!”

Janet had wrinkled her brow with concern and gripped Daddy’s fingers so tight that he had yelped. In that moment, her foot slipped through the six-inch gap between the two wooden beams. She had screeched as she twisted, falling toward the turkey muck, but Daddy’s hand held firmly around her wrist.

“It’s okay. I’ve gotcha,” Daddy had said, as he steadied her feet back onto the beams.

“Let’s go slow.”

Together, Janet and Daddy inched their way across the bridge and down the steps on the far side of the turkey pen. ~ “Okay, I will!” Five-year old Norma’s strident voice penetrated Janet’s thoughts. “I’ll wear the gum boots,” she replied to Jens’ condition. Her smile reached from ear to ear.”

Mommy’s green eyes glanced toward Jens, her auburn eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Are you sure?” she asked him. “Is it safe?”

“These kids,” the portly, middle-aged man said, waving his hand around the table, “have been following me around for years. No harm has come to any of them.”

Janet saw the twinkle in his blue eyes. She set down the piece of toast and peanut butter, feeling as if her tummy was doing summersaults.

Mommy scooped Norma’s long, heavy hair into a pony tail, telling her that it would get in the way if it wasn’t tied up. Then she made Norma don one of Chris’ old, denim jackets, rolling the sleeves up to the girl’s elbows. She found a pair of gum boots that topped her daughter’s knees and stuffed little feet into them.

“Now, you listen to Jens,” she admonished. “Be careful. Those turkeys bite!”

“Yes, Mommy,” Norma said, placing her small hand in Jens’ much larger one. ~ Sometime later, Mommy ran to the back door in response to loud banging and deep laughter. She opened the top of the Dutch door quickly.

“Jens, what is it?”

Still laughing wildly, Jens looked down at his side. There stood Norma, completely covered in turkey muck, but for her pony tail. Mommy’s mouth gaped and closed repeatedly.

“We were crossing the bridge,” he said, trying to contain his mirth. “I showed her how to walk carefully with one foot on each board. I think the space between the boards may have been a bit too much.” He laughed again. “The railing is pretty high too. And the boots you made her wear…” He looked down at her feet, wet stockings hanging half off, “were a little

too big as well. Add it all together and. … well … she fell off the bridge and into the muck. By the time I realized what had happened, she was already going under. The only thing I could grab was her pony tail! The boots are long gone.”

As Jens explained the little girl’s misadventure, he removed a hanky from his pocket, knelt beside her and cleaned the muck from the vital area in the centre of her face.

“Spit, honey,” he said. “Make sure you get that muck out of your mouth.”

When she could finally speak again, Norma looked up at Jens with eyes full of hero-worship.

“Thank you for saving me,” she whimpered.

In response, Jens and Mommy burst into laughter. When they finally had control of themselves again, Jens returned to work and Mommy stripped Norma to her underwear.

“Come on,” she said. “You need a bath!” ~ The following day, Norma stayed close to Janet and Chris and Chris’ younger brother, Ricky.

They fed the calf warm milk and bread, and scattered seeds and grain for the ducks and geese. They played cowboys and indians in the trees on either side of the stream, using a small foot bridge to cross so their shoes stayed dry.

“I’m hungry,” Ricky said.

“Me too,” Norma agreed.

“Let’s ask Mommy for some raisins,” Janet suggested.

The four children raced to the back of the big farm house and banged on the door.

“Mommy, can we have some raisins, please?”

“No,” Mommy said, “not now. We’ll be having lunch in an hour. Go play.”

Disappointed, the four children headed for the rabbit pen.

“We can play with the rabbits for a while,” Chris said, “and feed them too.”

An hour later, the children heard Mommy calling them for lunch.

“I’m not so hungry now,” Ricky said, rubbing his tummy.

“Me neither,” Janet and Norma said as one.

Nonetheless, they followed Chris as he led them back to the farm house, where Mommy stood talking to Jens outside the back door. When Mommy noticed the four children approach, she gasped.

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

“Feeding the rabbits,” Chris replied nonchalantly.

“What have you been eating?” Mommy asked. “You three have brown rings around your mouths.” She grasped each chin in turn and twisted the little faces this way and that.

“We found raisins in the rabbit pen, Mommy,” Janet blurted proudly. “They’re not as sweet as yours, but we’re not hungry now.”

Mommy’s wide green eyes locked with Jens’ blue ones for just a moment, then together they burst into laughter.

“What’s so funny, Mommy,” Norma asked, her face turned upward, the brown ring around her mouth marring her sweet countenance.

“Chris …” Mommy said, her voice terse.

“I tried to tell them, Auntie,” Chris interrupted, his tone defensive, “but they wouldn’t believe me when I told them that they were eating rabbit poop!”

Mommy and Jens laughed some more, then Mommy ran inside for a basin of warm water and fresh towels. She and Jens scrubbed the mouths of the three younger children, their efforts interrupted frequently with spurts of giggles. ~ The following morning, Uncle Ernie returned from the hospital with his wife and new daughter.

While the other children fussed over the tiny girl, Mommy brought their suitcases from the bedroom, and Jens put them in the car.

“Thanks so much for looking after the kids,” Uncle Ernie said to Mommy. “We really appreciate it.” He opened the car door for Mommy and watched as she slid into the seat.

“Did you girls have a good time?” He peered into the back seat, grinning. “I hear you had some adventures.”

“Yes, Uncle Ernie,” the girls replied in unison.

“We had lots of fun!” Janet replied. “If you go shopping for another baby, we’ll come again.

Won’t we, Mommy?” She clambered onto her knees and looked out the open window.

“Hey, Chris! Maybe next time we can hunt for chocolate eggs down by the stream!”

--------------------------------------- Easter Raisins! copyright Jerena Tobiasen

CALL FOR CONTRIBUTIONS: A Journey across New Westminster by Word: Poetry of Place Deadline: June 21, 2019 4:30pm About The New Westminster Poet Laureate Alan Hill in partnership with the City’s Arts Services Department is requesting submissions for a poetry anthology, A Journey across New Westminster by Word: A Poetry of Place.

This vibrant, multicultural and multi-dimensional poetry collection of “poetry postcards” will present a literary map of contemporary New Westminster. The intention of this collection is to highlight and explore physical location and its emotional and cultural significance specific to New Westminster residents.

A Poetry Postcard is a short written description of a person’s favorite place in the City. A literary snapshot that describes a location and why it is important to the writer and what it makes the writer, think, feel and experience.

Objectives 

Celebrate and showcase New Westminster’s diverse cultural identity and literary traditions.



Highlight places in our community – specific geographical locations - that are important to the community and engender a sense of what it means to live here.



Create a greater shared sense of community for all participants.



Support a collaborative and thoughtful legacy project shepherded by the City’s Poet Laureate.



Create a printed and bound anthology.



Identifying and connecting up-and-coming literary talent to the wider literary community in New Westminster.

Submission Guidelines A panel of jurors will be struck to help Mr. Hill in the selection of poems for the anthology. The panel will be looking for: 

Literary originality - imagery which stands out



Poems that make or take reference from the City of New Westminster (specific locations, its people, communities, streets, businesses, natural environment, histories etc.)



A variety of diverse viewpoints from around the City of New Westminster (Indigenous, brand new and long-time resident perspectives are all encouraged)

Submission Requirements 

Submissions only accepted via email as a word attachment (do not send work within body of an email)



Please include your name, address, email address, phone number



Email Subject Line: A Journey Across New Westminster By Word - Poetry Application



Word limit is 300 words/per poem



An image of the location being written about



Please note: Maximum file size accepted by City of New Westminster email is 8MB

Deadline 

Friday, June 21, 2019 4:30pm. Late submissions will not be considered.

Selection Timeline Participants are selected by impartial adjudicators on the basis of their submitted material. Applicants will be notified of their status as soon as adjudication is complete, approximately 4 weeks following the application deadline (Mid-July, 2019).

Please note: City of New Westminster staff and jury panel members are not eligible to apply.

Intellectual Property Contact:

Please direct questions and email submissions to: Arts Services, Cultural Services Office of the CAO T 604.527.4640 E museum@newwestcity.ca

Oh the Horror of it all (Headline, Vancouver Sun, July 2015) © Margo Prentice

Someone stole the skull of expressionist movie director F.W. Murnau. He died in 1931 in a car accident was buried in Western Europe’s Stahnsdorf, Cemetery outside of Berlin. The headline reads, “Oh the horror of it all...” His iron casket has been disturbed in the past but this time his skull has been stolen. They say a candle was left on the scene as part of a ceremony staged by ‘Satanists.’

He is the man who gave us, ‘Nosferatu,’ the best vampire ever! His portrayal of a vampire created a lasting impression. Few characters in cinema have proven as influential as Max Schreck’s, ‘Count Orlok.’ They are frightening and suspenseful images. The shadow of Nosferatu on the wall as he climbs a staircase is my favourite and the most chilling in the many unforgettable moments in this film. Filmed in black and white Murnau captured the eeriness of the time and place. Based on a story by Bram Stoker, it is a masterpiece of the silent movies.

I was very young when I saw my first vampire movie. I recall being very frightened and watching the movie between the cracks of the seats in the theatre. I couldn’t watch it; I was too young and impressionable. However, that impression lasted a lifetime. My fascination with vampire movies stayed with me ever since. My all-time favourite is Nosferatu.

There have been many ‘Dracula’s’ in the movies and I have my favourites.

My top three are: Gary Oldman, in “Bram Stoker’s Dracula.” His performance was full of terror, sympathy and emotion. His upswept white hair and white makeup gave him a sinister appearance. Second on my list is Bela Lugosi. This movie is number one on my list. He defined the image of Dracula like no one else could. His Hungarian accent fit the character and has been imitated without end. He had huge hypnotizing eyes and the hands of a magician. I cannot leave without mentioning Christopher Lee, who played in the movie, “The Horror of Dracula.” A tall handsome English actor, who was always dressed impeccably, but when he changed into a ‘vampire’, it was shocking! He was the sexiest Dracula of them all.

It wasn’t until I was older that I understood the sexual undertones of the Dracula story. It added more to the creepiness and my fascination of vampires. F.W. Murnau was ahead of his time.

Now his skull is missing and no one knows where it is. Few characters in the movies have proved as indomitably influential as his ‘Dracula,’ Count Orlok in Nosferatu. There are many new releases. To quote the last line in the article, “You can’t keep a good vampire down.”

Gary Oldman

Bela Lugosi

Christopher Lee

Cynthia, Idrian and Bryan.

Here’s to another successful ToST on May 9th!

Congratulations to our featured author Jerena Tobiasen on the success of her first two novels in The Prophecy Saga, The Crest and The Emerald. A big thanks to Jerena and to our open mic readers! Watch for our next ToST coming up on June 13.

- Janet Kvammen, RCLAS Vice-President

Congratulations to the feature presenters at the May session of “In Their Words�: Lara Varesi, Kagan Goh and Eileen Kernaghan! It was wonderful to explore the writings of Michael Ondaatje, Goh Poh Seng and Kate Atkinson. Our next session will be Thurs eve July 18.

- Janet Kvammen, RCLAS Vice-President

Our Royal City Reading Series: IN THEIR WORDS is a special opportunity to share your favorite author/poet/playwright/lyric poet with an appreciative audience. If you would like to participate please let us know. As host of the series I am trying to get a good variety of topics to share. Contact me at wynnbexton2@gmail.com if you would like an opportunity to read.

Bookings will be made soon for September and November. – Ruth Kozak

Photos by Juergen Bruhns and Janet Kvammen.

Thank you to Angelica Poversky for an amazing afternoon. Her recent RCLAS Workshop: “New Beginnings” was held Saturday May 18, 2019 at Anvil Centre. Interactive exercises, chanting, movement & more — a creative delight!

- Janet Kvammen

We are pleased to announce the judge of the 2019 Fred Cogswell Award For Excellence In Poetry

FRED WAH

6th ANNUAL FRED COGSWELL AWARD FOR EXCELLENCE IN POETRY http://rclas.com/awards-contests/fred-cogswell-award/

"Fred Cogswell (1917-2004) was a prolific poet, editor, professor, life member of the League of Canadian Poets, and an Officer of the Order of Canada."

First Prize: Second Prize: Third Prize:

$500 $250 $100

ELIGIBILITY CRITERIA:  Book must be bound as a book, not a chapbook.  Book length must be a minimum of 60 pages in length.  Selected poetry must be written in English by a single author.  Book must be original work by the author (translations will not be considered at this time)  Original date of publication falls between January 1, 2018 and December 31, 2018.  Book must be published in Canada.  Book must be written by a Canadian citizen or permanent resident alive in submission year.  Electronic books are not eligible.

In case of dispute about the book’s eligibility, the Society’s decision will be final.

Fred Wah is the judge for our 2019 Fred Cogswell Award For Excellence In Poetry.

Reading Fee: $25 (all funds Canadian). Payment can be made through PayPal (there is a link below) or by money order (payable to “Royal City Literary Arts Society”). If you pay with Paypal, please include a copy of your receipt with the submission package.

Two copies* of the book must be submitted to the Royal City Literary Arts Society, along with the reading fee (or proof thereof), and must be postmarked no later than October 1, 2019. The society’s mailing address is: Royal City Literary Arts Society Fred Cogswell Award Box #308 - 720 6th Street New Westminster, BC V3L 3C5

Shortlist will be announced Oct 15, 2019.

Winners will be announced Nov 1, 2019.

Winning authors & titles will be included in the December issue of RCLAS’s Wordplay e-zine. *Submitted books will not be returned; they become the property of the Royal City Literary Arts Society.

Upcoming Events June ‘19 Info: secretary@rclas.com Please watch for event updates and news via our website www.rclas.com and our social media accounts (Facebook, Twitter and Instagram @royalcitylit)

RCLAS presents “Tellers of Short Tales” Feature Author: TBA Date: Thursday June 13, 2019 Time: 6:00 pm – 8:00 pm, Free admission.

Location: Anvil Centre, 4th Floor Close to Skytrain. Wheelchair accessible.

Come to listen! Bring a friend!

Bring a short story to share on Open Mic. Description: A program of monthly readings designed to engage fans of the short story genre with emerging and published short story writers

Cat Musings Reading Series” Open Mic sign up.

Host: Janene White.

Date: Wednesday June 19, 2019 Time: 7:00pm – 9:00pm, Doors open at 6:30 Free admission Donations kindly accepted.

Location: New West Artists Gallery (beside Renaissance Books) 712C - 12th Street, New Westminster In Partnership with Renaissance Books, New West Artists and Royal City Literary Arts Society.

RCLAS Writing Workshop: “What’s Your Story?”

Facilitator: Caitlin Hicks Date: Saturday June 15, 2019 Time: 1:30pm – 3:30pm Location: Anvil Centre, 4th Floor. Rm 417 Close to New West Skytrain Station.

Wheelchair Accessible.

Workshop Fees: RCLAS Members $15/Non-members $25 Payment available onlinehttps://rclas.com/workshops/ Pre-register at secretary@rclas.com WORKSHOP DESCRIPTION: In What’s Your Story? Hicks shares her personal, emotional journey of discovery which inspires her all her work, fiction and nonfiction. She discusses how emotional resonance in your work brings it to an essential level of engagement with your audience, and how to get at that resonance and bring it out through your writing.

Beginning with the personal story, Hicks challenges participants to find a narrative from their own lives and to examine the assumptions this story contains.

What kind of influence does this story have on who you are and who you have spent your life becoming?

Hicks invites participants to find the resonant among the big and small incidents of their lives, and to identify the thought processes and beliefs inherent in these stories. Participants will be triggered to hunt for the detail that finds these stories in their own lives and to dig deeply for their unique narrative, and how that personal experience plays out in their minds and in their writing. Hicks welcomes participants to bring journal notes, photographs and pieces of memorabilia to discover the unique point of view inherent in all their work. Writers with works-inprogress will examine their writing for the whisper of their backstory and to bring through the writing, the emotional resonance that underlies its inspiration.

BIO: Caitlin Hicks, is an international playwright, acclaimed actress and prizewinning author in British Columbia, Canada. A natural performer, first entertaining her enormous Catholic family with home-made skits and dramas, then as a professional, touring character-based monologues and theatrical presentations, Hicks developed the ability to hold an audience in laughter and tears, in suspenseful silence and raucous laughter. Her play Singing the Bones toured internationally as a theatre production and was adapted to film, premiering at the Montreal World Film Festival (2001) to excellent reviews. Her debut novel A Theory of Expanded Love won iBooks Best New Fiction (Spring 2015) and numerous other awards in the United States. She has worked as a

writer for CBS and NBC radio in San Francisco and has performed her monologues and commentary for CBC local and national radio. Her writing has been published in The San Francisco Chronicle, The Vancouver Sun, The Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, Fiddlehead Magazine, Knight Literary Journal and other publications. www.caitlinhicks.com

RCLAS presents “In Their Words: A Royal City Reading Series” Reading Series” Date: Thursday, July 18, 2019 Time: 6:00pm – 8:00pm, Free admission Location: Anvil Centre, Rm #417 Host: Ruth Kozak Three Feature Presenters Description: In Their Words happens on the 3rd Thursday of every other month.

Feature speakers present their favourite author from any genre in poetry, fiction, non-fiction or drama. Presentations include a brief commentary about the author and a reading of selections that exemplify what the presenter loves about the author’s work. A short Q&A follows each presenter.

Are you interested in being a reader at “In Their Words”?

Would you like to find out more?

Email a quick note to Ruth Kozak at wynnbexton2@gmail.com

....and a reminder to all poets and lovers of poetry:

“Poetic Justice/Poetry New West” Sunday Afternoons (except Holiday Weekends) Time: 2:00pm – 4:00pm, Free admission.

Location: The Heritage Grill, 447 Columbia St, New Westminster Open Mic. Prizes, trivia, writing prompt, fun!

Host: Warren Dean Fulton. https://www.facebook.com/groups/poeticjusticepnw/

POETRY IN THE PARK SUMMER 2019 Every Wed Evening at the Queen’s Park band shell July 3 – August 28 6:30 to 8:30

Watch for upcoming news and announcements www.rclas.com

Sat June 22, 2019

Annual General Meeting Write On! Contest Reading Event

WORDPLAY AT WORK FEEDBACK & E-ZINE SUBMISSIONS

Janet Kvammen, RCLAS Vice-President/E-zine janetkvammen@rclas.com

RCLAS Members Open Call for Submissions No theme required to submit.

Submit Word documents WITH YOUR NAME and Title on document to Janet Kvammen, RCLAS Vice-President/E-zine Email janetkvammen@rclas.com

Poetry, Short Stories, Book excerpts, articles & lyrics are all welcome for submission to future issues of Wordplay at work.

“Solo with the Polo” Blue Pencil Sessions --- May 21, 2019

Dead

Thank you to our Sponsors & Venues      

City of New Westminster Anvil Centre Arts Council of New Westminster New Westminster Public Library The Heritage Grill New West Artists Gallery

See upcoming events at www.rclas.com

Instagram @royalcitylit

May/June 2019 Wordplay at work ISSN 2291- 4269 Contact: janetkvammen@rclas.com RCLAS Vice-President/ E-zine