October 2014 RCLAS Wordplay at work E-Zine, Issue 18

Welcome to RCLAS!

Thanks to all who attended our Annual Membership Drive.

Thanks so much to our spectacular features: Richard Olafson, Carol Sokoloff and Margaret Thompson!

A BIG WELCOME to our new members!

Thanks for the membership renewals, too.

Pre-register secretary@rclas.com

Manolis (Emmanuel Aligizakis) is a Greek-Canadian poet and author. He was recently appointed an honorary instructor and fellow of the International Arts Academy, and awarded a Master’s for the Arts in Literature. He is recognized for his ability to convey images and thoughts in a rich and evocative way that tugs at something deep within the reader. Born in the village of Kolibari on the island of Crete in 1947, he moved with his family at a young age to Thessaloniki and then to Athens, where he received his Bachelor of Arts in Political Sciences from the Panteion University of Athens. After graduation, he served in the armed forces for two years and emigrated to Vancouver in 1973, where he worked as an iron worker, train labourer, taxi driver, and stock broker, and studied English Literature at Simon Fraser University. He has written three novels and numerous collections of poetry, which are steadily being released as published works.

His articles, poems and short stories in both Greek and English have appeared in various magazines and newspapers in Canada, United States, Sweden, Hungary, Slovakia, Romania, Australia, and Greece. He now lives in White Rock, where he spends his time writing, gardening, traveling, and heading Libros Libertad, an unorthodox and independent publishing company which he founded in 2006 with the mission of publishing literary books. His translation book “George Seferis-Collected Poems” was shortlisted for the Greek National Literary Awards the highest literary recognition of Greece .

TRANSLATION AS AN ART Translation is the communication of the meaning of a source-language text by means of an equivalent target-language text.

Translators always risk inappropriate spillover of source-language idiom and usage into the target-language translation. Translations, like everything else, wear out over time, as language and those who read or use it, change. There is no single word, much less any phrase, that has exactly the same weight and hierarchy of primary and secondary meanings in another language. Add to that the differences in sound patterns and rhythmic signatures or emphases, and it becomes clear that the best one can do is to approximate, sometimes by straying from the awkwardness of literal, dictionary definitions, the poetic effects of the original poems. Every translation is therefore a challenge no matter how flexible the transferring of meanings from one language to the other may be thus establishing the axiom that translators always tread a fine line and always have to maintain a balance between the source language and the target one.

Bonnie Nish is founder and Executive Director of Pandora’s Collective Outreach Society a charitable organization in the literary arts based in Vancouver British Columbia. A published poet Bonnie has been facilitating writing workshops for over twenty years. She has a Masters in Arts Education from Simon Fraser University and is currently pursuing a PhD in Expressive Arts Therapy at the European Graduate School. Her book Love and Bones was published by Karma Press in 2013. http://www.bonnienish.com/ http://www.pandorascollective.com/home

Bonnie Nish MA, Arts Education Certificate of Advanced Graduate Studies In Expressive Arts Therapy.

Certified Expressive Arts Therapist Executive Director Pandora's Collective Outreach Society "Promoting The Arts That Inspire The World To Take Notice Of Itself"

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October 2014

View Calendar and Bios at www.poeticjustice.ca

HERITAGE GRILL, BACK ROOM 3-5 pm Sunday Afternoons—two features and open mic 447 Columbia St, New Westminster, near the Columbia Skytrain Station CO-FOUNDER & BOOKING MANAGER—Franci Louann flouann@telus.net Website & Facebook Manager, Photographer—Janet Kvammen janetkvammen@rclas.com Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/groups/poeticjusticenewwest/

October 5 Sunday 3 – 5 pm Poetic Justice featuring DONNA ROSS-THENGS/SASHA WILEY/SHO WILEY Host: Alan Hill http://poeticjustice.ca/event/poetic-justice-donna-ross-sasha-wiley-sho-wiley/

October 12 Sunday 3 – 5 pm Poetic Justice Closed for Thanksgiving Weekend

October 19 Sunday 3 – 5 pm Poetic Justice featuring ALAN HILL & KYLE MCKILLOP Host: Deborah L. Kelly http://poeticjustice.ca/event/poetic-justice-featuring-alan-hill-kyle-mckillop/

October 26 Sunday 3 – 5 pm Poetic Justice Halloween Poets Wanted: Dead or Alive http://poeticjustice.ca/event/poetic-justice-halloween-poets-wanted-deador-alive/

POETIC JUSTICE REPORT 2014 Franci Louann ‘For a good time’, visit www.poeticjustice.ca to see what we’ve got planned for Sunday afternoons in New Westminster. Poetic Justice, founded in 2010 by Candice James and Franci Louann, meets most Sunday afternoons, 3-5 pm, in the Back Room at the Heritage Grill. This location is at 447 Columbia Street, one block west of Columbia SkyTrain station. (Occasionally we meet instead at Renaissance Books, at 43 6th Street, not far away. Thank you to Lavana & John for providing backup.) Come early to the Heritage Grill for lunch with music, usually jazz. Excellent breakfasts are served till 3 pm. Stay for supper and music again, Irish and more. (At the bookstore, enjoy ‘treats’ from the coffee bar and save time to browse for books. The poetry section is on your left as you enter on the top level.)

Our 2014 schedule includes ninety-five feature spots, with usually three poets booked per event, but we are switching to two places. Our popular open mic session will continue. We close most long weekends and in July and August. Over the summer, you might enjoy Poetry in the Park, Wednesday evenings, 6:00 p.m. at the Queen’s Park Bandshell or in the gallery behind.

We encourage your donations ($5 if you can) to supplement our payments to poets.

Everyone is welcome. Please help our generous host locations as well with your orders.

Visit us on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/groups/poeticjusticenewwest/?fref=ts https://www.facebook.com/groups/162882397108759/?fref=ts Remember to check at www.poeticjustice.ca for our features’ bios.

Franci Louann, Coordinator for Poetic Justice flouann@telus.net 604-522-7613 604-837-7613

RCLAS WRITER OF THE MONTH

Bernice Lever

Photo Credit: Juergen Bruhns

BERNICE LEVER is a prize winning poet and an English teacher, dedicated to improving the writing skills of teenagers and adults. She is a freelance editor for poetry and prose manuscripts.

Born in Smithers, BC, Canada, Bernice now resides on Bowen Island. She has a BA and MA in English from York University, Ontario as well as teaching certificates and experience in British Columbia and Ontario.Her travels led to poetry readings on 5 continents, and especially her three years in England, have given Bernice opportunities to discuss language education with other English teachers. In 1989-1990, she developed her text, The Colour of Words. It has 15 chapters in 240 pages, with exercises and examples.

Today, Bernice is also active in League of Canadian Poets, BC Federation of Writers, North Shore Writers, The Ontario Writers Society, World Poetry et al. Bernice has traveled extensively, living outside of Canada for 5 years: 3 years in Cheshire, England and 2 years in the USA: Columbus, OH and in Pasadena, CA. She has read poems in Australia, Brazil, Great Britain, Italy, Japan, and the USA. Bernice has performed her poems in Canada on radio, television and on many public stages, from Halifax, NS to Victoria, BC. Bernice Lever has published and edited in many genres. Her workshops on creativity and marketing have helped many writers get published. She edited WAVES, a prize winning literary journal (1972-1987), and for many other publications and publishing companies, including 4 years with Dundurn Press, in Toronto, Ontario.

Her dozen poetry books are listed on ABC Bookworld. Bernice newest book of poetry Red Letter Day (Black Moss Press) has just been released. The following poems are a small sample of her latest volume of verse.

Read her extensive bio and more here: www.colourofwords.com

RED LETTER DAY © Bernice Lever One that shows only black numerals balancing at my bank, no black ants munching my pink white ham sandwich, no black fuzz crowding my vision, pin-pointing mini-green scenes, no black mold spores spewing sickness beyond dusty window seams, no black print on pink firing slips or blue funeral announcements, no black abyss of killer’s eyes, blocking hope for rescue.

Such absences can generate exhilaration, red-faced glee.

ABUSED EARTH © Bernice Lever Earth, why did you get buried in plastic – global suffocation – sun flares melting minute death traps to layers of destruction – one gift-wrapped world in clear or coloured scraps – not art of quilted beauty, just the ugliness of waste and stupidity: consumerism madness?

Better to find one’s own beauty, love and glowing spirit in non-earthly realms!

*** Copyright remains with the author. All rights reserved.

Do not publish or use in any form without the author’s permission.

Lost in the Drywall © Kate Austin

Somehow, being lost in the drywall seems so much worse than being lost in the barrens (ah, a literary reference) or the Antarctic (a scientific reference) or in space (a TV and movie reference). Spencer wishes he could transform himself into one of those other stories but he’s well and truly stuck here in the drywall.

He isn’t sure how it happened. What he does know is that, if he gets out, he will never say yes to helping with renovations again. Even if the person asking for the favor is the woman he’s been trying to get next to for almost five years.

He said yes because of her big brown eyes, her silky hair, her jaw-dropping breasts and perfect hips. He said yes because he’s been in love (or lust, at least) with Leanne for what feels like forever.

He didn’t know much about drywalling when she asked, but he’s a quick learner and the drywall guy at the Home Depot down the street was a genius at telling him what he needed to know. He and Leanne had no trouble lifting the big slabs into place and he was damn good – if he said so himself – at the taping and filling. But then something went wrong.

And here he is in some limbo between her apartment and his, surrounded by slabs of perfectly taped and filled drywall, the dust on the floor silencing his footsteps and making his eyes water each time he moves. He has tried yelling but the dust and the drywall throws his voice back at him. He tried pounding on the walls with the same result. Finally, he sits in the dust and ponders his situation.

The last thing he remembers was filling the final nail hole while listening to the chant Leanne crooned behind him. It was an odd-sounding piece of music, certainly nothing he’d ever heard before, and it made him a little dizzy. Maybe he fainted.

Spencer lifts his head and looks around one more time. He swears he’s been in this space for days but he’s neither hungry nor thirsty. And he swears he’s walked miles and never once recrossed his footsteps. When he looks behind him, the indentations in the dust are clear but when he tries to step back into them, they disappear.

Something is keeping him here. Be realistic, he tells himself. Someone named Leanne is keeping him here. And he doesn’t know why. Except maybe she was a little upset when he accidentally brushed against her breasts for the fifteenth time. The look in her eyes scared him to death. He remembers that.

And it wasn’t too long after that when the dizziness started. He picks himself up off the floor and starts walking again. This time, he follows no plan, thinking that a completely random walk might lead him somewhere. Anywhere.

And it does. It leads him to a big black metal door. It’s slightly ajar and he pushes at it until it swings all the way open. There is a fire flickering in the room he enters and it’s warm. There is no dust. And there is no drywall.

Spencer carefully sits himself down in the leather chair on the hearth and takes a sip from the glass of water on the table beside it. He is a bit worried about poison but, suddenly, the thirst he has been denying seizes him by the throat and poison becomes the least of his worries. He crams the meat on the plate into his mouth and swallows it without chewing. Spencer groans in relief.

A tall woman, taller than he and Spencer is considered a tall man, materializes at his elbow.

“Spencer. Have you figured out where you are? And why you are here?”

He shrugs and continues drinking and eating.

“You are here,” she says in a stern voice, “because of your bad attitude.”

“I figured it was something like that,” he says around a gob of meat. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been attracted to Leanne for years. I couldn’t help myself.”

The woman smiles at him, her teeth shiny and bone white. Spencer feels a frisson of horror but thinks about the days in the drywall and shakes it off.

“Go home, Spencer.”

And just like that, he is in his dining room, drywall dust falling from his clothes and hair and skin onto his mahogany table and matching floors. He can hear each droplet as it hits. Each time he inhales, dust invades his nostrils and his throat. He shakes himself like a Labrador puppy coming out of the water and the dust flies around him, coating everything in the room.

Spencer listens carefully but there is no one else in the apartment. He leans against the wall and hears nothing from Leanne’s apartment. He drops his clothes to the floor – no point making another room messy – and hurries into the shower.

The Chinese food – five different dishes – is delivered just in time to stop him from fainting again. He sits in his recliner and repeats his new mantra. Just say no. Just say no. Just say no.

Lost in the Drywall © Kate Austin

The Long Highway © Alan Girling

Laurie sure didn't expect Jake to be standing there on the porch when she arrived home from her work. How long had he been waiting? The autumn night was warm enough despite a breeze, and her mother had left the light on. He might have woken her, she thought, but the house inside seemed quiet and dark the way it always was this late.

She saw him from the foot of the drive, leaning back against the house, his arms crossed, head down and hidden under the wide brim of his felt hat. What was he thinking? What could he say to her now? For so many days, he hadn't called, come by the diner, or anything. People in town said he’d been seen out on the highway, riding toward the coast, his motorbike loaded with gear as if for a long trip. She didn’t want to believe that.

She stood wondering whether to walk forward, a twisting knot of anger, and of longing, forming in her belly. She'd almost forgotten it, that sensation of longing. She'd been trying so hard to think only of the days ahead, to forget she'd ever been with him. She’d been trying to move on.

As she stepped closer now, the gravel crunched sharply beneath her feet. It was the only real sound in the evening hush, but Jake didn’t seem to hear it. He didn’t move or look up.

Then his voice in low tones came to her as if in the wind. "Laurie." She stopped. He said her name again, louder, questioning. She listened for a hint of a reason in his voice. Was he sorry, angry, or simply uncaring? The last was her mother's notion. Her mother understood men, and she'd warned her against a guy like him, with his motorcycles and his love of whiskey and freedom. "Just like your father," she'd said. "A roamer." But as Laurie knew too well, her father never did return, and her father never would have waited on a porch for anyone.

Laurie didn't answer his call, couldn't even bring herself to utter his name, but she continued to walk as if without will into the dim glow of the porch light. Only then did he raise his head to look at her. He was pale, and she saw in his eyes a kind of blank sadness, all the brightness that was once there now gone. Her anger subsided, and something more like dread began to seep into her bones.

He stood up straight, came forward and reached out his hand in order to hold hers and guide her onto the porch, as if onto the deck of an old ship. But she froze, and the emptiness she’d seen in his eyes told her not to accept.

"I didn’t want to go," he said. "I wanted to come back."

Her heart was pounding, and she could feel a constriction in her throat. "Then why . . .?"

"What I’m going to say to you now, you won’t ever be able to—"

As if by an icy bolt, she understood. She knew he wanted to come back, and that he still wanted to, for in her heart she could see he’d always be trying, forever waiting there on the porch, wearing his hat and reaching out to tell her what had happened, and why he couldn’t be there really, why he could never return.

"Then don’t, please don’t." Her voice broke, and tears began to flow.

At this, she heard the click and creak of the front door edging open. "Is that you, dear?" her mother said. "Is someone there?"

Laurie looked at Jake, his sad, empty eyes, and saw how the pallor of his skin seemed to glow under the porch light, how his cheek bones jutted and his teeth shone. For the moment, Jake was there to her, but in another moment his image blurred and then receded as if sinking beneath the ocean surface, and she wanted so much to cry out, in fear and in grief, and to run too, to not have to know or see anything.

"No, mother, there’s no one, no one here," she said with effort and grabbed hold of the porch railings to steady herself. "I’ll be right in."

But she did not want to go in. Nor did she want to run. All she wanted now was just to stay there on the porch, to let his presence run through her as she looked intently out beyond the dimness and into the trees, the dark and the long, empty highway winding from town all the way to the black, open sea.

© Alan Girling

Dorian’s Door © Margo Prentice

The air was clean and fresh. The sun shone through the pine trees in slants of silver beams. The birds were in full song; the sizzle of insects is softly distinguishable. Slowly she walks to the stream. The clear blue water reflects the sun and sky rippled in the small waves. The glorious summer day did not reflect the blackness inside her.

Shock and sadness grips her heart as she walks beside the stream. The scent of wild flowers fills the air. She stops and kneels beside the water and cannot look at her face looking back at her.

She dips her hands in the water rubbing them together to wash them. With eyes still closed she wipes her face and hair. Shaking, she walks into the cold water, until it reaches half way to her knees. Lying down face upward with arms outstretched she lowers herself on the rocky bottom of the stream and lets the water flow over her.

It soaks into her clothes and hair. Visions in heightened colour play before her eyes, tinged in red. She can hear the blast of the gun and see the splattering of blood against the kitchen wall.

The scene plays in her mind like a movie in slow motion.

Six Months Earlier Joan and Jack were excited to learn that they inherited the small cottage and land from Jack’s father.

“That’s great,” Jack said, I don’t even remember the man. At least he left me something.”

There was an open space living room and kitchen with three extra rooms. The entrance door led directly into the kitchen. They had electricity and from the stream nearby they pumped fresh cold water into the kitchen. One room was filled with furniture. It was there she found and hung a large mirror near the front door.

They bought the gun to hunt small game and planted a garden. They both worked from home paying off their student loans. Moving to the country they concurred was a good plan. Joan had no premonitions of evil.

The first months were great but lately Jack had changed. He would stand in front of the mirror just looking at his reflection without saying a word. On many occasions he muttered gibberish as he stared into the mirror. His behaviour became erratic and violent. Before Jack was happy and easy going. She tried to talk to him about going to seek medical help but he refused.

He woke before dawn that morning. He was sitting in a chair naked holding the gun upright between his legs. The cabin was cold, she could see her breath. Riveted in terror she looked at him. His eyes were shining; his pallor grey, his face was that of madness. He looked up and pointed the gun at her; she heard the click of the hammer. He told her to look in the mirror.

“Why?” She asked.

“Go.” he said.

She walked over to the mirror and saw her reflection.

“What did you see?”

“Me. I see me, my reflection, why are you asking me this?”

She turns and faces him, “I see----- Please put the gun down, please!”

He slowly lowers the gun to his knees, looks up her and says, “If you only see what I see when I look into that mirror.” He lifted his hand and pointed his finger at the mirror near the door. My father is in there he tells me the truth. My poor sister! I didn’t do anything to help her. I didn’t tell anyone” “Your sister?” Joan was perplexed, he didn’t make sense. He never told her he had a sister. She felt as if she were in a bad dream frozen to the spot. She held her hands to stop them from shaking.

“He knows when I look in the mirror; he’s there to show my soul festered reflection. He comes out at night and taunts me. I see the evil, I see, myself possessed by evil. I smell rotting death.

My reflection in the mirror is not an allusion. I am grotesque and ugly.”

“No, no, sweetheart, there is nothing there, put the gun down and get dressed. We will go into town and see a doctor.” She walks towards him.

“Stop!” He yelled. “I’ve lived here once before.”

“You lived here before?”

“Yes, I never told you, I didn’t remember.”

Jack points to the mirror, “He is in there. When he laughs at me, I feel a rage burning me like hell fire. My sister died here, she was eight years old. He killed her in this room. I heard the screams. I couldn’t’ move. I couldn’t look. The screams stopped and my sister lay dead on the floor in a pool of blood in a circle around her. With his blood covered hands he grabbed me and pushed my face into the mirror.”

“You saw nothing and if you tell anyone I will kill you!” He picked me up and threw me into the storage room. I heard the click of the lock. I don’t remember how long I was there. Weeks, days.

A hunter came by into the unlocked house and found me. I don’t remember much, after that, I

spent many years in a children’s facility. When I inherited this place I had no recollection of what had happened here until he starting speaking to me and it came all back.”

Jack stands up and pushes Joan aside. He approaches the mirror puts the gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger. The sound of the blasting gun assaults her ear drums she cannot hear anything but a loud humming sound in her head. The mirror shatters covering her dead husband in pieces of broken glass. Joan stands frozen for a second then kneels beside him, brushes the glass away and touches his shattered face with both hands. She tries to clean his face with her long blond hair. She finds a space on his face that isn’t blood and shattered bone and kisses him.

She feels the soft touch of a hand on her shoulder; slowly she turns to see a beautiful young girl reaching her hand out to her. Joan gets up; the little girl takes her hand and walks her to the door of the cabin. She looks up and says, to her, “It’s alright; my brother is with me now.”

Joan runs into the yard and stops and stands holding onto the wooden gate. She slowly turns.

Like a lit match the house is engulfed in flames. She can feel the heat of the flames on her back.

She runs and doesn’t look back as she slows her pace into the perfect day toward the stream.

© Margo Prentice

The beaten © Perry Wilson

I’m standing on the street at Main and Terminal. It’s cold, wet, windy. Grit collected in cracks and corners on drier windy days turns to streams of taupe mud. The heavier grains staying in place.

I feel the roughness between my wet toes as I try to walk. I have sandals on my feet. I look down and see my toenails, bright blotches of red from an old manicure. My sandals were once silver. The cheap leather showing through the cracked metallic dye. I see goosebumps on my legs, stubble prickling up on the white skin, three days since I shaved.

Wet. It is pouring rain, slanting with the wind. The traffic rushing by is causing eddies in the puddles.

Wet. And I can’t find a way to shelter.

My arms wrapped across my breasts, trying to shield them from the cold. Thin arms bruised at the wrist and elbow they scraped against the sequins of my dress. My dress is cut low and hemmed short. My hair, wet in my eyes, is stuck to my face and falling out of the pins. It’s still held back left side.

The light is white, no direction, harsh. It feels gritty like the wind and the rain.

People walking by, heads down, umbrellas up. Coats closed and belted. Briefcases held in gloved hands, shielded against the needles of rain they don’t feel. They are protected. They aren’t standing in the rain in a sleeveless silver sequined dress and dancing shoes.

They walk by and don’t see me. They walk past as though I didn’t exist. One looks at his watch and speeds up. I have to step aside on my cold feet to avoid being trampled. I step one wet toed step to the side and feel the heel snap on my sandals. I put out my arms. My breasts fall.

I fall.

I reach out for a woman passing by to try to stop my fall and my hands go through her. My arms feel the warmth of the blood going through her veins. My arms hot, my hands pass through – warm, then cold and wet again, the skin stinging from the change.

I fall through her.

My head goes next. I’m holding my breath. My shoulder passes through her, then my chest, and finally my waist. She passes. I’m on the ground face down in the grit and water.

I taste blood.

I gasp for breath.

This is wrong.

I remember.

He held me down, there behind the deli. I fought. My elbow hit the wall. His hands squeezed my wrists. He pulled my arms around together. He used one hand – big hands – to hold them together and hit me with the other. The pain made me want to vomit. The pressure of his body on mine stopped my breath. I couldn’t scream. He tied my hands. He pulled my head up by my hair – something cracked.

The light went out. I spiralled into a pinpoint and then I went out.

I’m standing on the street at Main and Terminal. It’s cold, wet, windy.

Pamela Bentley “Choose One Place and Know It Well”

July 19, 2014

from notes compiled by Sonya Furst- Yuen…

- triggering moments for you, where you start, when you think you know what you’re writing about, but it’s actually about something else; yet, they form connections with other people when you share them with audience at open mics or on page

- nature: “place” does that for Pamela; pre-occupation helps her to write - line endings: breath, resonance; poetic (every word counts) - First 10 min. writing: think about a place that works for your pre-occupations: the past, the dreamed, the realization, the remembered

- return to your senses if you get stuck; write where you don’t want to go “go where the blood is”; it can feel like something wrote YOU

- after you write something, go back and look for extractions, things that stand out, underline or highlight them

- “persona”: when you write as someone else, using “I”; Second 10 min writing: describe a place as a person, or write as though you are the place

- “ledger art”: First Nations type of art, uses what’s available to draw and paint on; ledger art was the continuation of the painting on hides in the past

- once it’s made, you focus on the art, not the lines and numbers behind it; creates a commentary, tension between the ledger and the life captured in the pictures

- “place poetry” with “ledger art”: what happens when you write something on top of a map; ask yourself: Can you incorporate that into the poem?

- “maps and place”: - taking the map and combining poetry on anything you can write on top of it; does the conception make sense to you with maps and words? in what way does a map speak to you?

- the juxtaposition between the art and writing - writing like photographs, speak to us, in that form of prompt Suggested Readings: Writing Down the Bones – Natalie Goldberg Liquidities: Vancouver Poems Then and Now – Daphne Marlatt Vancouver: A Poem – George Stanley The Sound a Raven Makes – Shawnee Morris, Michelle Holland, Catherine Ferguson Everything sings: Maps For a Narrative Atlas – Dennis Wood Strange Maps: An Atlas of Cartographic Curiosities – Frank Jacobs You Are Here: Personal Geographies and Other Maps of the Imagination” – Katharine Harmon Poems read and referenced: “Spending time with winter ravens” by Pamela Bentley “Pick one place and know it well” by Nate Szymanski “Rabbit-footed” by Pamela Bentley “theory of The North” by Jeremy Stewart in Geist 93. Also here: http://www.ditchpoetry.com/jeremystewart.htm “Park, ground” by Daphne Marlatt from Liquidities: Vancouver Poems Then and Now. Vancouver: Talonbooks, 2014, 29-30.

“Espanola: Seductress” by Pamela Bentley

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Open Call for Submissions - RCLAS Members Only Poems, Short Stories, Book excerpts & Songs are welcome for submission to future issues of Wordplay at work .

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Next issue: November 2014: Writer of the Month - Franci Louann plus a Wait For me, Daddy feature, Award Night details and much more!

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Wordplay at work.

SPONSORS • • • • • • • •

Arts Council of New Westminster Wayne Wright Chuck Puchmayr The Heritage Grill Poetic Justice Poetry In The Park Saddlestone International Silver Bow Publishing

October 2014

Wordplay at work

ISSN 2291-4269

Contact: janetkvammen@rclas.com RCLAS Director/ Wordplay at work E-Zine Editor & Design