September 2014 RCLAS Wordplay at work E-Zine

RCLAS Membership Drive Sept 20, 2014 Feature Bios

Margaret Thompson was born November 5, 1940 in Surbiton, England. That is Guy Fawkes Day, but the only fireworks that year came from the Blitz. She started school just a few weeks after the atom bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, when she was not quite five years old. She could already read.

Later she attended a Church of England elementary school, and after passing the dreaded 11+ exam that all children took before going on to a secondary school at that time, went to Wimbledon County School for Girls (a Grammar school, an academic high school.) In 1959, she went to Westfield College at London University to read English, and graduated in 1962 with a BA (Hons) degree. This was followed by a year at Exeter University for a Dip.Ed. and then a first teaching job at her old school. Much later, she earned her M.A. from San Diego State University.

In 1963 she married Alan Thompson, a Physics lecturer at Chiswick Polytechnic. She left teaching temporarily with the arrival of her sons Jeremy and Simon, and the family immigrated to Canada in 1967, when Simon was five weeks old. Their first home in Canada was in Merritt, B.C. where her daughter, Joanna, was born. After three years there, they moved to Madeira Park. Margaret subsequently taught English in Sechelt and then spent 20 years in Fort St. James, where she was the senior English teacher in the high school and also taught university transfer courses for the College of New Caledonia.

Margaret Thompson has taught other people how to write for years, and frequently wrote plays for her students. She began to take her own writing seriously in the early 1990s and self-published a collection of prose and poetry about the early days of Fort St. James in 1992, specifically for the Gift Shop at the National Historic Site in the town. The information acquired in her research for that project gave her the material for her first children’s book, the YA historical novel, Eyewitness (Ronsdale, 2000) which won a BC2000 Book Award. Earlier, in 1996, her collection of short stories, Hide and Seek (1996) was published by Caitlin Press.

On retirement from teaching in 1998, Margaret Thompson left the north for Victoria and yearround gardens. She lives in a house that overlooks the farms that sweep down to the sea, with a great view of Mt. Baker and Haro Strait. She has one Siamese cat, a Basset hound, and is visited every day by the peacock that lives in the neighbourhood. She also has four grandchildren, two of whom also live in Victoria.

She wrote another children’s book, Fox Winter, (Hodgepog Books, 2003) which is based on a real encounter with an injured fox in her own backyard. This was followed by a collection of travel essays, Knocking on the Moonlit Door (NeWest, 2004) and a further essay collection, Adrift on the Ark: Our Connection to the Natural World (Brindle & Glass) in 2009. Her first novel for adults, The Cuckoo’s Child, (Brindle & Glass) was published in 2014. She has also contributed to five anthologies.

She joined the Federation of BC Writers in 1992, served on the board for a number of years, and as president for two terms. She is also a member of The Writers’ Union of Canada. http://www.margaretthompson.ca/home.html

Richard Olafson, is most widely known as the publisher of Ekstasis

Editions, a literary press in Victoria that he has owned and operated with his partner Carol Ann Sokoloff, a songwriter, singer and author.

According to promotional material: "Ekstasis Editions was founded by Richard Olafson in 1982 in the basement of the now-defunct Gallerie Untitled in Victoria, BC, in order to publish local poets.

The first book produced was Blood of the Moon by Richard Olafson, with cover art by Miles Lowry, printed on a 1250 MultilithPress in the gallery basement." Since then the press has gone on to publish over four hundred titles of poetry, fiction, criticism, children's and metaphysical books--an average of about one hundred books per decade for thirty years. Olafson re-published Blood of the Moon as a 30th anniversary edition in 2012.

Olafson had previously attended the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics during its second year of operation (in 1977) and was much influenced the following year by taking classes from Warren Tallman at UBC's English Department. His other literary influences include Francois Vilon, Dante, Jack Gilbert and Artaud. Also a book designer, he has published many chapbooks and books. His collected poems from 1979 to 1986 can be found in Cloud on My Tongue (Ekstasis, 1998).

In his own writing Olafson is primarily concerned with metaphysics, love and nature.

His offshoots have included the Pacific Festival of the Book and the City of Victoria Book Prize. In his spare time he somehow managed to publish the Pacific Rim Review of Books. Olafson has returned to the theatre and has recently held workshop productions of his plays, Afghanistan, a poetic drama, and Felicitations, a comedy. His latest book is Island in the Light: Drawn from a series of chapbooks of writing from a period of residency on Saturna Island, Richard Olafson's poetry collection Island in the Light celebrates coastal nature. http://www.ekstasiseditions.com/

A new voice in jazz with new songs that stand up against the classics, Peabody award-winning vocalist and songwriter Carol Sokoloff, is an engaging performer who swings, sways and scats. Born and educated in Toronto, Ontario Carol Sokoloff now lives in Victoria, BC where she performs regularly and leads the group Carol Sokoloff and Trio Espresso. A published author and poet, a choral director and arranger, and a Mideast dance artist, Sokoloff brings a joy in words, music and dance to the performance of jazz.

Let Go!, Carol Sokoloff’s debut jazz CD (Dec. 2010) features ten new songs in the style of ‘The Standards,’ sometimes in medleys with well-loved pieces. The album also features a collaboration with jazz master Wayne Shorter on “Follow the Footprints,” an adaptation of the saxophonist’s ‘Footprints,’ featuring Sokoloff’s lyric. It is the first of a series of Sokoloff’s Wayne Shorter adaptations which the composer has approved.

A former broadcaster, Carol Sokoloff produced a CBC radio documentary on American Songbook icon, composer Harold Arlen. She was privileged to get to know the reclusive composer in his later years and met his collaborator, lyricist Yip Harburg and colleagues Burton Lane, Comden and Green and Kay Swift. "I feel like the influence of these great creators of the American Songbook is manifesting in my music,” Sokoloff writes.”I am inspired by the sophistication and elegance of their songs, both harmonically and lyrically, and strive to meet those standards! I also know that today’s jazz singers lack contemporary material.”

Carol Sokoloff and Trio Espresso were featured in the 2009 Victoria JazzFest, which wrote, “One of Victoria’s finest jazz vocalists, Carol Sokoloff radiates a rare warmth and burnished vocal technique from the bandstand...” Sokoloff has studied extensively with top jazz vocalists including Kurt Elling, who calls Carol Sokoloff “an intuitively gifted songwriter whose composition ‘Winter Moon’ reminds me of Hoagy Carmichael.” Elling selected the vocalist to sing ‘Winter Moon’ at a Jazz Port Townsend Festival concert. She has also worked extensively with jazz singer, Nancy King, Portland’s Queen of Scat.

Carol Sokoloff received a Peabody Award for her writing, theme music and performance, and poetry for an educational radio series broadcast on the CBC radio network. A compelling performer, Carol Sokoloff brings meaning and warmth to every song. Her Miiddle Eastern dance background adds excitement and variety including a captivating version of Ellington’s Caravan, complete with colourful veils. http://www.carolsokoloff.com/

League of Canadian Poets AGM - Feminist Caucus 2013

Paper on Fred Cogswell

by Candice James Poet Laureate

Excerpt from DIALOGUES, EXCHANGES, CONVERSATIONS Canadian Women Poets and their Male Mentors Living Archives of the Feminist Caucus League of Canadian Poets

The Late Fred Cogswell was an Order of Canada

recipient, poet, essayist, professor, editor, publisher and mentor. This man was an icon on the Canadian poetry scene and, I am honoured to say “He was a mentor and a friend to me”.

Fred was born in 1917 in East Centreville, New Brunswick, and educated at the Universities of New Brunswick and Edinburgh. He subsequently followed an academic career at the University of New Brunswick, where he edited the influential magazine The Fiddlehead and founded Fiddlehead Books.

His first collection of poetry, The Stunted Strong, appeared in 1954. It was followed by 33 more published collections.

For those of you who may not have had the extreme pleasure of knowing Fred Cogswell or his work I’d like to read you three of his short poems so you may become a bit more familiar with this great man. After which, I will continue on with how I met Fred, how he became my mentor, and how he changed my life.

The following three poems are from my favorite book of Fred’s The Long Apprenticeship – Collected Poems 1980.

A RESPECT: FOR A POET When he is dead at last do not remember what he did and say, “In this he was good or wise.”

“That sin in him was hid.”

Deeds find a way to sink down time’s dissolving sea that drowns both bad and good, all bodies and their memory.

Say rather, “He carved poems from the liquid hours that ran and froze epiphanies in words that all who read can scan.

The next poem is called: IN A HOSPITAL in a hospital a breath of infant breath blends with a last gasp death the child does not know he is alive nor the man that his breathing’s done nor can those watchers, who pronounce that one is dead and the other born, say with certainty of that they saw before them any more than this “in a hospital we watched two breaths meet in time, the rest is silence.”

Fred was always such a kind gentle soul who never had a bad word to say about anyone, but, in this next poem, someone must have really made him angry as you will hear when I read it. And, as angry as this person must have made Fred, he still spilled his wrath and the words onto paper in perfect eloquence.

ELEGY FOR A BAD PAINTER Pour his blood into scarlet tubes and drill a palette from his hollow skull pluck soft brushes out of his blonde hair and on the greybone easel of his limbs stretch out the canvas of his flayed skin he who could not make a picture living should have the chance to make one now....

Now that you are somewhat more familiar with Fred and his poetry, I will continue on with my story of Fred Cogswell and the great impact he had on my life.

I had been writing poetry sporadically off and on since I was about 13 years old. Nothing serious… just a teenager setting her emotions to paper so they didn’t spontaneously combust inside. Some of it was not too bad, and some of it was very amateurish indeed. However, I did love to write poetry. It took me into another world that I loved to be in. It felt good to write a poem and it felt even better to read it back and think. Wow! I did that.

I like it.

As the years passed, I continued writing poetry sporadically when the mood would hit me, which back in those days, wasn’t all that much, but in 1977 I had a spurt of creativity and wrote more and more poems, and I noticed that the more I wrote, the better they seemed to get. In 1978 I had amassed approximately 100 original poems. A friend of mine thought they were good enough to send to a publisher, so she researched who I should send them to. She gave me the name of three publishers I should send to.

Fiddlehead Poetry Books was one of them. I loved the name and sent 25 poems out for consideration. I didn’t have a lot of hope because I didn’t know much about the poetry scene except that I liked Shakespeare’s sonnets, Wilde’s ballads, Leonard Cohen and Irving Layton’s free verse.

About one week had gone by after I had mailed my 25 poems to Fiddlehead when I received a phone call from a gentleman stating he was Fred Cogswell from Fiddlehead Poetry Books and that he was very interested in publishing a chapbook of my poetry. Being the greenhorn novice I was in the literary world I said “What’s a Chapbook?” I must have looked pretty naïve to Fred, but he, being the itinerate gentleman he was, never let on and just continued to explain a chapbook to me.

He asked me how many poems I had written so far. I told him a little white lie saying, about 300 or so. He said oh that’s good. I’ll be in Vancouver in 10 days and I’d like to get together and see the rest. I said certainly and thanked him.

Now I was in a quandary. I had 100 original poems I had written, give or take a few, and I needed to have 300 to show Fred within 10 days.

Needless to say, I spent every waking hour writing poetry and most of my hours were waking hours because I needed all the time I could get to ensure I would indeed have 300 or 300 plus poems by the time Fred arrived in Vancouver. I did it. I had 304 original poems ready to show him when he arrived.

Fred and I met a few times to go over the 300 plus poems, to which he suggested many changes; most addressed to my grievous errors in punctuation, which to this day still continue with the dreaded “semi-colon” which I’ve yet to get a full handle on. Fred deleted a lot of what he referred to as “unnecessary, trite or hackneyed” words. At that point in time I actually didn’t know what “trite” or “hackneyed” meant, and didn’t want to appear dumb, so I didn’t ask. Oddly enough I do remember having the image of an English buggy and a horse pulling the buggy flash

through my mind at the mention of the word “hackneyed”. To this day I’m glad I never vocalized that passing thought. He also suggested title changes and added new ideas to some of the poems which vastly improved them, although I didn’t see the improvement at the time and balked somewhat at the changes he suggested. Nevertheless, Fred was adamant that he was right and the changes were required. I acquiesced to his better judgement because I realized I was a mere kindergarten student in his established world of literature.

I had chosen a Title for the book “Silver Dreams of The Seventh Dimension”. Fred said it wasn’t strong enough and didn’t describe the book. He chose “A Split In The Water” which was a poem in the book that he liked very much. I did argue this gently for awhile, but again gave in to his better judgement.

After a few days Fred left town with 116 of my poems he had chosen to publish in a chapbook. I was very thrilled that someone, and not just anyone, but a publisher had found merit in my poetry and I would have a book out.

As time passed, Fred and I kept in touch and he worked on some of my poems with edits and changes. Sometimes he axed stanzas and added new stanzas. But, to put it in a nutshell, I was young, inexperienced and didn’t realize how very fortunate indeed I was to have someone like Fred Cogswell mentoring me and trying to help me and get me into the poetry scene as an active participant. He always made a point of inviting me to go to poetry readings with him. Sometimes I did go with him, but regret now that I didn’t accompany him to more readings.

I continued writing poems of course, but just filed them away in a drawer for “later”. Fred continued asking me to send him a manuscript or some of my poems, and I, with the very best of intentions, said “I will for sure within the next couple of months”. Sadly, I never ever did resubmit. I changed horses in midstream and got into the music business, singing,

playing, songwriting, travelling around on the circuit with this band and that band. It was a party kind of life and I easily became firmly ensconced in it so there was little or no time to realistically sit down and “take care of business” such as submitting poetry or manuscripts.

To this day, I thank the universe for having Fred’s path cross with mine. If I hadn’t met him and he hadn’t published my chapbook in 1979, I don’t believe I would be standing here before you today.

When I hung up the band situation in 2006, I started writing again, but this time my writing had a greater sense of urgency and I derived more satisfaction from it. Writing poetry became a driving force in my life and I don’t think this would have happened if Fred had not shown such an interest in my writing and encouraged me so adamantly to never stop writing poetry. I always was a bit of a late bloomer, but, better late than never.

I emerged back onto the poetry scene in 2009, and was fortunate indeed to be appointed the Poet Laureate of New Westminster, BC. I’ve had three more books published since then, and have actually given workshops on poetry.

I always felt I let Fred down and disappointed him by never sending the poetry manuscripts to him that I promised I would. I think about that often, and if I did disappoint him in life, I won’t disappoint him in death.

I will continue to read his poetry in public to ensure others are made aware of his work and talent. I will continue to post videos of his poems that I read on YouTube www.youtube.com/saddlestone11. I will continue to advocate the man, his talent and his poetry as long as I live, breathe and walk on this Earth.

I’d like to close with my personal favorite of Fred’s poems. I truly do love this poem. It says it all…

- deadlines to submit written work can motivate you more to write - structure is the essence of life; it opens you up and can take you out of your box - conflict and contradictions allow the characters to come alive - “structured creativity�: can occur from the left side of the brain

Writing is about the soul, the source is you; the palette of colours can be you, as the creative source.

Always start with the image, then expand to help write.

Sharing your writing affects others and YOURSELF

Healing and Writing Workshop May 31, 2014 the words & wisdom of Sherry Duggal from notes by Sonya Furst-Yuen Physiological Sides of the Body During the Creative Writing Process

-

brain-wave patterns change; meditation neurons get fired up – electrical signals; texture: the fastest way your body responds; art and movement trigger healing

Nervous System: (formed of two branches) Sympathetic: Parasympathetic: Stress symptoms airwaves -> Breathing Meditation (response) (gateway) -- (time escapes)

blood flows faster… rest... repair… relaxation… restoration - what can help us get grounded is drinking water; walking barefoot on the soil creates healing endorphins - bibliogical, dramatical, poetic: stages on writing - unique effects: images come to the surface; dots connecting on the page - healing is a cognitive (thinking) process; awareness of your feelings; don’t block yourself from their release - provide perspective to the page through your feelings - inner voice: wisdom, guidance, strength; writing, prayer and meditation : a sensory experience - pain helps you create; through depression you allow yourself to experience; acknowledge it, embrace it and accept it - break down old structures; develop new ways of thinking, bring yourself to existence - identity leads to behaviour, which leads to further behaviour and then creates the writing result - story telling is as old as human culture; writing strengthens the immune system

Quotations of Rebirth: “Dawn Is Born At Midnight”

“Dark Night of the Soul”

“Don’t Die With the Music In You” Suggested Readings: “Deep Truth” – Gregg Braden “Divine Matrix” – Gregg Braden

cc September 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/

September 7 Sunday 3 – 5 pm Poetic Justice featuring Tanguy “titang” Exumé & Kagan Goh Host: Franci Louann http://poeticjustice.ca/event/poetic-justice-returns-featuring-tanguy-titang-exume-kagan-goh/

September 14 Sunday 3 – 5 pm Poetic Justice featuring Franci Louann & Carol Shillibeer Host: Lilija Valis http://poeticjustice.ca/event/poetic-justice-featuring-franci-louann-carol-shillibeer/

September 21 Sunday 3 – 5 pm Poetic Justice featuring Jane Eaton Hamilton & Candice James Host: Deborah L. Kelly http://poeticjustice.ca/event/poetic-justice-featuring-jane-eaton-hamilton-candice-james/

September 28 Closed for Word Vancouver

RCLAS WRITE ON! CONTEST 2014

Honourable Mentions (in alphabetical order) Fiction Judge: Antonia Levi FICTION Honourable Mentions Julie MacLellan – Balance Julie MacLellan – Forever, You Said Jen Ryan – A Night To Remember

Poetry Judge: Jonina Kirton POETRY Honourable Mentions Spring Hawes – Nurse Alan Hill – A Great and Glorious Rage Kyle McKillop – The Fog

Non-Fiction Judge: Corey Levine NON-FICTION Honourable Mentions Alexander Birkbeck – The Craters Jude Neale – Just Like Her Mom Donna Terrill – Defying The Odds

*Copyright remains with the author.* Published with permission as submitted.

2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Honourable Mention Fiction Balance Š Julie MacLellan

She seems, from below, impossibly tiny. Faded pink sundress hanging from too-thin shoulders. Arms little more than twigs. Prominent knees protruding from beneath her skirt. She should look ridiculous up there in the rafters. I should laugh at the sight of her, her hand-me-down clothes and cropped blond locks, hacked with the scissors she took from my mother’s sewing basket.

Something about her silences me. Her white toes curl around the edge of the beam. She tilts her chin up. She lifts her arms in a slow fluid motion, thin fingers reaching for the watery sunlight that filters through the grimy windows above.

In this moment she is beautiful.

*

It was the only place I was ever alone.

At home it was Karen’s mushy music and Karen’s giggling friends and endless sighing and eye-rolling about little brothers. No wonder I liked the old factory, even though it was three miles by bike out the old town line. O’Neill’s Shoes, it still said on the outside, the faded white paint peeling off in flakes.

It smelled inside. Not bad, exactly, just stale and musty. There was dust everywhere and the floors creaked, but I liked the beams that crisscrossed the room overhead and the rows of high square windows that let in a spooky, shadowed half-light.

One day when I got there, another bike was leaning against the building. It was small and pink.

I pushed the creaky backdoor open and looked around, but I didn’t see anyone.

Then I heard a giggle above.

I looked up and saw the short girl from school, the one with the blond curly hair whose mom had left town. (Right about the same time

that Mr. Wilson, the school principal, got thrown out by his wife. I knew that bit because I heard Mom telling Aunt Dot.) The girl was sitting on a beam, swinging her skinny legs.

“Hey,” she said with a grin that seemed too big for her face. “I’m Cora.”

I found myself grinning back.

“I know,” I said. “I’m Simon.”

*

We always biked out together after that. Cora brought stuff along in her old green rucksack, like a camping lantern and some old cushions for us to sit on. Once she brought a picnic – pickles, bologna, apples, two buns and a stick of butter. She forgot a knife for the butter, though.

I laughed at her. She laughed at me back.

“Who needs a knife?” she said.

She unwrapped the butter and took a great big bite out of it, as if it was a chocolate bar.

“That’s gross,” I said.

She shook her head. “Uh-uh. It’s good. Try it.”

Her thin hand thrust the butter at me, and I leaned forward to take a bite. It was no Baby Ruth. But actually it wasn’t bad.

*

I almost kissed her there. Just once.

We were fourteen.

She climbed into the rafters like she always had, using an old countertop and shelves to scramble up until she could reach the iron rail she used as a handhold.

I never did like climbing. I watched from the ground as she mounted the beam and got to her feet, hands on hips, pointed elbows jutting out.

She twirled on one leg in a slow, effortless spin that stopped my heart.

She was grinning triumphantly when she climbed back down.

The triumph faded when she looked at my face.

“Don’t look so worried, silly. As if I’d ever fall.”

She hugged me then.

She felt soft. I caught a whiff of something in her curls, something sweet and flowery that reminded me of summer.

She lingered for a moment. I had lost my ability to move or speak.

She drew away.

*

The first time we drank beer, we were sitting cross-legged on the old cushions in the darkest corner. She brought four bottles in her rucksack.

Her dad wouldn’t miss them, she said.

It tasted awful. I didn’t finish mine.

She was on her third when she blurted it out.

“My father touches me.”

I didn’t get it. I just stared at her.

Then it came pouring out, the words a staccato volley that ricocheted off the walls and fired back at us so hard they hurt. I sat with my knees

drawn up tight against me, hugging them to my chest, as if I was the one in need of protection.

I don’t remember the words she used. Only these: “I don’t see why. I’m not even pretty.”

I reached out and stroked her cheek, then buried my hand in her blond curls.

“Yes, you are.”

We sat like that for a long time.

The next day she came to my house to get Mom’s scissors.

*

I could have stopped her. I could have yelled. I could have let her know I was watching.

That truth ran around my brain in an endless circle until I wanted to scream. Sometimes I did scream. I’d pedal out to the factory as fast as I could and I’d stand in the middle of the room and I’d yell until the birds flew out of the rafters.

Only the screaming could push away the images.

The grey half-light of the morning I woke up before the sun, unsettled for no reason I could name. The flashing of feet and pedals as I cycled out to the old factory, propelled by an urgency I did not understand.

The peeling paint on the old wooden door, forbidding in the foggy dawn.

The eerie, musty chill of the building that was almost empty. Almost.

The heart-stopping sight of her, high above, with her cropped blond locks and faded pink sundress.

I don’t see it as much anymore. Except at night.

In my dreams I never see the end. The final, inevitable step. The slow-motion plummet. The thin white crumpled body.

I see her in that one moment only. She’s poised there, luminous in shadow – toes curled around the beam, chin uptilted, arms upstretched as she reaches for the light.

She is always beautiful.

Julie MacLellan

2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Honourable Mention Fiction Forever, You Said © Julie MacLellan

You don’t even see me here.

How can this have happened, this absence of self, this vanishing of the essential Mirandaness that used to fill your world with laughter. With love.

Forever, you said. In sickness and in health.

But there you are, humming as you get ready to go out with her.

Yes, I know about her. That would surprise you, wouldn’t it? You’re trying hard to pretend it’s just another Tuesday. A few beers with the boys, isn’t it? Or maybe it’s a meeting again.

Who is she, anyway?

Rachel. This much I know. You’ve said the name too many times, slid it casually into conversation when it wasn’t really needed, just to hear those two syllables roll off your tongue.

It was so funny in the newsroom today. You should have heard Rachel giving that jackass in sports the what-for.

You know that new Indian place on Sixth Street? Rachel said it’s great.

Rachel drove by the other day and said she really liked the front garden. You did such a nice job with those rhododendrons, she said.

She’s tiny, isn’t she? One of those size four gym bunnies you dated in those days before me. Dark-haired, I’m guessing. You always did like the slightly exotic types. Until my own mousy brown locks captured your attention.

She has a lovely smile and a perfect musical little laugh – nothing like the snort-cum-bray you fell in love with. Then there’s her graceful way of walking – not the overenthusiastic clomping that drove my ballet teacher to suggest that perhaps my calling lay elsewhere. (It was okay. They didn’t have enough pink tulle for a tutu my size, anyway.)

I’d like to call her a bimbo. But I know you too well. You never did go for the vapid sort. Even Andrea (size two on a bloated day) and Lucia (dark tresses skimming her perfect little ass) were intelligent. Erudite.

You taught me that word, you know. Erudite. I never knew what it meant. Which made you laugh in that slightly condescending way.

Until I threw my own language back at you. Arpeggio. Cantabile.

Coloratura. You learned those words from me.

Remember the night at the opera? There you were in your dark suit, the one you had made that summer in Thailand, with your crisp blue shirt and dark tie. You weren’t sure you’d know when to clap or whether you’d stay awake. You didn’t even know how to say Aïda.

You squeezed my hand as the curtain went up. Not long after, I stole a sideways glance at you and you didn’t even see me. You were staring at the stage, unblinking.

Remember how you loved it. How you loved me that night.

You’re fussing again. That one stubborn cowlick won’t lie flat, and you frown at your reflection in that way that makes your nose scrunch. The way that makes me see what our children should have looked like.

My fingers itch to reach out for your hair gel. I could fix it for you. I always had the magic touch, you said.

My fingers have always loved that hair. Ever since the rainy November morning I walked into Starbucks and saw you in line – rumpled copper hair and a big smile that turned my way when I tripped over my too-large feet and landed in front of you.

You laughed. I didn’t mind.

When you bought me a mocha – even though I lied and told you I’d prefer a non-fat latte – I couldn’t help laughing too. We laughed for an hour that morning. We were both late for work. When we talked on the phone that evening, we laughed about that too.

If you turned around now, if you met my eyes, we could laugh again.

I’m sure we could.

You don’t turn.

You lean over the sink, and I realize your jeans are riding low on your hips. My hand could fit in the empty space between your skin and the faded blue denim. When did they get so loose?

I must have been so busy secretly admiring my new body – the shrinking boobs and vanishing ass and newly concave stomach – that I didn’t notice your clothes becoming baggy.

I didn’t look after you, did I. If I could fix your hair now, would that make up for it?

I watch as you work the gel into your hair, trying unsuccessfully to subdue the unruly curls.

It’s okay. You look sexier with messy hair anyway.

You give up on your hair and reach for the razor.

You trace a well-practised path down your right cheek and jaw, stroke after methodical stroke uncovering the smooth freckled skin beneath the stubble.

Are you thinking of it, I wonder.

Of the day you wrapped one arm around my shoulder and gently ran that blade across my skull, watching in silence as the last patches of mousybrown hair hit the cold tile floor. The day we felt the weight of in sickness and in health.

You turn your head and repeat the same neat pattern of strokes on the left side. I want to remind you about that spot in front of your ear. And the one on the underside of your jaw, just behind your chin.

My fingers could always find those spots.

Will hers, I wonder.

Will she learn your face the way I did, tracing it slowly, millimetre by millimetre, until her fingertips can conjure you into being from memory.

Will you tell me if she does?

You don’t talk to me anymore. Not really.

You used to. You started the day you got home from the church.

You shut yourself in our bedroom and picked up that photo of us at Long Beach and told me about the service. How Tess cried on your shoulder. How Mom clung to you. How Dad clasped your hand so tight you thought your bones would break.

You told me how hard it was to say the words: Miranda was my love.

My life. You told me how much you wanted to cry but didn’t because you thought I wouldn’t want you to. Because I was always so strong, you said.

Me, strong. That made me laugh. Then I cried because you weren’t laughing with me.

You talked to me every day after that.

Sometimes about your day. About everything you did at work and everything you missed at home. Sometimes about your future. How you couldn’t see one without me. Without the child we’d always intended to have some day.

These days it’s just inconsequential chatter. It changed when you started dropping her name oh so casually into conversation. Never mentioning the times you took her out for dinner or a movie. Allowing little white lies to slip into your running commentary. The boys’ nights. The meetings.

You never lied before. That’s how I knew.

She’s here now, by the way. At least, I think that’s her car turning into the driveway.

You give yourself yet another look in the mirror. That cowlick still won’t lie flat, and a flash of irritation crosses your face. Then the doorbell rings, and you turn away. You run to answer it, not caring that you look like an overeager schoolboy as you fling open the door.

There she is.

Rachel.

Not short. Not tall. Not fat. Not thin. Not dark. Not blonde.

Just an ordinary woman in a plain pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt.

Smiling.

You meet her eyes and you smile too.

I haven’t seen that smile in a long time. The one that says, I’m glad I know you. You make me happy.

She reaches a hand out towards you, and you hesitate a moment. You don’t reach back.

She drops her hand without comment and says, All set? Let’s go.

She walks ahead of you across the porch, chatting lightly about the movie you’re off to see. She reaches the steps and stumbles, landing on her slightly-too-ample hindquarters on the driveway.

Help her up, for heaven’s sake.

I wonder if you can hear me as you hurry over to her and reach out a hand. She takes it and you help her up, laughing.

She looks offended for a moment.

He’s not making fun of you. He just likes to laugh. Laugh with him.

Rachel pauses, then she starts to giggle.

– Thanks, she says. Boy, am I the biggest klutz in the world or what?

You slide an arm around her shoulders and smile down at her.

– Maybe second-biggest, you say.

You look over your shoulder, back at the house. I could swear you look at me and smile.

I raise my hand and wave, but you’ve already looked back down at Rachel. She’s smiling up at you and her arm slides around your waist, squeezing you in an affectionate half-hug.

You look good together.

Julie MacLellan

2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Honourable Mention Fiction A Night To Remember © Jen Ryan “What the HELL?!” I don’t even have a chance to form that entire sentence before I’m kicked straight in the solar plexus – for the second time. At least this time my boob wasn’t hit. I still stumble backwards, though. Seriously, what is going on? I feel like I’ve wandered onto the set of a Bruce Lee movie. I’d better do something, and fast. I take a half-step forward and throw a punch with zero focus but plenty of force. Luckily the punch connects with what I assume is a face. I don’t care what it is, though, I only care that it was enough to buy me a few seconds. Whoever or whatever attacked me has recoiled pretty harshly from the blow. Funny, I didn’t think I was THAT strong. Punching bags tend to do more harm to me than I do to them. Just got lucky, I suppose. In those precious few seconds I regain enough focus to see the person in front of me. And it is a person – a male one. Bastard.

“Why are you doing this? Leave me alone, you asshole!” I should probably scream for help but no, I have the brilliant idea to stay and chat.

“Look, I’m sorry, lady, but I can’t let you hurt any innocent people,” he says. Huh? “What the hell are you talking about?” I ask. I get no further explanation, though; he’s back to fighting stance, ready for more. Why don’t I remember anything before this attack? I seem to have woken up in the middle of a beating, but I don’t understand any of this. He’s still a little out of breath still; maybe I him in the chest earlier instead of the face. I should be wheezing myself, since I was kung fu’d twice in my own chest, but I seem to have recovered nicely.

Anyway, Round Two. My attacker rushes at me, tackling me to the pavement. He hits me with a quick right jab, this time connecting with my

chin, then yanks me to my feet and slams me up against a Dumpster. I guess we’re in an alley. This knowledge does me little good. I don’t really know what the hell is going on but I know I need to focus to survive. A fist comes at my face once more; this time I grab it midair. I throw his hand away from me and send my own straight into his jaw. Then his eye, and his nose. Finally it occurs to me that I should get the fuck out of there. I turn to run but again the guy topples me to the ground. I manage to kick him in the groin before he can do any more damage.

“I seriously have no idea why you want to hurt me!” I say. I’m more pissed off than scared, which I chalk up to adrenaline. His foot slams into my ribcage.

“I told you, you’re (kick to the ribs) dangerous! I can’t let you (kick) leave (kick to the ass) this alley (kick) alive.”

Wait, what? Can’t let me leave alive? That sounds…bad.

Okay, if running isn’t going to work, I’m going to have put a stop to this the hard way. I kip-up to my feet – ninja style – grab the guy’s head, and twist. It takes me a moment to register the snap. I guess it wasn’t so hard, after all.

Now that I have time to think – albeit not very clearly - I’m starting to remember things from before the attack. I was out clubbing with my girlfriends. It was Friday night and we were celebrating my promotion at the bank. We usually partied on Fridays anyway, but this was a special occasion. We were drinking and dancing up a storm. There was this strange guy on the dance floor that kept flirting with us. I was the only one that danced with him, though; I felt sorry for him, he looked so dorky and out of place. And the guy who attacked me! He was watching us in the bar.

Well, at first I’d thought he was watching me, but he seemed to have an odd interest in the dorky guy. Maybe he was gay. You know what? I think he was even following us at the end of the night.

Oh, my God. I let the dance floor guy leave with me, didn’t I? I’d had a few too many by then – it was a celebration, after all - but I think I remember walking out of the bar with him. He was being really flirty;

pushy, even. In my drunken state, I was a little flattered, but I wasn’t planning to let him get too friendly. My friends must have been with us, too, because I remember them screaming. I think they were trying to tell me to stay away from the creep. But I don’t know why they were screaming…

Wait a second. I don’t know how to do a kip-up. So what the hell happened? Why was I attacked? And why do I not seem to care that I just killed someone? I look at the lifeless body at my feet, and I notice an interesting object lying beside it, something I hadn’t noticed before. The guy must have dropped it early in the fight, because I definitely would have noticed it otherwise.

It’s a stake. A pointy, wooden stake. Oh. Shit. Oh, shit. Things are starting to fall into place, and fast. Am I really…? Did I really…? Jesus, I can’t breathe. Was I even breathing before? The dude on the dance floor, this dude watching him, my friends’ screams – it all makes sense now. Well, as much sense as discovering you’re a vampire can make, anyway. I lean against the Dumpster and slide down to a crouch. Oh, my God. A vampire.

This is too much to handle. Okay, okay, calm down, girl, I tell myself. I have to calm down. Deep breaths. Okay, yes, those are breaths. Good.

Relax…deep breaths…clear your head. There we go. I’m feeling calmer now. Calm. Collected. I stand up straight, lick my newly pointy teeth, and look coolly down at the man I just killed with my bare hands. I turn and start off down the alley.

Well then, I think with a slow smile. It’s time to hunt.

Jen Ryan

2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Honourable Mention Poetry Nurse Š Spring Hawes please feel free to address anyone myself excluded regarding the intimate details of my physical condition less than ideal yours whole and nothing short of beautiful to you I am of no consequence defined as the opposite of relevant I read it loud and clear supercilious being the best case scenario extraneous the worst, yet closer to your truth as applied directly to my person callous hands unauthorized grope you assume he’s here with me for your amusement bat your doe eyes at my soulmate your plaything I wish for you love un-earned -deserved -explained as fortunate as me but would you give your limbs for love

2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Honourable Mention Poetry A Great and Glorious Rage © Alan Hill Little son, you won’t remember it your two hours of committed tears on your mother’s birthday how you stomped on the geriatric wooden floorboards in our child trashed house imparting the importance of birth control to the couple renting downstairs or that same evening you fired yourself alive in apoplectic rage in window shaking shouting by the door of an Indian restaurant while the rest of us shocked survivors shoveled back curry with the speed of starving untouchables paid with an over generous tip to head off the massing of understandably aggrieved waiters Of course you were learning to cut deals with disappointment, had just discovered it exists how much of it there is learning that after all that anger has had its say that it is so easy to forget, become yourself again not learning, and I not telling you, that sometimes you cannot.

2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Honourable Mention Poetry The Fog Š Kyle McKillop Enveloped as if by silt in a slow estuary, clear to that square form and not beyond, the functionary drops of reluctant rain rippling overhead, a motor reverberates through the perception of water— one can almost see the raven ruffling its night feather on the grinding beach, the season settling into its stony nest.

2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Honourable Mention Non-Fiction The Craters © Alexander Birkbeck I was browsing through the internet, scanning Google earth, when I saw them, two circles in a field. A field on the top of a hill that overlooks the town of Otley on the river Wharfe in Yorkshire. I remembered what had caused them and the afternoon walk when we went to see them. They were bomb craters, caused by enemy action during world war two.

It must have been in the fall of ‘43 when a Junkers 88was caught in the searchlights and shot down. It was supposed that it jettisoned its bombs on the Chevin a hill about a mile away from my home. It crashed a few miles further east. On our afternoon walk we, a gang of school boys, were going to see where they fell.

I stopped on top of the style and looked back to see where Brian was. He was still fifty yards behind me puffing and panting up the lane alongside the hawthorn hedge.

Brian was a stocky built lad about five foot tall and was wearing his school uniform, short grey trousers, navy blue blazer, grey shirt and striped tie.

“Come on,” I shouted “Geoff and Keith will be there.” Brian started to trot. I turned and looked across the fields towards where I thought the bull stook was. We’d been told the bombs had fallen near the bull stook, a twelve foot high ancient post of stone with an iron ring in it used to tether bulls or bears, in the middle ages, so that dogs could be set on them in a sort of sick sport. I could see a group of people in the middle of a field about quarter of a mile away. That must be it, I thought and turned to climb over the style then I looked at the marshy ground in front of me. I froze, putting my arm out to stop Brian when he came over the style.

“What is it?” he said.

“Look,” I said, pointing to the light brown mound next to a large tuft of rush about three yards ahead of us, “a hare.”.

“Can’t see nothing,” he said and took a step forward. The hare leapt from its form and bounded across the field dodging past clumps of heather and making a zig-zag route through the long grass. I gave chase at full sprint but there was no way that I could catch it. The hare disappeared into a ditch near the wall at the other side of the field.

“I told you we needed a dog.” I said to Brian when he caught me up. “John’s dog would have caught that one easily and Mum would have been right pleased.”

“Where do you recon they dropped,” he said.

“You mean the bombs” I said. “Dad said they fell in a field up near the bull stook. The bomber came down somewhere over near Adel on the Leeds to Harrowgate road about ten mile away. Look there‘s the bull stook. We can look at it on the way.”

We crossed the field

picking our way though wet ground. and climbed over another dry stone wall. The long grass and rushes flexed in the wind and a pair of snipe flew around the field the sound of their wing beats making the familiar drumming noise. A solitary stone stood in the middle of the field .

“Never bin here afore,” said Brian looking up at the towering stone rock set firm in the hillside like a piece of Stonehenge gone spare. A huge cast iron ring protruded from one side.

“Did they really chain bulls to this then set dogs on ‘em?” said Brian.

“Aye, that’s what Dad said and sometimes bears a long time ago.”

“What a rotten sport.” said Brian.

“Well back in Roman times they chained Christians up for lions. This may have bin here since then, but we’d better go, we were supposed to meet Geoff and Keith. I’ll bet they are there already.”

We turned and headed for the next wall. Looking across the field we could see the beech trees in York gate woods at the other side. Southwards smoke drifted up from the mill chimneys in the town, the sky looked grey and dark in the south west over Bradford city.

A group of people stood midfield on the edge of a forty foot diameter hole in the ground peering into the hole like nosy parkers at a council work site.

“Looks like it was a two hundred and fifty pounder,” said Mr Busfield the mill owner, a tall portly fellow with a balding head and round red face. “There’s another over there.” he pointed to another hole fifty yards a way. “and another in the wood.”

A lanky thin faced youth in long grey trousers a sweater and rain jacket emerged from the group.

“Where have you guys been?” he said. “Geoff and I have been waiting for ages. We want to go and look at the one in the wood.”

“Okay Keith” I said “lets go, this is nobbut a hole in the ground and we’ll never find any shrapnel.” The four of us set off across the field, climbed the wall into the lane then went into forest. The undergrowth was sparse beneath the mighty beeches. The leaves above rustled and the branches creaked in the wind.

“Mr Busfield told us it is about a hundred yards into the forest inline with the

other bomb holes.” said Keith. “Look there it is, over there where the tree has been blown down.”

I was looking at a huge stump, all that remained of a hundred year old mighty beech tree.

There were wood chips thick on the ground.

“This ones been cut down.” I said. “Look at the size of the wood chips, whoever cut it down must have a super sharp axe.”

“It’s Canadian loggers,” said Geoff. “French Canadian loggers from Quebec. My Dad was talking to one in the pub last week didn’t speak much English. Said his name was Bunyan I think. They are chopping them down to make into planes. Wimpys are made of wood, you know.”

By this time Keith and Brian were climbing in the branches of the fallen tree which lay thick over the bomb crater. It had filled with water.

“Come on you guys we could make a super den in this tree.” said Keith. So the rest of the afternoon was spent clambering in and out of its’ branches constructing a platform. The sun was sinking in the west when we headed for home. That’s when Brian said.

“I think we should have a name for our den.”

“I know,” said Keith “let’s call it the Yosiwarra.”

“Call it what” said Geoff.

“The Yosiwarra,” repeated Keith.

“What on earth made you think of that?” I said. “What is it anyway?”

We had walked down the lane aside the wood and turned into a wider country road edged with dry stone walls. A constant roaring sound came from the engine testing sheds near the lane.

They tested the engines before they put them into the Lancasters at the Avro aircraft factory on the other side of the Leeds road. I always thought the bombs were targeted for that factory.

“It’s where the Jap officers go for what Yanks call R and R. rest and relaxation. The

Japs have girls there and they can just pick which one they want” “What do you mean?” I said.

“Well, they have ‘em in cages,” said Keith. “like prisons and they can pick which one they want.”

“I don’t believe you.” said Brian. “you’re making it up.”

“It’s a pile of horseshit,” said Geoff. “another of Keith’s fantasies.”

“No, honest I’m not lying,” said Keith “I overheard my Dad talking to Mum about it.

Cross my heart, scouts honour it’s true. Dad had heard it on the railways at work.”

We had all stopped , crowding around, jaws dropped staring in awe and disbelief at the tall thirteen year old Keith.

“You mean they can pick a girl to go to bed with?” said Geoff.

“Yeah, go to bed with and bonk, screw, call it what you want, have sex with. Grow up you guys, to the winner goes the spoils and right now the Japs are winning like crazy.”

“I still don’t believe it,” said Brian. “Your Dad just drives a horse and cart for the railways. How does he get that kind of information about the war in the far east?”

“It’s true, it really is.” said Keith.

We walked on down the lane then went our separate ways home. We never went back to the den in the forest. Although we didn’t believe him then, Keith was right and we knew about the Korean comfort girls long before my brother walked into a place called Belsen, but that’s another story.

Alexander Birkbeck

2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Honourable Mention Non-Fiction Just Like Her Mom © Jude Neale She drew closer to the toothpaste-splattered mirror and mumbled for the millionth time about no one else caring about cleanliness and the obvious selfish myopic vision of her family.

She was the apex, the hub, and the control center of this disparate assortment of life. One boy, one girl, one husband and four pets, suffering from various stages of neglect. She was the one to warn about the unattractive appeal of butter yellow teeth. She was the one that dug down deep into the uncovered and hardened ‘salmon delight’ cat food.

She was the one who decided that once a week- Sunday, to be exact, would be family day. A day that everyone would get their creative and whimsical needs met. All but her. The conductor of this light opera.

She wadded up the toilet paper and moistened it with water from the faucet, half-heartedly dabbing at the Pointillist painting on the mirror. Her eyes met the frowning gaze of a middle aged and decidedly aggrieved woman.

She saw that she looked just like her mom. How had this apparition landed on the glass posed for discovery? She bent forward to see the lines radiating out from the corners of her blue eyes. My God. There was a whole network of them. You’d need a map for this lot. And the ones that ran down between her eyebrows, like the rail tracks across the prairies. But, how on earth had those little puckering lines that framed her mouth got there? Was it from silent protestations or suppressed words? Was it from the exasperated sighs or the twitch of disappointment? She remembered her mother’s face hanging over hers. The angry words beating down. The meaning falling out of the words leaving only the essence behind in the air.

She recalled making a game of counting her mother’s wrinkles and thinking, “She’s got them because she’s nasty!” Now time had left her a legacy too. It was like the tracings of feet in sand. Each thought had walked across her face and left it’s imprint.

Her mother’s face was hers. She was now inside of her mother, as surely as her children lay nestled against her mostly innocent heart.

It was family day. A day when everyone put aside their wants and preferences and chose an activity that no one really wanted to do. Cycle against the choppy March wind in Stanley Park. Waiting and surging, together. She wiped away her mother’s face and turned.

Jude Neale

2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Honourable Mention Non-Fiction Defying The Odds © Donna Terrill The guests hurry across the icy parking lot, heads bent low against the glacial wind. They clutch their coats closed with one hand while they steady young children or elderly aunts with the other. The grey, smudgy clouds that hover over the surrounding coal-mined mountains threaten more snow.

“What were they thinking when they planned a New Year’s Eve wedding here in this god-forsaken, backwater town?” I bitch. “Tax breaks? Or are they commemorating some special libidinous anniversary?”

“Get a move on,” my husband urges as I tentatively struggle to ensure my footing along frozen, rutted tire tracks. “The bridal party is getting out of the limo – we can’t let them beat us down the aisle.”

Until now summer weddings were the norm within my in-laws’ extended family. They featured beef barbeques, hay bales and hoe-downs, even a Fort Steele ceremony where the bride arrived in a wagon pulled by a team of four Percherons. Those celebrations called for the guests’ best and latest western wear and their most danceable cowboy boots. And always a civil ceremony with a marriage commissioner officiating over the vows.

Today the modest Catholic Church is festive with poinsettias. As the priest, wearing his ceremonial white vestment raises his arms in welcome he exposes his red-laced bush pack boots, a winter necessity in this part of the world. His eyes are magnified behind thick-lensed 1980’s style aviator glasses and his voice resonates with a booming echo that is hard to understand.

The organist plays the first few notes of “Ode to Joy” and the bridal procession begins. The guests rise from their pews with cameras outstretched, a little unsure on whether taking pictures inside the church may signify a heathen lack of reverence. The bride’s attendants float down the aisle in ice blue, chiffon, strapless gowns. Like the bride they all have long, platinum ringlets and carry nosegays of white roses, cream peonies and ivory freesia with clusters of sparkling rhinestones woven into the blooms.

The jewels resemble ice crystals during a surprise summer hailstorm.

Ah-ha! I get it now! It’s every little girl’s fairy princess fantasy! It’s the Waltz of the Snowflakes with the Sugar Plum Fairy following behind, a theme that will only work in the frozen, snowy dead of winter.

The handsome princes await at the altar. They hide their tattoos behind stylish dove-grey tuxes. Their cummerbunds and bow ties match the azure dresses of the bridesmaids. Visine and Altoids have helped to obliterate the signs of the bachelor party from the night before.

As I watch the priest gently prompt and nudge the wedding party into position I cancel any Nutcracker references from my mind and ponder the likelihood of this union staying the course. As a group the wedding party exudes an uneasy aplomb. But there’s something more – hopefulness?

Maybe and with a little tinge of brashness, a throwing down of the glove, a Bring It On defiance in the face of the dreary success rate statistics. The priest’s voice drones on. He quotes the traditional bible passage that explains love:

1 Corinthians 13:4–8 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

I sit straighter in my seat. This same scripture was part of my own wedding ceremony. One day I found a cross-stitched sampler with these verses stitched in a daisy chain design at Value Village. I brought it home and hung it in our bedroom. After twenty-two years and a few changes of address I wonder where it is now. The ‘Love is’ instructions are so simple, so elegant, so buoyant.

The priest carefully explains the meaning of these letters from St. Paul.

He counsels the congregation to support this couple in honouring their promises. He does not say how. Looking just like the toy bride and groom

atop a wedding cake they profess their vows in clear, innocent voices. They exchange rings with only slight knuckle resistance. Relieved of his ringtransporting responsibility the three-year-old ring bearer stows the white satin pillow under his arm and begins to suck his thumb. A gentle ripple of laughter flutters around the room.

“By the power vested in me I pronounce you husband and wife.” The audience applauds. The priest smiles but his eyes look tired.

The wedding party faces us, grins with relief that the solemn part is over, ready to get this party launched. Later, under the shimmery satin canopy suspended from the ceiling of the rec centre guests line up to sample the blue martinis that flow from the heart-shaped ice sculpture.

Toasts for life-long happiness are made and advice is given. Slide shows portray the life stories of the bride and groom on their separate journeys, lone planets on their individual trajectories until a kind of cosmic collision allows them to find each other. There are jokes about the many frogs the bride had to kiss before finding her prince and how the groom’s cougar hounds will now have to take a back seat for their master’s affections.

They celebrate their union with friends and family, believing and desperately hoping that they will grow old together, that their star will never burn out and turn cold, that its brilliance will last a life time. They party with a frenetic fervour, willing the universe to smile on their fate.

The partiers become dishevelled. The bridesmaids discover that body heat and dancing loosens the grip of their strapless gowns. The DJ learns that the music that gets the whole party on its feet is Gangnam-style. Sparklers, hats and horns ring in the New Year while the dance floor swims in champagne. The bridal gown hem becomes damp and grimy but the bride’s elaborate up-do of cascading curls holds up perfectly under its shiny, lacquered finish.

The groom, our nephew, more than a little drunk hugs us good-bye and thanks us for coming so far. We congratulate him one more time. His lovestruck, bleary eyes look across the dance floor to his new wife. “I’m such a lucky bastard.”

I will go home and find the “Love is…” picture, put it in a new frame and hang it on the wall.

Donna Terrill

2014 RCLAS Write On! Contest BIOS: Fiction Honourable Mentions

JULIE MacLELLAN has spent 20 years as a reporter and editor in the community newspaper field and currently serves as the assistant editor of The Record and Burnaby NOW newspapers. She published her first work of fiction while in Grade 2 at St. Monica’s Elementary School in Barrie, Ontario, and in childhood wrote several novels that were well-received by an appreciative audience composed of her parents and sisters. In adulthood, she has taken fiction writing courses at UBC, SFU and the Banff Centre for the Arts. She is the author of nine thus-far-unpublished 3-Day Novels, and her short fiction has previously appeared in Ascent Aspirations magazine. She’s thrilled to be a part of the Royal City Literary Arts Society family.

JENNIFER RYAN was born and raised in New Westminster, BC, where she lives with her husband, two children, and two cats. She is the acting Secretary of New West Writers, and former Director-atLarge for the Royal City Literary Arts Society.

Jen has self-published two chapbooks, Inspiring Minds, and Self Help. She writes picture books, adult and young adult short stories, and poetry. She is also working on her first novel.

When not writing or working her day job, Jen enjoys quiet time with her family, noisy time with friends, and everything in between. Music, movies, TV, poker, and beer are among Jen’s many passions.

“Explore the ordinary, and make it extraordinary.” – Jen Ryan

2014 RCLAS Write On! Contest BIOS: Poetry Honourable Mentions SPRING HAWES is an aspiring writer and poet. She is currently completing her Certificate of Creative Writing through the University of Toronto’s continuing education program, having achieved Honours standing in two courses so far. Nurse is her first published poem. Spring is very involved in the community where she lives, and she loves sunshine, deep water and red wine. She is eternally fascinated with people, and why they do the things they do.

She will never understand why society is filled with barriers of every description, and she aspires to break them down through her writing. When she’s not eyeball deep in shitty first drafts, she’s probably on the beach in Hawaii. Spring has two children in university, and she lives in Invermere BC with her husband Byron.

ALAN HILL was born in the South West of England near the Welsh border. After leaving school at sixteen, he travelled extensively and worked in jobs ranging from renovating old graveyards to working in a jellybean factory. Since 2005 Alan has been living in Canada.

Alan Hill has been previously published in Canada in CV2, Canadian Literature, Vancouver Review, Antigonish Review, Sub-Terrain, Poetry is Dead, Quills, Cascadia Review and in a number of anthologies and in the United Kingdom in South, The Wolf, Brittle Star and Turbulence and The Dallas Review. His second full collection, The Broken Word (Silver Bow Publishing, 2013) More details on Alan and his work can be found at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/AlanHill

KYLE MCKILLOP, a poet and teacher who grew up in Victoria, BC, has travelled in 28 countries on four continents, living in Ireland, South Korea, and Trinidad along the way. His published writing includes poetry and travelogues, and he is currently the Interim President of the Royal City Literary Arts Society.

2014 RCLAS Write On! Contest BIOS: Non-Fiction Honourable Mentions ALEX BIRKBECK is a retired environmental scientist/consultant. Trained as an analytical/industrial chemist at the Bradford Institute of Advanced Technology in Yorkshire, England, and then spent nine years at the water pollution research laboratory of the UK Ministry of Environment. Emigrated to British Columbia in 1967 to work at BC Research. Represented BC Water and Waste Association on the board and executive of the Board of the Water Environment Federation 1989/91.

Author/coauthor of thirty four publications and presentations pertaining to water and wastewater treatment, conceived the water recirculation system for the Fraser Valley Trout Hatchery at Abbotsford. Writer of a course on Environmental Management and distance learning course tutor for the course at BCIT 1993 to 1997.

JUDE NEALE was shortlisted for the Gregory O’Donoghue International Poetry Prize (Ireland), The International Poetic Republic Poetry Prize (U.K), The Mary Chalmers Smith Poetry Prize (UK), The Wenlock International Poetry Prize (UK), the RCLAS 2013 contest where she placed second in both short story and poetry categories and 2014 HM. She was nominated for the Canadian ReLit Award and the Pat Lowther Award for her book ‘Only the Fallen Can See’.

Her latest book, A Quiet Coming of Light, A Poetic Memoir talks of wisdom and frailty, hope as signified by those 'bright copper pennies dropped from the sun.' Her poems are about surviving childhood, family relationships, the complexities of loss or relief that are felt when love leaves only a tracing of beautiful silver scars.

DONNA TERRILL has had a varied career ranging from writing and delivering environmental education programs for the regional government to managing and training sales teams for an international company. Born and raised in Ontario, she moved west in the ‘70’s, making her home in the Slocan Valley of the West Kootenay region and in Vancouver. She has attained degrees in psychology, social work and education and more recently, participated in many creative writing courses throughout the lower mainland. For 5 years she hosted regular shows on women’s issues on Co-op Radio, researching topics, writing copy and conducting on-air interviews.A newcomer to New Westminster she is active in local writers’ groups and is working at compiling a collection of memoir-based essays and short stories. She and her husband have a large blended family including nine grandchildren.

SEPT 10

Kyle McKillop and Sonya Furst-Yuen

By Sonya Furst-Yuen

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weaving a tapestry: your story, the bigger world around you start thinking about a “pearl necklace ”: prompts; adding to your story like pearls to a necklace being strung together think about your favourite author; why do you read their books?; their style, authenticity a writer should be professional, have a unique voice; how you write is different from anyone else be engaging: bring the reader in, like a fishing hook reeling in the fish

“As writers we create the world our lifestory is set in, with rich detail and senses. All we have to communicate with is words, so we must learn to use them well.

To be valuable to the reader, our memoir must inform by providing learning content, inspire change through a call to action, and entertain with skillful and engaging writing.”

Sylvia Taylor

the words & wisdom of Sylvia Taylor

by Sonya Furst-Yuen

Wait for me daddy

ON THE BEAT WITH LILIJA VALIS RCLAS SONGWRITERS OPEN MIC June 8, 2014 Renaissance Books Something that can't be planned or predicted happened in the songwriters circle tonight --- musical magic.

The rhythm was set by hosts, Enrico & Lawren (who had performed with me at Poetic Justice earlier that day at the Heritage Grill).

Guitars and tapping feet with words here and there woven out of the beauty and sadness of life a spellbinding something that connected us to each other and to life in general.

My two visitors from Lithuania, Giedre Bufiene and Dalia Bufaite and I listened to a round. We'd had a full day and were tired. We tried to leave, but the music held us back.

Like everyone else, we swayed, clapped, sang or just listened. Giedre and Dalia, both musically knowledgeable (Dalia had studied the piano and the flute), said later that they had never been in such a generously collaborative group, diverse in styles, talent and skill, each participant inspiring the others to produce genuine, unique and poetic works.

Thanks Enrico Renz, Lawren Nemeth, Lavana La Brey, Max Tell, Chris Horne and Janene White for a memorable night.

RCLAS SONGWRITERS OPEN MIC July 6, 2014 Hosts: Enrico Renz and Lawren Nemeth A good crowd tonight, with five new people who dropped by to check out the scene, talented songwriters among them. Thanks to Poul Bech, Donna Armstrong and Malaya Cooks for your unique contributions.

The group's creativity was tested by the challenge word, "toffee". (I almost didn't show up, having, mistakenly, written something about "coffee". But after learning the correct word at the last minute, I threw some words together on my way.) And I wasn't the only one. Max Tell sang a song about toffee and coffee. Lavana La Brey managed to link toffee with the economy. And Poul Bech sang a whole danceable song about love and toffee at age 9. That closed our assignment.

Our new creations are always backed up by our favourite songs from our regular songwriters.

We swam with the stars watched a West Coast sunset contributed some change to a lost soul We rooted for the chickens dreaming of a free-range life We ended the evening it's becoming a tradition with a favourite: Lavana's "Get Out Of My House!!!!"

We laugh.

- Lilija Valis

RCLAS SONGWRITERS OPEN MIC

July 13, 2014

Another great evening!

Poet, novelist Fauzia Rafique dropped in to join our group. We hope she comes back.

While most of us had rather short contributions on the challenge word, “Parking�, Poul Bech almost ended the evening early on by presenting three lively, danceable songs about parking of one sort or another. Thanks, Poul!

Synn Kune did something creative by combining his poem, "...over the hill is my life waiting", with my poem, "...I'm parking my life in your hands..."

-

Lilija Valis

There were haunting songs about love saying goodbye letting your feelings go (Enrico Renz)‌ witty songs about the animals in our lives Poul's sleepless nights and "black coffee, black, black cat" Enrico's battle of wills with his spirited cat – "Are you the hunter or the prey ?"

Lawren's lovable and happy dog "...sweetest man I' ve ever known ..."

Lavana sang about daydreaming and freedom.

Janene expressed some strong feelings about parking:

" ...stay out of my parking lot!"

‌and finally, Lavana serenaded us out with her, now traditional, song, "Get out of my house!" And we did, laughing once again, as we stepped outside her bookstore.

RCLAS SONGWRITERS OPEN MIC July 20, 2014

A A collaborative collaborative evening evening that that had had one one poet poet drumming to her new poem, drumming to her new poem, another another songwriter songwriter creating creating the music the music and and singing singing it it for for her. her.

Offered were songs about Offered were songs about love love that that brought brought happiness happiness and and love love that required endless forgivings, that required endless forgivings, love love that that induced induced aa cowboy cowboy to join a hot yoga group; to join a hot yoga group; songs songs about about remembering remembering ghosts ghosts of of our our past, past, of of commemorating commemorating grief; grief; songs songs about about aa cat cat with with entitlement entitlement and and dancing dancing in in the the kitchen kitchen while while making making apple apple pie. pie.

- Valis Lilija Valis Lilija

RCLAS SONGWRITERS OPEN MIC, July 27. 2014

An evening of musical flying over fear and love, and life in general, into beauty and freedom.  "I hate flying but I live for the view from the sky," sang Enrico Renz”;  Poul Bech became a flying fish to view Frasier Canyon;  Lavana La Brey kept landing on her feet when hard times took her off the ground;  Lawren went for "the better way" for us to live together;  Fauzia Rafique rose high with her steel firebird;  Lilija Valis found herself flying into the blue distance where the past was waiting for us;  Synn Kune Loh was following the blue butterfly when he took off "flying high into freedom".  Lavana managed to fly in a "hot car"!

So much physical and spiritual travel in one evening!

Please join us Sept 7and every Sunday at Renaissance Books.

Lilija Valis Visit the RCLAS Songwriters Group on Facebook or www.rclas.com for updated venue information. Weekly challenge words:

https://www.facebook.com/groups/150810881784465/

RCLAS SONGWRITERS OPEN MIC, August 3, 2014 Some of the August heat entered the love songs presented Sunday night. Lavana La Brey sang about her "one and only " and her "all or nothing love "; Poul Bech sang and yoga-posed his heart out for a hot yogi and had us laughing at his love song to someone he no longer loved. Enrico Renz wanted the miracle of starting over again and advised us we could be free even "in the middle of the labyrinth ", "I don't believe in angels but I do believe in love ." Love for his wife, Dawn was celebrated by Synn Kune Loh. Both he and Dawn listed what they loved and recounted their sacred but difficult journey: "Spring comes through my window, wipes away the shadow from my eyes. " Fauzia Rafique sang her love song in spite of feeing sad; Janene White expressed her love for her brother and mother, both no longer here. I performed a nolove song love song. Next round, I explored extemporaneously with music from the group musicians – a silent encounter with a mysterious stranger whose serene, strong energy and style impressed me as unique. Fauzia described what happened to a tattooed man with a white feather. Lavana told us about a struggle between an eagle and a seagull. – Lilija Valis

FEEDBACK & E-ZINE SUBMISSIONS

Drop us a line – Janet Kvammen,

RCLAS Director/Newsletter Editor & Design

janetkvammen@rclas.com

Deborah Kelly secretary@rclas.com

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

RCLAS Members: Please send us your latest news, feedback on our e-zine and any ideas or suggestions that you may have.

Would you like to write a feature, a review or an article for the e-zine?

Submit your ideas.

Next issue: October 2014 featuring Writer of the Month, Bernice Lever and a Halloween section (see our call for submissions!)

VOLUNTEERS NEEDED! Sonya Furst-Yuen is our RCLAS Volunteer Coordinator.

If you would like to participate in a single event, or make an even bigger contribution, please contact our volunteer coordinator.

http://rclas.com/opportunities

RCLAS Book Reviews Call for Submission: Submit your book to Royal City Literary Arts Society Box # 5, 720 Sixth St. New Westminster, BC V3L 3C5

for review in the new monthly review section of our magazine

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

September 2014

Wordplay at work

ISSN 2291-4269

Contact: janetkvammen@rclas.com RCLAS Director/ Newsletter Editor & Design