2nd ANNUAL FRED COGSWELL AWARD FOR EXCELLENCE IN POETRY

http://rclas.com/awards-contests/fred-cogswell-award/

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

First Prize: $500

Second Prize: $250

Third Prize: $100

ELIGIBILITY CRITERIA: Book must be bound as a book, not a chapbook.

Book length must be a minimum of 50 pages in length.

Selected poetry must be written in English by a single author.

Book must be original work by the author (translations will not be considered at this time)

Original date of publication falls between January 1, 2014 and December 31, 2014

Book must be published in Canada.

Book must be written by a Canadian citizen or permanent resident alive in submission year.

Electronic books are not eligible.

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

George McWhirter will be the sole judge for our 2015 Fred Cogswell Award For Excellence In Poetry.

Reading Fee: $25 (all funds Canadian). Payment can be made through PayPal (there is a link

below) or by money order (payable to “Royal City Literary Arts Society”). If you pay with Paypal,

please include a copy of your receipt with the submission package.

Two copies* of the book must be submitted to the Royal City Literary Arts Society, along

with the reading fee (or proof thereof), and must be postmarked no later than October 1, 2015.

The society’s mailing address is:

Royal City Literary Arts Society

Fred Cogswell Award

Box #308 - 720 6th Street

New Westminster, BC V3L 3C5

Winners and finalists will be feted at the RCLAS Awards Show, Anvil Centre on Nov 21, 2015.

Winning authors & titles will be included in the December issue of RCLAS’s Wordplay e-zine.

*Submitted books will not be returned; they become the property of the Royal City Literary Arts Society.

RCLAS 2nd Annual Fred Cogswell Award For Excellence In Poetry 2015 Judge

George McWhirter is a Northern Irish-

Canadian writer, translator, editor, teacher and in March 2007, he was named Vancouver’s inaugural Poet Laureate for a two-year term. In 1957 he began a “combined scholarship” studying English and Spanish at Queen’s University, Belfast, and education at Stranmillis College, Belfast. After graduating, McWhirter taught in Kilkeel and Bangor, County Down, Northern Ireland, and in Barcelona, Spain, before moving to Port Alberni, B.C. Canada.

After receiving his M.A. from the University of British Columbia (UBC), where he studied under Michael Bullock and J. Michael Yates, he stayed on to become a Full Professor in 1982 and Head of the Creative Writing Department from 1983 to 1993. At UBC, he was awarded a Killam Prize for Teaching in 1998, and the first Killam Prize for Mentoring at UBC in 2004, then in 2005, the Sam Black Prize for service to the Creative & Performing Arts. He retired as a Professor Emeritus in 2005 and in the same year he was given a Life Membership Award by the League of Canadian Poets and is also a member of the Writers’ Union of Canada and PEN International. He was associated with PRISM international magazine from 1968 to 2005. From 2007 until 2009, he served as Vancouver’s Inaugural Poet Laureate. George McWhirter is the author and editor of numerous books and the recipient of many awards. His first book of poetry, Catalan Poems, was a joint winner of the first Commonwealth Poetry Prize with Chinua Achebe’s Beware, Soul Brother. His latest book of poetry is The Anachronicles, A Time of Angels by Homero Aridjis, his latest volume of poetry in translation, and The Gift of Women, which appeared in November 2014, his current collection of short stories.

NO Host June 4: Communal Group. Bring a prompt to share!

Write On! Contest 2015 Poetry, Fiction and Non-Fiction

First, Second and Third Prize Winners

June Special Feature RCLAS WRITE ON! CONTEST 2015 FICTION WINNERS

Fiction First Place

ELIZABETH SCHOFIELD – WHAT LOVE LOOKS LIKE

Fiction Second Place: Elizabeth Schofield – PizzaBoy and Princess

Fiction Third Place: Aline LaFlamme – Fat Boy Falls

Fiction Honourable Mentions

Claire Lawrence – The Purse

Aline LaFlamme – Big Dave’s Brush with Glory

Elizabeth Schofield – Stella and Ruthie (and Jack)

Fiction Winner Elizabeth Schofield reading excerpts from “What Love Looks

Like” at the LitFest New West 2015 “Written in the Stars” gala showcase, April

25, 2015 at Douglas College Muir Theatre.

*** Copyright remains with the author. All rights reserved. Do not publish or use in any form without the author’s permission.

3rd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2015 First Place Winner Fiction

WHAT LOVE LOOKS LIKE © ELIZABETH SCHOFIELD

Why do doctors reserve the innocuous for the worst?

He said to me, “I found seventeen tumors and several other patches that look interesting.”

Interesting. He also said, a little bit suspect, and, we did more than we intended.

Well, I had intended that they send me home after a quick look and a simple, I don’t know why you bothered us. But that’s irrelevant now, because I didn't hear anything after interesting.

All the time Molly had that smile on her face, the one that only comes when she’s struggling not to scream. The last time it came was when the policewoman told us our son was dead.

Today it came when the surgeon said interesting.

I wasn't smiling. I was prostrate, with tubes in both nostrils, a gash in my chest and a slash in my belly. I knew it looked like crimped pie crust.

The good tube, the one in the back of my right hand, delivers pulses of medication so freeing and delicious I've started to count between them, anticipating the warm marshmallow squishiness spreading from my core to my limbs. The doctors picked a moment exactly ten minutes before the next push to tell their tale of woe this morning. No kidding.

I must've gone to sleep straight after.

I wake. Molly is motionless by the window, her shoulders curved in such utter submission that I leap out of bed to hold her. Is that too much to ask? To hold her? To absorb some of the void she's standing in?

But of course I don’t leap out of bed. No, I vomit, after the punch of pain sears my entrails. It’s excruciating. I never really knew what that word meant before. Weird: morphine a barrier between the size and shape of excruciating and the rest of me.

Molly is by my side. Gobs of blood-flecked yellow foam have splashed her hair and the sheets. She cradles my head, mops my face. I think of our honeymoon, thirty-odd years ago, when she held my face and kissed me, when she stroked my back and neck as I loved her. As I love her as she strokes me still. My back, my neck. She wipes my face with the cloth she's brought from home. Its soothing softness, suffused with the smell that wafts every day from the dryer vent, curls around me, drawing me home from my morning run, luring me to her kitchen, her coffee pot, her.

Her smile again. Hard, painted.

I just wanted to hold you. You looked so, well, sad. I start to explain my stupidity, but her words punch. She’s not sad?

No, she's airy, brittle, almost gay. Strange how gay now describes her. Our son is gay. Was gay. He was cheerful too.

She looks tired, says she’s tired. Pouches have formed on either side of her mouth and the delicate veins under her skin are bluer, firmer, than yesterday. This damn drug is amazing, the things I can see with it. I look at the clock: ten minutes of sense left in me to get her to go home and rest.

You should go home, is all I can muster. I'm not enthusiastic about waking in the night to an empty room, nor about her sleeping alone in our bed. She’ll back up during the night until she reaches me, her nighty around her waist. I'll harden, before her skin even grazes my thighs. It’s there, the promise of pleasure, the always surprising novelty of her nooks and crannies. . Most nights that's about as far as it goes. We murmur and giggle, kiss and caress, fall asleep as the other smiles wistfully and turns away.

Tonight I'll not be there for her to stumble across in her dreaming. She'll wake alone: the bed too big, the luxury of solo sleep lost in the grieving weight of the duvet.

She’s determined to stay. They’re getting her a camp bed again.

She won't sleep, she'll pretend. They come in every hour to move a tube, suck out a line, empty a bag. The light is always on. I sleep regardless, morphine my hypnotist, a fitful, dream-filled sleep. I know I’ve been shouting because I wake drenched in sweat, swearing at God, my boss or the random one-night stand that killed our boy with his drunken love and his drunker driving.

She'll pretend to sleep, but I’ll see her eyebrows move in the gloom: morphine blesses me with the acute hearing of a savant. She’ll catch every beep, drip and rustle from my side of the room and slow her breathing to a crawl.

She'll get up three or four times during the night, at that arbitrary time in a hospital between midnight and six, between drug-rounds and meals, before doctors, after washes and blood-drawings, x-rays and the casual visitor. He’s the one who brings grapes, or a magazine, talks brightly, twiddles his thumbs or the channel changer, and then leaves with a cheery “Keep up the good work. You’re looking better!”

Yeah, right.

I do my best thinking at night, like now.

She’ll sneak out of the room and go to the nurses’ station after one of them, mouthing tea, lays a quiet hand on her shoulder. There, she weeps. Huge, wrenching sobs that carve a hole in the night. I hear them, but they only register when I'm about due for another pink pulse of heaven.

I entreat her. Please go home tonight. It might be her last chance. It's better. She can cry in peace, uninterrupted by a Code Blue or a wandering geriatric who’s left his pajamas in a puddle at the side of his bed.

She could call her friend Marge, but she won't. Molly and Marge have known each other for forty years, shared clothes, makeup, even boyfriends. More recently babysitting, colic and teenage temper tantrums. Life.

But not the loss of our son. She couldn't even share that with me. That's when she became brittle, like plastic left too long in the sun, threatening to shatter into a million shards when hit with the next blow.

The only sharing she did was the time we kept a counselor’s appointment after his death. I don't want Marge in this hole with me. She can’t be my

ladder out. I have to find my own footholds. It's far more telling than my own contribution during that terrible hour. I'm doing fine, thank you.

Molly needs to cry and bawl and howl. She needs to sleep. She’ll do the first three at home. Then maybe manage a little of the other.

I'm looking right at her and she's looking at me. At this moment, just before the morphine push, my gaze is steady. Please go, before it gets too late, before I get all squooshy again. I want to say goodbye, properly, before I wander off.

She takes my hands and holds them, looking away off, out the window. If you're sure? Maybe? Just for tonight?

I know the answer to my suggestion that she visit Marge, but I have to ask her, give her permission to be alone. I dread her being alone and she knows it. We've talked about it, as couples do. "What'll you do when I'm gone? Will you be happy? I want you to be happy." We say these things, but only in the good times.

She brushes it off, as I expected: it's late, too late to disturb them now. And then she asks me to kiss her, to really kiss her.

In her cool, soft hands she takes my skull and its tubes, my thick, cracked and flaking lips, my rheumy eyes and furred, stinking tongue, and kisses me. ------------------------------------------------------- Copyright Elizabeth Schofield

3rd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2015 Second Place Winner Fiction

PIZZABOY AND PRINCESS (Or where extra cheese and pepperoni won’t help) © ELIZABETH SCHOFIELD

“It’s not like you understand. You’ve never loved anyone,” says Princess, “You don’t even love me."

I sit across the table, revolving my coffee cup on the shiny surface, focussing on the reluctantly shifting bubbles at the rim. It’s okay, my kind of love can’t be explained casually.

“I mean, you tell me that you love me, but you don’t ache for me.” She bangs her cup down.

That makes me jump, but I’ll make her wait for an answer. Slowly raising my eyes to hers, I say “But I do love you.”

Princess isn’t listening though; she’s talking about the current boyfriend.

“I’ve done everything that he wants, given him everything that I have. Shit, I even do his laundry,” Princess says.

Actually, I do the laundry, including his. You give it back to him folded, with his socks paired and his underwear on top. I empty the garbage cans, cook the meals, clean the toilets and make your bed, when you’ve slept in it. I see your life unfold in front of me, every little bit of it. So much of it ends up in the bathroom garbage can. You will get it soon. I’m the only man for you.

Princess is still talking at me, shaking her head at her phone screen, “He isn’t going to change just because I need him to.”

Oh I agree, but this is boring, I’m stifling a yawn.

“Dammit, I need to go to the washroom again,” she says.

I can watch her walk away, I like to watch. Her tiny figure is wrapped tightly in designer denim; she’s clutching her leather jacket fiercely to her stomach. Who does she think she’s kidding? It won’t be long now, and all this crap she puts me through will be worth it.

“Watch my purse PB?”, she calls as she stalks off towards the washroom.

“Yes, Princess.”

I lift the pink patent satchel, adorned with a cacophony of jewelled charms and studded with rhinestones and cradle it. She’s mine to take care of.

Princess has finally done it. This will affect her for the rest of her life, and she won’t get out of this one without me. All this time I’ve waited. I nearly gave up on her there a couple of times. Dogged determination, that’s what I have. The others have said so, as well as controlling, some even said creepy. It's crap, I'm right. This current man’s recriminations and repositioning will go on for a while, then he’ll leave her when she runs out of ways to keep him interested. He'll leave her all to me.

I have been in my kind of love with Princess since our rooms shared a wall in our student residence. I could hear her laughing and crying, and the long silences when she was out. She seldom returned alone and I was a little uncomfortable at first listening intently to the liquid sounds of passion that filtered through her boy band posters and my AC/DC, that even burrowed under the pillow that I pulled down hard over my ears. But I got over that. I knew what she needed and that was me. I stopped hiding under the pillow and waited intently for the next round of sexual activity and my inevitable, glorious climax. She did it for me, and she wasn’t even in the room.

I started to plot her subjugation when she floored me with a smile of thanks as I held the door for her. She was hooked when I returned her dishes clean and sparkling and she invited me to order pizza and stay for dinner.

I paid for the pizza.

I suggested that we share an apartment after university.

I hoped that Princess had just been playing, that she would now grow up, and love me, perhaps not in the way that I love her. That`s a special kind

of love, but I can make her need me. I’m indispensable; I’ve made it that way.

“More coffee, please, PB. Will you ask him not to make it so strong this time? I’m feeling a bit sick this morning.”

“You’ve also not eaten anything,” I’m critical, “Shall I get you something?”

Princess doesn’t answer; she doesn’t even look at me, she sits straight down and rips her purse off my knee. Her fingers stab relentlessly at the keyboard on her phone. Yet another text drives me to leave her and stand in line for the coffees. Across the café, Princess is still punishing her phone for not delivering the reply that she wants.

I had a car, a battered Camry held together with duct tape and Bondo. “All that car needs is a Domino’s sign on the top, and you could be a pizza delivery guy,” Princess said, as she laughed through the tears one night, delicately peeling the thinly sliced vegetables off the top of the congealing cheese with her honed French manicure.

I told myself I only had to wait. I know I’m a solid, dependable, unexciting sort of guy. Women are constantly telling me. They also tell me that I am, at times, creepily determined. It has been the spurious reason for the end of at least three relationships. But not with Princess, she has needed me. Even when the battered old car was traded in, she still called me PizzaBoy and she was still my Princess. I have worked hard at making her stay with me.

Her boyfriends, the shallow, grasping men that she takes up with, are always only too grateful for me to take up the slack. At least, that’s what I assume. They can treat me as some sort of tame house-boy in my own home, and then they can leave. I have a long-term plan.

When she’s in-between boyfriends we sleep together, my arms around her shoulders, her soft, blonde hair spilling over my chest. I covet her dreams, I covet her. She breaks my heart every single day, but she hasn’t broken my resolve. I will have her.

I haven’t had the chance to sleep with Princess for the last six months; she’s been in love, again. This incarnation of her ideal man is another glittering, brittle guy, stunning to look at, totally self-absorbed. Princess and

the boyfriend do look fabulous together, turning heads as they arrive at a restaurant, quieting conversation as they walk by. Men look at him with envy, women at her with controlled distaste, constantly reassuring themselves that a woman as good-looking as that must be shallow, or unhappy or fragile.

Which of course she is, but I will have her anyway. She can adorn my arm, she takes my breath away. I can wait.

Princess is coddling her second cup of coffee and I am watching a mother and toddler at the table behind us. Mom is playing peek-a-boo, the child’s squeals of delight are infectious, I’m giggling along with her, trying to catch Princess’ eye and draw her into the game, but she’s staring blankly at the screen on her phone. She’s not ready for this yet. But I am ready, ready for both of us.

Fine, I can keep my cool, not much longer now.

She leaps up. Lurching towards the door, she’s outside and hailing the man she's been texting all morning. I’m behind the coffee shop window, but I know what she’s saying to the boyfriend.

She’s grabbing his forearm and waving her other hand around in the air. The man straightens, and pushes her away. Princess draws in close to him again, but he blocks her from putting her arm around his waist. She stiffens, takes a step back, and the boyfriend, seizing his opportunity turns and hurries away from her.

I leap up. My chance!

Princess is standing still, rooted to the spot, her head cast down. I can see the tears cascading down her soft cheeks, the sobs wracking her upper body.

Rushing out, I gather her in my arms, and bring her back to the warmth and familiarity of our table and of me. I’m grinning but thankfully, Princess is too upset to notice. She scoops her purse onto her lap, nursing it intently.

“Well?” I daren’t breathe, this is it.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” says Princess.

“I do,” I say, pulling her hand firmly off her purse, and putting it in my lap. “I empty the bathroom trash, remember, I know what’s going on.”

She stops crying. "I love you PizzaBoy.”

“You will,” it’s here; I’m taking a moment to savour my impending victory. It’s been a long, hard campaign.

“When do we go to our first prenatal appointment?”

------------------------------------------------------- Copyright Elizabeth Schofield

3rd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2015 Third Place Winner Fiction

FAT BOY FALLS © ALINE LAFLAMME

Every summer, unruly teenagers push beyond the warning signs to scramble over the slippery rocks that flank the steep waterfall here at Seaton Park. Someone always breaks a limb or gets stranded half way down. My family’s been coming here for years so we’ve seen it all. It was my brother Paul’s favourite place, which is why I released his ashes from the footbridge above the falls. I thought I’d always come back to visit but being here today with William, I know I’ll never return.

Today the area is deserted. There’s only the roar of the water as it races over the cliff and slams onto rocks below. I’m cold and numb. My eyes are as dry as my throat and my teeth are worrying against one another. There’s a November mist hanging above the falls but I’ve turned my back on the falls, the footbridge and William standing on it. I’m tempted to turn and look but I don’t. That would make me a witness or maybe even an accomplice because I know what William is planning to do. Before we got here, I believed I could handle this but now I’m riddled with doubts. Pains wrench at my belly.

Was I wrong to tell William how Paul’s ashes flew so beautifully? It was like slow motion, the wind lifting and tossing all those bits of Paul into a beautiful arc up and over the falls.

I hadn’t heard from William for years but he called right after Paul died to offer condolences and go out for lunch. It was shocking to see him. His handsome face had become a road map of rough living. His voice, though, was still soft and I found myself pouring out my heart over lunch, including the details of Paul’s ashes flying over the falls. That was where William got this idea. It’s not what I meant when I told him but then, maybe it was. Maybe I wanted to plant the idea. As I stand here wet and cold, I can’t honestly answer that question.

Today, William’s wearing faded jeans and his once-attractive raincoat, which is now shabby and three sizes too big for him. Such a contrast to the man I fell in love with years ago. When I met him, he was wearing a Calvin Klein jacket and elephant hide shoes. He wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing jeans. He drove a Jaguar, which he’d had re-painted a Mercedes colour. He hadn’t told anyone but I’d noticed immediately. William said my ability to appreciate subtlety was a major reason he fell in love with me.

Back then, William was meticulous about his presentation to the world, which created a big drama around his driver’s license.

“Like I told you, mister, the categories are green, brown, blue or hazel. For the last time, which one do you want?”

Then William in his smooth tones “And, as I’ve already explained to you, my eyes are golden.”

“Listen, this is a legal document and it has to be done accurately.”

“So accurately record the colour of my eyes, which is golden.”

“People are waiting. Hazel’s kind of golden.”

“Well, that’s like saying someone is ‘kind of’ alive. My eyes are golden.”

“If you don’t want your driver’s license, step aside. Others are waiting. So, hazel or what?”

“They’re golden, you moron.”

At that moment, I grabbed the form, ticked off hazel, slapped it back on the counter and steered William out the door. That evening, he drank a quart of scotch then wrote a complaint letter to Motor Vehicles, insisting golden should be considered a valid eye colour. He groused about this for months afterwards. Sometimes, William just got stuck.

I’m so cold I’m shivering and I’m still tempted to turn around to see what William is doing but I resist. William told me an odd story years ago. He’d been part of a group of teenagers out riding horses through the woods on some school outing. There was a fat kid on the trip that no one liked. The fat kid had to pee but he couldn’t get his horse to stop. In desperation, he put his boot into the crotch of a tree as he rode by, thinking that would

halt the horse but the horse kept trotting. The fat kid’s boot got jammed in the tree and he got yanked off the horse, falling backwards. There he dangled, upside down, held by one stiff cowboy boot.

We’d been drinking martinis with friends and swapping funny stories when William shared this one. We all laughed hysterically, the image of a fat kid hanging upside down so funny to us. We were having a fabulous time.

I’ll remind William of all that laughter, how happily in love we’d been. Maybe that will get him to change his mind…Ah, but there was the rest of that story:

Three years into our marriage, William told me that as the fat boy was yanked off the back of the horse and pulled upside down, urine starting leaking out of him. That wet patch spread over the front of his jeans, leaving a broad dark streak all the way down his shirt to the collar where some of it ran along his neck, a little stream trickling into his ear. As the urine reached his hair, the kids were laughing wildly, taunting him, saying “eeoooooo” and “gross” and “how sick.” One boy shouted “Geez, what a fucken’ loser!”

The fat boy made no effort to free himself. He just hung there still and silent. The teacher rode back and freed him but the fat boy didn’t thank him. In fact, he didn’t speak at all. He got back on the horse and forced it to head back to the barn.

When William told me this, we were curled like spoons on the couch, enjoying Grand Marnier and jazz in the warm glow of the fireplace.

“Jesus, William! That’s grotesque.” I sat up, spoke sharply, “What did you do?”

“Uh, well, there was really nothing I could do.”

“Nothing you could do? That’s ridiculous. Somebody should have helped that pathetic kid. You know, men are so dense sometimes.”

“Oh and the great feminist isn’t, eh? Just move over. The fire needs more wood.”

---------------------------------------------------------- Copyright Aline LaFlamme

3rd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2015 Honourable Mention Fiction

THE PURSE © CLAIRE LAWRENCE

I’m staring up from my bed, trying to gather strength for the upcoming day. I see someone has taken the time to stick pictures of flowers on the hospice ceiling. A sick joke or innocent distraction? I laugh. I’ll have to tell the nurse I’m pushing up daisies.

I hear my boys’ voices and cringe. They sound so much like their father.

“Ma, you dead?” Derek says, sailing into the room without knocking.

“Getting closer,” I answer, “but still here.”

Sean arrives after his brother. He’s grubby and smells. I can’t look at him. Of the two, he looks the most like his dad.

“Has it arrived yet? I’m not getting any younger.” The boys give me a blank stare. “I ordered it online, three days ago. Has it come? I put it on priority post.”

I bet the shroud has arrived, but the boys aren’t giving it to me. What do they think it’ll do? Kill me?

“Ma, why do you want it so much?” Derek again. “The hospice lady said they don’t use those anymore. Besides, you won’t even know you’re wrapped in it if you’re dead.”

I don’t bother to answer. Instead, I turn my attention to a thin roll of toilet paper sitting beside my breakfast tray.

I pick up the roll and methodically count off three squares before ripping them off. The white sheets are thin and fragile, like my skin. I pick up my watch and begin to cocoon it in the paper. The face still shows through the cheap layers of single ply. Next, a lipstick and envelope. All are balled up now. The problem with toilet paper is that it disintegrates too quickly when

it gets wet. I’ve been experimenting and decided cotton is the way to go. But I need some strips.

“He’s fucking right, Mum.” Sean now, chewing his way through a gob of sticky candy. “Who the hell orders a shroud?” He’s twitching awkwardly and wiping his arm across his face.

I ignore his drug dance. He’ll be an addict his whole life, just like his fucking father. It would have been better if I’d put him and his criminal brother into foster care. But forty-five years ago, families like mine were kept together. My whole life, I realize, has been built around suffering and silence. I can’t wait to be dead. At least then I won’t have to look at them.

“So, are you going to give me my shroud?” I ask again.

“No,” Derek says, “not until we get what we want.”

“Maggots,” I mumble. Then to him, “Over my dead body.”

I continue wrapping.

“Stop rolling your crap in toilet paper, crazy lady.” Derek is shouting now. Sean dances beside him, snot running down his nose.

“You know very well thieves are everywhere.” I look him in the eye. He raises an eyebrow and is about to deny it when the nurse comes in with my meds.

“Afternoon, everyone. Here are your meds, Addie.”

My cancer-riddled body is aching. “Did Dr. Wan-Sun pour my meds or you?”

“It’s the nurse’s job to prepare the medication. Dr. Wan-Sun just sees patients and . . .”

“And steals everyone’s pain medication. He deals too.”

“Jesus, let her do her job, Ma. It’s fucking wrong to accuse the doctor,” Sean says.

“Pardon me?” says the nurse, concerned.

“The doctor sells drugs,” I say again.

A debate ensues. The nurse and boys take turns telling me I’m making up stories. I know the truth.

“We take those kinds of comments seriously, Mrs. Gunnarson. I will bring this up with the administrator.” The nurse gives me my meds and looks at the boys. “Good that you have family visiting.”

“Yes, my sons have decided to take an interest in me. It only took them eight years and some settlement money.”

The nurse eyes widen and she says, “Well, they’re here now. It’s a blessing to have family.”

“Is it?”

The nurse fusses about my bed, then leaves.

“Where’s the fucking cash, old lady? I know you’d never put it in a bank.”

I look at his drawn face and red eyes. He really does look like his father.

“Bring me the shroud, and we’ll talk.”

The boys run for the door, bumping into the nurse, who is returning with a clipboard.

“They’re in a rush,” she says, rubbing her shoulder.

“Yes, yes. They’re monsters, you know.”

“Every family has issues.”

“Oh, I have issues.”

“I want to follow up about your complaint,” says the nurse.

“Never mind that right now. I need to talk to someone about my preparations.”

“Preparations?”

“My death. Do you have a few minutes?”

“We have a social worker who can help with final wishes.”

“Yes, lovely woman, but I need help before my sons return.”

“Oh . . .”

The nurse pulls up a chair.

“You’re going to have to shut the door. I don’t want my sons overhearing.”

“All right.”

With the door shut, I lean back on my pillow and think about how to begin. I’ll have to start at the beginning, when I was six years old.

“I was playing in my closet. Children do that. They like to pretend. I think I was playing princess. Yes, I had on my sister’s confirmation dress. My family was Catholic.”

The nurse is paying attention. Yes, I’ve got her attention now.

“Anyway, I had on this dress when my pappa comes into my room. He’s drunk, not that that’s any excuse.”

I take a long pause and stare at the nurse. I can see she’s already figured out where this is going.

“I need you to understand how violated I felt. When I die, I don’t want my body embalmed or touched in any way.” The nurse is nodding. “My sons have gone to get a shroud. I need your help to fulfill my wishes.”

I fill her in and produce a will. She quietly accepts it and leaves.

I should have told her the truth. But then I would have had to tell her about his stories from the old country and how everyone suffered at the hands of robbers. In his village, he told me, they hid their treasure in a magic purse. He told me I had a magic purse and he was going to hide his magic seeds in it. I shudder and touch my wrinkled tummy.

“Here’s the shroud.” Derek tosses it to me. It’s a large piece of white muslin. I spread it out on the bed. Perfect.

“So,” says Sean, “the cash. You don’t need it. You’ll be dead.”

“Yes, I’ll be dead,” I say. “Can I have a moment of privacy? I want to put this on and I need my pain medicine. Go find the nurse.”

I don’t have long. I pull out the scissors from my drawer and clip off some of the cotton, the length of three toilet paper pieces, and rewrap the envelope.

“I’m going in,” I hear Sean yelling at the nurse. “She’s my mother and . . .”

“Come in.” I shout. The shroud is hanging loosely around my shoulders. All three stand with their jaws hanging.

“I’ve lived in silence for forty five years,” I say, and I realize I’m slurring. “My father was an evil man. He did horrible things to me, but the worse thing he did was to make sure I would see his ugly face every day until I die.”

The drugs are kicking in. Good old Dr. Wan-Sun.

The boys are clueless.

“Guess who your dad is?”

I laugh and laugh.

“And the money,” I gasp. “I hid it in my purse.”

----------------------------------------------------------- Copyright Claire Lawrence

3rd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2015 Honourable Mention Fiction

BIG DAVE’S BRUSH WITH GLORY © ALINE LAFLAMME

The thing about Big Dave is that he needs to be right. And also, important. Neck and neck with those two desires is Big Dave’s love of attention. Not a small amount or even just his share. Big Dave’s like a coyote, so he wants every last ounce of attention he can scrounge up. And one fine spring day he got a little more than he’d bargained for.

The days were getting longer and the sun warmer. On most afternoons there was melt water on top of the ice. It was time to close up my camp and head back to town before spring breakup came. I got everything wrapped carefully inside the buffalo hide and tucked neatly into my sled. Yeti was romping around me in the snow, itching for the big run down the lakeshore towards town. It was a good day to travel but no matter how I coaxed and tinkered with it, my Ski-doo flat out refused to go anywhere. I was stuck, all packed up and no way to go.

Big Dave later claimed, in sometimes hushed tones, that he “just knew” he had to go out to my camp that afternoon as if he’d received some spiritual direction to rescue me. ‘Course, his wife says she chased him out of the house so she could have some peace and quiet, so who knows? Either way, Big Dave ended up with an outstanding opportunity for the kind of heroics he thrived on. There he came, flying across the ice, orange Ski-doo suit unmistakable for miles. He was one happy coyote to find me in a predicament he could solve.

After he clucked and grimaced and made sideways comments about how some people didn’t really think a woman should be staying alone out in the bush, we re-packed my gear into his sled. Then Big Dave forced Yeti in there with me.

Yeti, a self-respecting Husky, found it downright embarrassing to ride in a sled, but Big Dave insisted, “Fast as I drive, that dog’s heart’ll burst wide

open if he tries to keep up!” Yeti and I knew differently, but we acquiesced since we were being rescued.

Off we go swooshing over the bank and down onto the rough ice along the lakeshore, Big Dave glancing back frequently, me giving him the nod each time that all is well, Yeti sitting mortified beside me.

We continue this way for some time, Big Dave glancing, me nodding, the glancing and nodding happening less and less frequently as Big Dave feels assured that everything’s okay behind him.

Finally we’re getting closer to the wide bay in front of our community. Big Dave’s in his glory and his glorious feeling increases the speed of his driving. He’s gone all-expansive on us! He’s undone the ties so the earflaps of his beaver hat are flipping wildly in the wind. His super-slick sunglasses are sparkling in the glaring light. His bright orange Ski-doo suit is blazing across the ice like a siren.

Now, seeing quite a few people outside that sunny afternoon, Big Dave stands up on his Ski-doo, one leg on the seat. He even unzips his Ski-doo suit a ways to show himself hot and winded by his heroics in this sub-zero weather.

As he’s approaching the community, more and more people appear to be watching him. They’re gathering by the shore. Making gestures. Taking a real interest in his antics. Big Dave decides to make a grand sweep around the bay so he can wave at all of them instead of heading straight for my house like he should have done.

So there he is, gliding by everyone, chest puffed out, the hero, nodding, waving occasionally, his grin doggone near splitting his face wide open. People’s obvious interest has Big Dave pumped. He slows down a little so they can really enjoy his arrival. He’s basking in glory. Proud.

The slowing down gives Big Dave a closer look at his audience. Tiny, with the biggest voice in the community, is yelling at him. Old James looks disgusted. Eddie just stands there shaking his head, shrugging his shoulders and grinning from ear to ear. Kenny and his aunties are all laughing so hard they’re nearly doubled over! Maria’s wiping away her tears.

Big Dave’s confidence begins to falter. Finally, his attention is directed behind him where everyone is pointing. The sled, sliding along on its side, is empty. No rescued damsel in sight. Just one pair of long johns caught at the back, flailing around in the wind behind him. Other than that, nothing.

Well, nothing except a long trail of pots and pans, a tea kettle, a couple of blankets, a torn-up cardboard box, a few tin plates and mugs, two axes, some books, a partially beaded jacket, some pillows, half a moose hide, a lantern with now-broken glass, a pair of snowshoes, one .22 and one .303 in denim cases, lots of bullets strewn about, one long walking stick, three fox furs, seven rabbit skins, a hacksaw, more long johns, one pair of mukluks, a now-broken transistor radio and other such camp essentials.

At the end of this display of bush life is the buffalo hide, splayed on the ice about quarter of a mile from shore. Beside it stands me, the damsel, laughing so hard I can hardly stand up. Yeti, overcome with joy and gratitude, is racing around in all directions, sure the Good Creator himself upturned that sled just to set Yeti free.

Big Dave climbs off his Ski-doo. Tiny rides into the bay to join him. Together, they set Big Dave’s sled right and head back to get me.

Then Big Dave has to join Tiny and me in the humbling task of gathering up the pieces of my camp life spread out all over the ice. Tiny and I work hard to contain any leftover laughter until we’re out of Big Dave’s presence.

As for Big Dave, he was uncharacteristically quiet during the gathering up of the bits and pieces of camp life. He barely got above muttering about bad runners on the sled and women who pack too many things out to camp and lousy sunglasses made in China so a guy can’t see where he’s going anymore. But, for Big Dave, that wasn’t saying much. He didn’t once try to lecture Tiny and me on how to pack a sled or make trail through rough ice.

Yes, Big Dave suffered quite a serious setback from this well-attended humiliation. He didn’t return to bragging, preaching, lecturing, storytelling, advice giving, gossiping, or wearing his Ski-doo suit half unzipped for at least a couple or three days.

I walked into the hardware store a few days later and there’s Big Dave, back in full form, pontificating about the event. He began with a critique of his cousin, Dave Two, nicknamed DTs. He’s named that because those are his initials but also because of his occasional relationship with what they call the Delirium Tremens depending on how he manages his blood alcohol levels.

“Jeezuz, ya get a guy like DTs making the trail through rough ice when he’s hung over and still half cut, what the hell kind of trail ya gonna get? And those people south, they’re wrecking our environment, making the ice unpredictable anymore. How’s a guy s’posed to deal with that? And then there’s the Elders’ teachings, eh? Nobody knows those teachings like me. Those old people always say it’s bad luck to have a dog in a sled. Now that’s a natural fact.” Big Dave’s managed to delete from his memory and his story that he was the one who forced Yeti into the sled.

Pretending he doesn’t see me, Big Dave continues, “Ya know, you’d think when a person gets rescued from a terrible predicament, they’d be thanking the Good Creator, not to mention the guy that done the rescuing, eh? You know, that the guy’d get a little thanks and recognition. Maybe some respect, eh? But what does he get? Nothing. Nothing at all. That’s how it is, people don’t know any kind of respect anymore. You save someone’s life and they don’t think nuthin of it. Pitiful is how the people have become, just pitiful, that’s what I say. Pitiful! ”

“And another thing, there’s a right way to pack a sled so everything’s balanced. Certain people don’t know how to do it right, women mostly. That’s why they got no business winter camping, especially when they got unreliable Ski-doo’s and no mechanical sense.”

“And if they’re going to be that foolish, they should at least learn to sit right in a sled. A guy gets a woman that can’t sit right, nothing even the best driver can do in a situation like that. No matter what the guy does, ya got an unskilled woman in there, that sled’s goin’ over, and that’s all there is to it!”

---------------------------------------------------------- Copyright Aline LaFlamme

3rd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2015 Honourable Mention Fiction

STELLA AND RUTHIE (AND JACK) © ELIZABETH SCHOFIELD

Just look at her, in all her Wal-Mart glory thought Stella, her jewelled nails glinting as she stabbed them at the waitress. The café door bell jingled along with her gold-tone chandelier earrings. “You’re late,” she said, “I’ve ordered your coffee, a cappuccino with extra foam, right?”

“I don’t drink coffee any more. I told you six months ago, it upsets my stomach,” Ruthie said, too firmly for Stella’s taste.

Stella’s imperious gesture got the coffee onto the table before Ruthie could sit. Stella noticed her limp. ‘Good, she’s in pain, serves her right.’

“How much?” Ruthie was trying to negotiate her purse, her walker, and the chair that Stella had firmly wedged under the table before she had arrived. Stella always liked to prepare the setting for Ruthie’s visits, she needed the upper hand.

“I’ve paid, as usual,” said Stella, jiggling her armful of bracelets, “You’re always late. You seem to think it’s okay to keep me waiting. I know you’re older than me, but having to drive a little shouldn’t keep you from being punctual.” Stella tossed her hair, continuing, “It’s so rude, especially when you asked to see me.” She paused for effect, “You did this last time and six months ago and before that at Christmas.”

Ruthie, still rattling at the chair, paused, opening her mouth. Stella, who wasn’t going to allow her to get a word in, leapt up jerking the chair out.

“How’s Jack?” Ruthie tried to manoeuvre herself into the too-small space.

Stella glittered with triumph, she’d finally asked about Jack.

“I’ll be telling Jack that you’ve got fatter. He never liked fat women.”

Ruthie tried again, “How is Jack doing, it’s been such a long time since I’ve seen him. Is he still ill? I was hoping he would join us this time.”

Stella adjusted the knot in her leopard-print chiffon scarf then fiddled with her counterfeit designer purse. She was stalling; there was no way that she would be allowing Jack to join them.

“He’s the same as always, making a slow recovery. You show such an indecent interest.” She paused, fluffed her Rio Red bangs, and said “Anyone would think he cared about you.”

Ruthie momentarily flattened by Stella’s reply wasn’t going to be put off quite that easily. Stella was sure of that. Fiddling in the bottom of her purse, Ruthie again started to ask about Jack. Stella raised her hand, a full-blown ‘stop’ sign. Ruthie halted. During their last visit, Stella had managed to take a peek in the purse when Ruthie and her walker visited the washroom. She recognised the envelope, and Jack’s firm, determined hand. After all, she had mailed the letter.

Stella had never forgiven her best friend for going to the theatre with Jack in 2006, when she was in bed with the ’flu. He had written to Ruthie, asking her to run away with him. She had never forgiven her husband for finding Ruthie to be a soft, cuddly alternative to her, the woman he wrote of as Spiky Stella. Wondering why he was so long in the tool shed, she had taken the opportunity to go through his pockets when he came in. She found the letter in his jacket. Steam from the kettle had soon unsealed it.

Now, in their late sixties, the women’s relationship had deteriorated to meeting only at Ruthie’s request. Stella knew that Ruthie continued to come because she held a torch for Jack and for changing her empty widow’s life. She was sure that Ruthie was still trying to find out why Jack had never arrived to take her away. Her round-trip was nearly a hundred kilometres and each time they met Ruthie was berated, yet she still came. Ruthie was made of strong stuff. Stella had a sneaking admiration for her tenacity.

Noticing that the waistband of Ruthie’s incontinence underwear was showing above the elastic of her pull-on jeans, Stella said,

“Jack likes me to look fresh,” and she motioned Ruthie to tuck herself in. This time her triumph was almost complete. Ruthie miserably spooning the foam off the top of her unwanted coffee was adding three lumps of sugar

to make it palatable. Stella smirked. It always paid to get there early to set things up. After all, why not make Ruthie’s life difficult?

Ruthie might still try to bring the conversation back around to Jack. There was no way that Stella was going to allow that. She extended her shiny spandexed leg out from under the table, showing off her neon orange toe-nails. “I see you still have to wear orthotics Ruthie,” she said. Before she could respond, Stella was pulling at the sleeve of Ruthie’s sweatshirt, the one that had the names of Ruthie’s eleven grandchildren embroidered on the front.

“I’m glad Jack and I never had children, it must be excruciating to have to wear the tasteless clothes they give you.” This was the final one-two punch to Ruthie’s self-esteem for this visit.

Stella stood “It’s time for me to go now.”

Ruthie looked taken aback. Good, thought Stella, Ruthie hoped we were going to talk. She wanted to spend the morning telling me stories of her little, lonely life, and pry into mine and Jack’s business.

Ruthie stood with some difficulty and Stella air-kissed her, pushing away from the encounter with a flat palm to Ruthie’s chest before Ruthie was fully upright, unsettling her precarious balance. She grabbed her white satin bomber jacket, the one with the sequinned mermaid and tossed it over her angular shoulders.

“See you next time,” Stella called, sailing out of the café.

Ruthie was still trying to negotiate the walker through the door as Stella gunned the engine of her red Mustang convertible, its seat covers embellished with real Swarovski crystals twinkling and flashing as she turned out of the parking lot.

Opening the door to her mobile home, she called, “I’m back, Jack,” and then, “She’s just as hopeful as ever.” Stella took off her scarf and put on her kitten-heeled marabou mules as she opened the lid of the freezer in the kitchen.

“Every time I see that woman I remember how you thought you could leave me.”

Jack didn’t reply. He lay in the freezer in the foetal position that he had been in for the last seven years, the back of his head caved in where Stella had hit him with the logging axe, the morning that she had mailed the letter.

“I’m watching TV,” Stella said, “I’ll look in on you later.”

------------------------------------------------------- Copyright Elizabeth Schofield

2015 RCLAS Write On! Contest

BIOS: Fiction Winners & Honourable Mentions

Elizabeth Houlton Schofield writes about the mundane and

the everyday, who doesn’t have a little drama in their life? Liz’s stories have appeared in the Globe and Mail, and been published in Drunk Monkeys and in Hearing Voices, the Bareback Anthology, 2014. She won the Honorable Mention at The Surrey International Writer’s Festival, 2013, and 2014 and was published in the conference anthologies. Shortlisted for Literary Writes 2013 (Federation of BC Writers), and Room magazine’s Reader’s Choice Awards 2012, she won the RCLAS Write On! 2015 fiction contest, came second in the same category and won honourable mentions in creative non-fiction and fiction in 2014 and 2015.

Liz lives and writes in Pitt Meadows, British Columbia, travelling regularly in Britain and Europe. She is currently working on the first of a three novel trilogy and compiling two books of short stories.

Aline LaFlamme is a Métis Pipe Carrier. Storytelling has always

been an integral part of her ceremonies and her life. Aline was a teller at both the weekend-long telling of Shahnamah hosted by VSOS last year and the Odyssey in Nanaimo (2015). Several years ago, Aline began to write stories. With support from Joseph Boyden, Aline entered the BFA at UBC. She won a writing scholarship to the Banff School of Arts in 2012 as well as a 2014 Canada Council grant to continue her work. Aline was delighted to receive third place and honourable mention for the two stories she submitted to the RCLAS Write On! 2015 contest, and looks forward to continuing her relationship with RCLAS.

Claire Lawrence is a writer, entrepreneur, nurse and slayer of

bucket lists. She is a graduate of the Southbank Writers' Program from Simon Fraser University, British Columbia. She is a member of the Port Moody Writers' Group, and the Royal City Literary Arts Society. Claire Lawrence lives in Port Moody with her four boys, husband, and beastie little dog named Guinness.

Workshop Registration

LitFest New West is the Best!

An assortment of festival photos including Phinder Dulai Reading, an Open Mic hosted by Aidan Chafe and Ariadne

Sawyer, RCLAS Write On! Contest winners and Arts Council New West members and MORE!!!!

Bottom Right:

RCLAS winners – Elizabeth Houlton Schofield, Christina Myers, Alan Girling, Alan Hill, Carla Evans & Lausanne Yamolky

Courtesy of Janet Kvammen Photography

Personal Reflection of Jónína Kirton’s workshop:

“Page as Bone Ink as Blood – exploring cellular or ancestral memory”

by Lisa Strong

In this writing workshop, we explored ways to access our cellular or ancestral memory. We moved through a series of exercises combining elements from sacred circle work and Continuum breathing practices. Continuum – What is it? In its purest form, Continuum is an exploratory modality combining movement, breath, resonating sounds and body sensations to awaken the body. We practiced three breathing techniques that are meant to be seen, heard, and experienced and consequently are not easily expressed in words.

1. The shhhh breath was done on the exhale with breaks for inwards breaths.

2. The petal breath began as an 'O' but as we moved our lips the sound became more personalized.

3. The hu breath was hu, he, ha done randomly in no particular order. It was a very energetic sound similar to a monkey call.

After each breath style, we were encouraged to check into our bodies, in particular our faces, and note any changes in body sensations.

The Haunting Tones of the Drum Jónína explained that in many Aboriginal cultures, drums represent the heartbeat of

Mother Earth. Their sounds are known to evoke imagery and awaken the senses.

We moved into a form of mediation following the resonating tones of Jónína’s drum

and noted any images or changes in body sensations. Many participants commented

that the sound resonated in their heart and the vibrations were sensed long after the

drum was put aside.

Words Read Jónína read the poem, Fooling God by Louise Erdrich from her book Original Fire. The

phrase, "I must be a doubter in a city of belief" captured my attention. Afterwards, I

asked Jónína if she would describe the significance of the reading.

Jónína told me she was hoping for a piece to reach places inside that were often

hidden from our view. She talked of how the quote spoke to the need to be true to

ourselves no matter what others say. “In the context of this writing workshop, our

body urges, our ancestors presence and the calling from within may very well be

whispering, Beware of those who try to tell us how it is. Learn to trust yourself in all matters."

She reminded me that the body is the key to this. “It goes beyond a feeling in the pit of your stomach. How to interpret this… that is what writers do. We are interpreters of life, of feelings and experiences so I feel the better relationship we have with our bodies, and for some this will include our ancestors who reside within our blood, our bones, the better writers we will become.” For me, the drum beat elicited childhood memories and stories of family members I had never had the chance to meet. I visualized my father who had passed twelve years ago and I saw the grandfather who was gone too early. My mind was full of images and words preparing to emerge. Withdrawing my self-critic, removing any urge to edit, I started to write. Images from the past were given a voice and they had something to share. Here is the poem that emerged from the sacred space Jónína helped to create:

LitFest New West 2015 Workshop "Playing With Shadow: The Poetics of Finding Voice" Facilitator: Bonnie Nish (www.PandorasCollective.com) By Sonya Furst-Yuen We see the world through play more easily and therefore, the more we play, the more our imagination comes alive.

Creating a "list poem" is a great way to more easily express your choices, your visions and how you perceive the world around you on any topic. By repeatedly using a particular word or short phrase in each line throughout the poem, expresses to the reader your thoughts in a distinct way. An example of this is:

Photos/Poetographs by Janet Kvammen Poet Li-Young Lee has won numerous poetry awards and his written work is themed by simplicity and passion. His poetry is filled with strength and silence. A verse I wrote inspired by his poem, "Have You Prayed?"

Bonnie Nish, April 25, 2015 Douglas College

Some of Li-Young Lee’s other poetic work include: "Rose" "The City In Which I Love You" "Book of My Nights" "Behind My Eyes" Drawing exercise: We were each given a rock by Bonnie and placed it in the centre of the paper.Then we were asked to think about how it feels and to draw around it of what we felt and how it connected to our childhood. My thoughts presented to me in written form:

Aidan Chafe is a teacher and poet who lives

and works in the Fraser Valley. He earned his

Honours English Degree from York University

and Teaching Degree from the University of

British Columbia. He is the winner of the

2014 RCLAS Write-On Poetry Competition and his

writing has been recently published in

CV2 magazine. When he's not toiling with

words he's cleaning up glitter.

You can find his writing at

theastronautslightbulb.tumblr.com

Aidan Chafe is an RCLAS Director.

The Morning of the Ruby Fairy © Glenn Wootton

I made the left turn to step off the rural road and on to the railway line that leads behind the

property I call home. The sun was rising into a clear blue sky and the air was warm. Now my

walk home from another night of driving taxi around Vancouver Island’s Cowichan Valley was

coming to a pleasant end. The din of the traffic on the road behind me and the Island Highway to

my left was being muffled by the buildings on either side.

My senses absorbed the fragrances and hues and sounds from the grasses, brush and flowers that

grow alongside the track and in the ditch beside it. I was relaxing and preparing for a day’s rest.

A red-pink glint caught in my eyes, so I rubbed them to get the moisture out. But when I opened

my eyes again the glint was still there. I realized it was not moisture in my eyes at all, but a

floating, glowing red-pink light.

A glowing object of some sort suspended in midair.

A fairy?

No body, just light, but very real, in front of me.

It was a hovering ruby shining in the sunrise; a blinding airborne crystal in the morning light.

It was an earth-bound star of miniature proportions, radiating intense light with no heat or sound.

I had become a pair of eyes, standing statue still, just breathing enough to remain standing and in

its presence; not wanting to predetermine what it was, nor give it cause to leave; just absorbing

this gift of the moment.

I felt a little nervous, but enough to want to run.

A few minutes passed and then it floated forward and transformed into a male Anna’s

Hummingbird.

The red mask on his face was what I had been mesmerized by. Now I could see his cream

coloured body and his emerald back, as he shifted around close to me. I could hear the whir of

his high-energy wing beats.

He chattered something at me then darted toward the hills off to the east, my right, and out of

view.

‘A Hummingbird’ I thought.

That red glare had been a warning flare from his flaring face patch!

A stop sign saying: “Halt! You shall not pass! This is my territory, stand back!”

It was a winged David bravely rising against this unwary Goliath.

Are all the fairies seen and told of in myths past in fact, male hummingbirds?

Or did I see a fairy transform itself into hummingbird in a disguise to keep itself and its kindred

safe from the meddling ways of humankind?

Hummingbirds are fairies? Or are fairies, hummingbirds?

I will never forget the magic of that encounter.

RCLAS SPECIAL EVENTS

cc

JUNE 2015 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/

June 7 Sunday 3 – 5 pm

Poetic Justice featuring JOANNE ARNOTT and JUDE NEALE Host: Alan Hill

http://poeticjustice.ca/event/poetic-justice-joanne-arnott-and-jude-neale-with-host-alan-hill/

June 14 Sunday 3 – 5 pm

Poetic Justice featuring TRACY CARRUTHERS & ANNIE ROSS Host: Sho Wiley

http://poeticjustice.ca/event/poetic-justice-tracy-carruthers-annie-ross-with-host-sho-wiley/

“Special Father’s Day Event” June 21 Sunday

Poetic Justice featuring LARA VARESI & SHO WILEY

Host: Franci Louann http://poeticjustice.ca/event/poetic-justice-lara-varesi-sho-wiley-fathers-day-tribute/

“Poetic Justice Pajama Party” June 28 Sunday 3 – 5 pm

Wear your “PJ’s at PJ DAY”

Poetic Justice featuring JANET KVAMMEN & EVA WALDAUF Host: Deborah L. Kelly

http://poeticjustice.ca/event/poetic-justice-pj-party-featuring-janet-kvammen-eva-waldauf-with-host-deborah-kelly/

CLOSED FOR SUMMER BREAK. POETIC JUSTICE RETURNS September 13

Workshops in Review "Unblocking the Blocked Voice” Facilitator: Bonnie Nish May 2, 2015 New Westminster

Photos by Sonya Furst-Yuen

"Unblocking the Blocked Voice" with Bonnie Nish, May 2, 2015

From Notes Compiled by Sonya Furst-Yuen

http://www.bonnienish.com/ We may get panicked or feel afraid when we get blocked, but we need to allow ourselves to dig through. Through reading, we get ideas and are able to generate different ways of creativity. One line of writing may be like a jewel; discovering and differentiating between poetry and a novel, depending on the space we want to create. Editing helps us to discover when to stop when we are over-writing. Collaborating with others is good, as everyone is thinking collectively. Interacting with pictures, clothing or other things aids us in the sharing of ideas.

Think outside of the box; the simplest things can take us places. Reference: Carl Jung refers to this as finding a gem under a coal; looking for buried nuggets to find your authentic self. Suggested reading: "Letter From Brooklyn" - Jacob Scheier "My Mother Dies in Reverse", a poem by Jacob Scheier Writing a story/poem from back to front, literally in reverse, can be helpful tool. Sometimes one must begin the journey at the end.

Workshops in Review

Silencing Your Inner Critic: Opening Doors To Your

Creativity Facilitator: David Blinkhorn

May 19, 2015 New Westminster Public Library

Photos by Sonya Furst-Yuen and Deborah L. Kelly

Silencing Your Inner Critic: Opening Doors To Your Creativity with David Blinkhorn, May19, 2015

From Notes Compiled by Sonya Furst-Yuen

Writers are artists

who are creating art. Creativity is stimulated by our five

senses. Therefore, we need to think

about our senses as we write and thus,

this art becomes a sensory

experience.

The "specific concrete sensory detail" brings the story alive, makes it real and the reader

will suspend their disbelief to enter into the story.

By trying other forms of creativity, we can stimulate it and stop any blocks.

As a writer, we are the translator of events and writing is a play in the first instance. Our

intention is to create that first draft to get to the story.

Play first, work later Because 85% of writing is work and 15% is play, we want to have an inner critic when we

are working and not when we are playing.

Asking questions when we write is an important aspect of playing.

It is not important what we know or don't know, it's a way of accessing material.

Suggested readings:

Barbara Kingsolver "The Poisonwood Bible"

John Steinbeck "The Grapes of Wrath" and "Cannery Row"

Samuel Barondes "Building a Better Brain: Where Nature Meets Nurture"

Oscar Wilde "The Picture of Dorian Gray"

John Keats "Ode On a Grecian Urn"

David Blinkhorn, Sonya Furst-Yuen, Kyle McKillop and Deborah Kelly

Passion overcomes all obstacles.

David Blinkhorn

The right hemisphere of your brain creates and the left one edits. If you try to do

both at once, you place both sides of your brain into a war of sorts which creates a

stalemate. The stalemate manifests itself as an artist block.

First draft is about play and the subsequent drafts are the work. Play is all about

fun. There are no mistakes in play. There is nothing to fear. Just tell yourself a

story and get it down on the page.

The best way to play when having fun with that first draft is to ask questions. Don't

know the answer, why that is an excellent question then. Our imagination soars

when we ask questions. We go to places we wouldn't expect. It doesn't matter that

you don't know the answer. It's more important to ask questions.

Building a better creative brain

A better creative brain emerges through exercise and can reduce any blockages to

almost never.

Some exercises are:

1. Choose a new and unfamiliar area of knowledge and explore it in depth

2. Spend some time each day in meditation or “just thinking.”

3. Practice observing and describing: Find aspects you wouldn't otherwise

notice. What thoughts and feelings does that {building, bird, dog, person,

painting, sculpture etc.} evoke in you? Once you have done the thinking part

of it, write down your thoughts and feelings in the best language you can

muster.

4. Practise imaging: Subjectively you can be anyone, anything, anywhere and

anytime. Practise releasing yourself from your limited personal perspectives,

experiences and circumstances.

Please Call to Confirm Summer Schedule

RCLAS SONGWRITERS OPEN MIC

May 17, 2015

Host: Enrico Renz

Two new participants tonight, Lily Liu and Fiona Dong, in addition to

seven regular ones.

Despite Enrico's optimistic take on mothers, they did turn out to be a

challenge for us. One participant produced something new on mothers,

and another on his challenging mother-in-law, the rest offered old songs

we love.

There were songs about

love and belonging

getting over love

being far from home

the sacred journey

returning to the boundless light

spiritual healing

Appropriately, Enrico offered his "got to love the labyrinth/before we can

get out," and"I don't believe in angels/but I do believe in love."

ON THE BEAT with LILIJA VALIS

photos courtesy of Lilija Valis May 17, 2015 Renaissance Books

RCLAS SONGWRITERS OPEN MIC

May 24, 2015

Host: Enrico Renz

Elaine Yorston from Prince George Photo by Janet Kvammen

New participants:

Guest from Prince George, poet Elaine Yorston, who read at Poetic Justice earlier that day, writer/stand-up comic Margo Prentice, and poet Nasreen Pejvack and her husband.

Lovely songs/poems about

sky falling and the world changing

journeying into silence

rain on a sunny day

daisies and dance

the darkest night of a heart

love lost

waiting for spring

making believe what one wishes were true

sending messages to strangers, cats and more...

A special treat: Nasreen Pejvack sang a plaintive Iranian song, Pari Kojaie (Where are you angel?)

photos courtesy of Lilija Valis May 24, 2015 Renaissance Books

Good Times! Poetic Justice On Facebook

www.poeticjustice.ca

RCLAS Members Only Call For Submissions Are you a fan of the dark, the mysterious and the macabre?

RCLAS is looking for spooky, eerie and creepy poetry,

short stories and songs. In addition, we are also looking

for writing inspired by your favourite Dead Poet. Various

forms such as poetry, story, or article are all acceptable.

Dead Poet tributes do not need to fit any theme.

Publication Date: OCTOBER 2015 E-Zine.

Blow the cobwebs off that masterpiece of the macabre that

you have hidden away in your closet!

You know it is just dying to be let out!

Grab your laptop and start writing like a crazy person!

Deadline: JULY 30, 2015

Short stories/articles should be no longer than 1000

words. Flash Fiction is perfect.

Poetry should fit on one page.

Send the link if you are submitting a song.

No promises on publication. Previously published is

okay. Copyright remains with the author.

Submit to janetkvammen@rclas.com

I dare you!

Janet Kvammen, RCLAS Director/E-zine

janetkvammen@rclas.com

Antonia Levi secretary@rclas.com

Open Call for Submissions - RCLAS Members Only

Poems & Prose Call for Submissions on the following themes/features

September: No theme. Deadline July 15

October: dark, mysterious and macabre. Deadline July 30

November: In Remembrance. Deadline Oct 5

Open Call: Poems, Short Stories, Book excerpts & Songs are welcome for

submission to future issues of Wordplay at work.

Submit Word documents to janetkvammen@rclas.com

VOLUNTEERS NEEDED!

RCLAS Volunteer Coordinator: Sonya Furst-Yuen

If you would like to participate in a single event, or make an even bigger

contribution, please contact our volunteer coordinator.

sonya.yuen@rclas.com

WORDPLAY AT WORK FEEDBACK & E-ZINE SUBMISSIONS

*** SEE YOU AT POETRY IN THE PARK ***

6 TO 8 PM EVERY WED EVE JULY 1 – AUG 26 AT THE QUEENS PARK BANDSHELL, NEW WESTMINSTER

THE PIP MAD HATTERS!

Kyle McKillop, Janet Kvammen, Debra Nelson and Sonya Furst-Yuen, LitFest New West 2015

Thank you to our Sponsors

Arts Council of New Westminster

Judy Darcy

The Heritage Grill

New Westminster Public Library

City of New Westminster

Renaissance Books

Our next issue will be in September.

Fall issues will feature our Write On! Contest

winners for Poetry and Non-Fiction.

Have a great summer!

June 2015 Wordplay at work ISSN 2291-4269

Contact:

janetkvammen@rclas.com RCLAS Director/

Newsletter Editor & Design

The art of writing is the art of

discovering what you believe.

Gustave Flaubert

Read more at