Poetry
By Siobhan Farrell
Darkness falling
There is nothing better I think
than being buried in a field's
ocean of grass in late September,
nowhere to go, nowhere to be
except under the wide sweeping sky
watching darkness fall all around,
pillowed light and colours slowly fading,
a cow's deep sweet voice travelling
from a neighbouring field.
Abiding stillness slows my heart
as I sit doing absolutely nothing,
being nothing but a shadow
as clouds steal across
the land, beauty engulfing all
within its rolling tide, pulling
me under as darkness falls,
and falls and falls.
There is nothing better I think
than being buried in a field's
ocean of grass in late September,
nowhere to go, nowhere to be
except under the wide sweeping sky
watching darkness fall all around,
pillowed light and colours slowly fading,
a cow's deep sweet voice travelling
from a neighbouring field.
Abiding stillness slows my heart
as I sit doing absolutely nothing,
being nothing but a shadow
as clouds steal across
the land, beauty engulfing all
within its rolling tide, pulling
me under as darkness falls,
and falls and falls.
Creative Non-Fiction
By Sue Blott
One Man's Love: A Memoir
I hesitated outside my father’s front door. Hours before through random Facebook messages with a woman I’d never heard of, I’d discovered that my father was not my biological father as I’d believed all fifty-three years of my life.
A cousin in England had verified the truth for me when I asked her. ‘He’s your dad in every way that counts. And your mum’s 100% your mum,’ she told me through Facebook.
Restless since Mom’s death nine months earlier, Dad had been contemplating moving and this morning had a realtor’s appointment which he asked me to attend. Mom’s death left Dad and my twenty-twenty-six year old son, Andrew, as my only blood relatives in Canada. Or so I had thought. Questions swirled in my mind. More than anything else I felt stupid. I couldn’t say anything to Dad until I’d processed everything myself but how would I feel seeing him now when so much had changed?
I hesitated outside my father’s front door. Hours before through random Facebook messages with a woman I’d never heard of, I’d discovered that my father was not my biological father as I’d believed all fifty-three years of my life.
A cousin in England had verified the truth for me when I asked her. ‘He’s your dad in every way that counts. And your mum’s 100% your mum,’ she told me through Facebook.
Restless since Mom’s death nine months earlier, Dad had been contemplating moving and this morning had a realtor’s appointment which he asked me to attend. Mom’s death left Dad and my twenty-twenty-six year old son, Andrew, as my only blood relatives in Canada. Or so I had thought. Questions swirled in my mind. More than anything else I felt stupid. I couldn’t say anything to Dad until I’d processed everything myself but how would I feel seeing him now when so much had changed?
Short Fiction
By Joan Baril
The Sisterhood
The family secret was slipping out. At sixteen, I reacted with intense embarrassment. I didn’t realize that another secret, more intense and more interesting, was also hiding close by.
In 1954, I worked Saturdays at the boys’ department in Eaton’s. When the closing bell shrilled, my cousin Bubsie (who I had to call Miss Reitman in the store) and I began straightening the stacks of sweaters and corduroy breeks on the wooden counters and covering them with long blue drop cloths. Just to make conversation and because I knew Bubsie was familiar with the family secret, I said, “I’m going with my mother over to Miss O’Shea’s tomorrow afternoon. She lost her engagement ring.”
Bubsie’s hands flew to her face and the pile of boys’ cowboy shirts she was carrying flipped in a cascading arc. “What in God’s name are you talking about, Janet?” She didn’t pick up the shirts. Instead, she stared at me, one hand on the counter as if for support.
“Miss O’Shea’s my algebra teacher,” I said.
“I know that,” Bubsie snapped. “What the hell is this about an engagement ring? Surely you are not telling me that Mary Margaret O’Shea is engaged?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “But she’s lost the…”
“Hold your horses,” Bubsie barked, flinging both palms toward me. Then, she stooped for the shirts, flinging them roughly on the counter. She grabbed the cotton cover that I was holding and flipped it over the merchandise. “I’ll organize when I come in on Monday.”
I was speechless. Bubsie was an exacting boss, and insisted on a rigid closing-time routine. Everything had to be in order before we left the floor.
The family secret was slipping out. At sixteen, I reacted with intense embarrassment. I didn’t realize that another secret, more intense and more interesting, was also hiding close by.
In 1954, I worked Saturdays at the boys’ department in Eaton’s. When the closing bell shrilled, my cousin Bubsie (who I had to call Miss Reitman in the store) and I began straightening the stacks of sweaters and corduroy breeks on the wooden counters and covering them with long blue drop cloths. Just to make conversation and because I knew Bubsie was familiar with the family secret, I said, “I’m going with my mother over to Miss O’Shea’s tomorrow afternoon. She lost her engagement ring.”
Bubsie’s hands flew to her face and the pile of boys’ cowboy shirts she was carrying flipped in a cascading arc. “What in God’s name are you talking about, Janet?” She didn’t pick up the shirts. Instead, she stared at me, one hand on the counter as if for support.
“Miss O’Shea’s my algebra teacher,” I said.
“I know that,” Bubsie snapped. “What the hell is this about an engagement ring? Surely you are not telling me that Mary Margaret O’Shea is engaged?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “But she’s lost the…”
“Hold your horses,” Bubsie barked, flinging both palms toward me. Then, she stooped for the shirts, flinging them roughly on the counter. She grabbed the cotton cover that I was holding and flipped it over the merchandise. “I’ll organize when I come in on Monday.”
I was speechless. Bubsie was an exacting boss, and insisted on a rigid closing-time routine. Everything had to be in order before we left the floor.
Novel Excerpt
By Tessa Soderberg
Home Service
The siren moaned, sliding slowly up the scale. The eerie wail chilled the blood. Everyone on the street, including Ruth Prichard, ducked and looked for shelter. She glanced back at the hospital. Could she get to the Underground station before the bombs fell?
Aircraft droned overhead. Searchlights crisscrossed the evening sky. The raid was early. She had always been able to get home before they started, until tonight. A shrill whistle was followed by a roar as a bomb exploded in the next street.
Ruth wished she were home, safe with her family in the Anderson Shelter. She did not want to be stuck at the hospital. She dashed across the road and turned toward the station. If the Underground was still running, she might get home yet.
Another explosion knocked her off her feet. It tumbled her back across the road and onto the curb. She yelped as her elbow hit the pavement. She tried to stand up, but froze half way. Across the street, a building slowly leaned forward, then collapsed with a roar. Bricks, timbers, shattered glass and plaster surged toward her like the tide . . . inevitable, unstoppable. The ground shook. She couldn't get up. She didn't know which way to crawl in the noise and dust. She rolled. She shrieked as she collided with a nearby building. She flattened herself against the wall. Her arms covered her face and head to protect herself from the oncoming debris.
The wave of wreckage mounted the curb, flowed across the pavement, and buried her. She screamed as bricks covered her, and splinters of glass pierced her skin. Dust filled her mouth and nose. She coughed and gasped, desperate for air. The smell of smoke doubled her terror.
The siren moaned, sliding slowly up the scale. The eerie wail chilled the blood. Everyone on the street, including Ruth Prichard, ducked and looked for shelter. She glanced back at the hospital. Could she get to the Underground station before the bombs fell?
Aircraft droned overhead. Searchlights crisscrossed the evening sky. The raid was early. She had always been able to get home before they started, until tonight. A shrill whistle was followed by a roar as a bomb exploded in the next street.
Ruth wished she were home, safe with her family in the Anderson Shelter. She did not want to be stuck at the hospital. She dashed across the road and turned toward the station. If the Underground was still running, she might get home yet.
Another explosion knocked her off her feet. It tumbled her back across the road and onto the curb. She yelped as her elbow hit the pavement. She tried to stand up, but froze half way. Across the street, a building slowly leaned forward, then collapsed with a roar. Bricks, timbers, shattered glass and plaster surged toward her like the tide . . . inevitable, unstoppable. The ground shook. She couldn't get up. She didn't know which way to crawl in the noise and dust. She rolled. She shrieked as she collided with a nearby building. She flattened herself against the wall. Her arms covered her face and head to protect herself from the oncoming debris.
The wave of wreckage mounted the curb, flowed across the pavement, and buried her. She screamed as bricks covered her, and splinters of glass pierced her skin. Dust filled her mouth and nose. She coughed and gasped, desperate for air. The smell of smoke doubled her terror.
Bill MacDonald Prize for Prose (Non-Fiction)
By Roy Blomstrom
Elna and Sven
Midsummer. One of my earliest memories of Midsummer is of my mother telling me that in the "old country” at Midsummer, people would wear traditional costumes and dance around the maypole. It sounded magical, but the maypole turned out to be just a wooden pole decorated with ribbons that people held on to as they danced. Disappointing. Just as disappointing as the fact that midsummer did not occur at the end of July, but happened even before school was let out for the summer holidays. And dancing? I couldn’t imagine myself doing that – or anyone else doing it either – especially the Scandinavians that my parents knew, especially Elna and Sven.
We lived in a small house on Franklin Avenue in Port Arthur. Up the street were the Stroms – Elna and Sven. Past them, the Hemgards and Rudmans. Across the street, the Groops. On McBean Street, the Westerbacks; on Oliver Road the Akervalls and the Sjobacks. The Forses were on Montgomery. Further away, the Boeghs, Portforses, Brunbergs, Greens (who used to be Ogrens before the name was Anglicized), Finholms, Johnsons, Andersons, Ericksons, Tompsons, Bjorksteds, Ronquists, and the entire congregation of Immanuel Lutheran Church – except for the German guy. There were Scandinavians everywhere in the Lakehead – even in Fort William where the Marklunds lived.
Midsummer. One of my earliest memories of Midsummer is of my mother telling me that in the "old country” at Midsummer, people would wear traditional costumes and dance around the maypole. It sounded magical, but the maypole turned out to be just a wooden pole decorated with ribbons that people held on to as they danced. Disappointing. Just as disappointing as the fact that midsummer did not occur at the end of July, but happened even before school was let out for the summer holidays. And dancing? I couldn’t imagine myself doing that – or anyone else doing it either – especially the Scandinavians that my parents knew, especially Elna and Sven.
We lived in a small house on Franklin Avenue in Port Arthur. Up the street were the Stroms – Elna and Sven. Past them, the Hemgards and Rudmans. Across the street, the Groops. On McBean Street, the Westerbacks; on Oliver Road the Akervalls and the Sjobacks. The Forses were on Montgomery. Further away, the Boeghs, Portforses, Brunbergs, Greens (who used to be Ogrens before the name was Anglicized), Finholms, Johnsons, Andersons, Ericksons, Tompsons, Bjorksteds, Ronquists, and the entire congregation of Immanuel Lutheran Church – except for the German guy. There were Scandinavians everywhere in the Lakehead – even in Fort William where the Marklunds lived.