Can a whole book consist of one forty-three line poem and still be strong and bold enough to hold one’s interest? If the poet is Maya Angelou, undoubtedly. Can the art of one man successfully echo the sentiments of this strong poet? If the artist is Diego Rivera, certainly. Even the cover stirs the soul. Diego’s painting is of a seated woman, hands fisted on her
crossed knees, her gaze unflinching and upward, flanked by two workers, also
gazing upward. Diego chose to draw the woman and the two people from a low angle, looking up at them looking up. Then the book’s title, Still I Rise, sits below the painting in yellow contrasted on a green background. Holding the book, I feel a holy Hell! Yes! Immediately I know the book will pull no punches but that it will ultimately uplift the soul. This small solid square book is all about rising up.

Most pages consist of a segment of the poem on one side of the page and a vertical or horizontal painting on the opposite page. Earthy colours such as brick red, clayish yellow and sap green plus a clear deep blue highlight each two page spread. So it comes down to the selection of the painting versus the words. How in sync is the selection? And how can such strength be equally portrayed as a marriage instead of as two powerful pieces of work each vying for attention or overshadowing each other? 

The poem’s segment length varies so the poem is anything but static. Sometimes a whole stanza is illustrated ie Out of the huts of history’s shame/ I rise/ Up from a past that’s rooted in pain/ I rise/ I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,/ Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.Other times, a mere two lines: Did you want to see me broken?/ Bowed head and lowered eyes?

So does the selected painting accurately reflect the chosen words? The temptation is to find a coupling that is weak or a little off. A crack in the marriage. But it’s impossible. A couple spring to mind, but mine them deeper, both the words and the painting, and their juxtaposition beautifully compliments each other.

Take the lines: You may kill me with your hatefulness,/ But still, like air, I’ll rise. Appropriately written on a sky-blue page with a full-page sized portrait on the opposite page of Portrait of Dolores Olmeda, 1955, at first the portrait seems distanced from the words, especially the images of hate and death. But the woman looks fresh and hopeful. Clad in a bright flowered dress with a headband of flowers and ribbons woven in her hair, she carries a cloth-bottomed basket filled with mangoes. Her gaze is unyielding, forward-facing, steady and confident. She holds the abundant future, ie the ripe fruit, in one arm and lifts the flounce of her dress with her other hand. No restrictive clothing will hold her back. Her resolve seems strong and firm. No doubt that she’ll rise clear- eyed and firm of foot.

Then there are the pairings that resonate so well they seem to vibrate off the page. For instance, You may shoot me with your words,/ You may cut me with your eyes,/ is paired with the picture Mural Study of Hands, Chapingo, 1927. The picture shows a close up of a woman’s left hand clasping just under the wrist of her right hand which in turn cradles her chin. Such a unique coil of connection. The woman’s shoulder-length curly black hair and her mouth and nose are evident but the painting ends, interestingly, below her eyes. Intriguing but, as such, it emphasises the critical world’s eyes, not the woman’s eyes.

Likewise the portrait, Portrait of Ruth Rivera, 1949, which accompanies the lines: Does my sexiness upset you?/ Does it come as a surprise/ . Ruth Rivera is painted in a simple white dress that suggests her hips. She glances over her shoulder while holding a beautiful round mirror filled with golden light and her profile. She looks as though she was admiring herself when someone walked in the room but she shows no surprise, more a look of indignation of being dis- turbed. The mirror glows moon-like, subtly emphasis- ing the feminine and the mysteries of femininity. To reach the height needed, the mirror’s long handle is taped to another stick, a surprising attention to detail when noticed in the gorgeous murkiness of the lower background. Ruth’s sandaled foot peeks from under her dress as though she were postulating to no-one but herself, admiring her own beauty and strength.

The following page quivers with vitality. Complimenting the couplet That I dance like I’ve got diamonds/ At the meeting of my thighs?/, it is the only painting that features men. Dance in Tehuantepec, 1935 shows a man and a woman dancing barefoot while seated women watch. The man, all in yellow with a black hat, kicks and leans back while the young woman with twirling blue ribbons in her hair, has both feet solidly on the ground, her white skirts lifted and swaying about her ankles. In the distance, a second couple echoes the main dancers’ postures. The paint- ing vibrates with a passion that totally matches such
brazen words and uplifts the heart, the way a good dance and hypnotic music is apt to do.

This little book shows no qualms at cutting be- tween stanzas to shift the kilter, to toss us off balance. Despite this, I think Maya Angelou would approve even though it may give a slightly different interpre- tation to her work. Interestingly, the poem doesn’t ap- pear intact, on one page in the book, forcing the reader to take it however it is presented, piece by piece, page by page, digesting every word.

Rivera’s paintings are listed in the back of the book and cover a range of years from 1924 to 1955. Angelou’s poem appears to have first been published in 1978. This book was first published in 2001. The difference in times forms an inspiring arc, a multilayered umbrella of creativity.

The back cover of the book has no words, only a repeated painting: Nude With Calla Lillies (Desnudo con alcatraces), 1944. A naked woman kneeling on a woven mat embraces a huge basket overflowing with white calla lilies. She could be embracing the book itself! Its softness provides a refreshing contrast to the gritty industry of the front cover painting suggesting that woman still rises, on her own terms, through her own strength. She embraces the lilies as hope and assurance that yes, she will rise, whatever it takes.

What a joy for anyone to experience this little gem of a book. More especially, perhaps, what a joy for a creative. At least for this writer, the joy of cre- ating is in the process but also in the unknown, the release of a piece into the world at some point, some- how. One never knows when creating something how, when or even if it will breathe on its own, who it will journey to, who it will uplift, who will cling to it like a life raft in a dark stormy sea, what it could be paired with.
​
Perhaps it could be argued that a female artist’s paintings, maybe even different artists, should have illustrated the poem. Yet, it’s hard to fault any of the pairings—this little book simply works as a support- ive marriage. In wondering how Maya Angelou and Diego Rivera would have viewed this book, I think they would have both approved, probably as true cre- ative souls, neither of them surprised by the delightful combination of support and strength from each other’s work. Perhaps, as it is meant to do, this small book would have uplifted their souls.

​
​
​Sue Blott has been writing for as long as she can remember, in as many different genres as possible. She isdelighted to have won this prize for her review of a small book crammed with hope and power; a fitting anthem for these turbulent days.

It’s a sticky-hot July night with a heavy stillness in the air. I’m wakened by the sound of thunder. It takes me a moment to realise that the thunder is not outside. It’s inside. The thunder is on my stairs. It’s the thunder of many booted-feet, their owners’ outfit- ted in full tactical gear. Plastic action figures come to life, a mixture of steroids and testosterone, whipped to a sweaty frenzy. A dangerous cocktail. There is shouting and the static of walkie-talkies. I get up, still groggy, my nightshirt inside-out. I stand still in the hallway, a disheveled middle-aged mother, frozen in a blinding spotlight, as a disembodied voice barks out: “There’s three of them.” I feel less than human. Later I learn that they were trying out one of their new toys, some sort of heat-sensing device that determines how many people are in a building and their approximate location. Apparently there was quite a contingent of officers lying in wait in the back lane, an unusual sight in our quiet neighbourhood. 

   After thrusting a piece of paper at me, my daughter and her partner are hauled away and I am permitted to stay but confined to my vehicle. An actual thunderstorm breaks out now, the worst of the summer. I have a lifelong fear of thunderstorms and usually hide in the bathroom with my eyes scrunched shut and my ears covered. But not tonight. Tonight, I am out in the storm and I have no fear, only rage, a rage so violent that it steams up the windows of my vehicle. Flashes of lightning reveal the intruders going up and down my outside stairs and when the thunder subsides I hear snatches of their conversation, small talk, casual comments on the design of my house which is built against a rock cut, like a fortress. It is a fortress no more. 

   I steam in my vehicle for almost three hours when a bathroom break becomes necessary. I am allowed to remain inside now, under guard in my own living room. I look around at my artwork, at cherished items of furniture, the handmade bookcases construct- ed by my late father and the books they contain. I have nothing of any monetary value in my house but there is much that has meaning. It is my sanctuary. I had my home broken into once before. I remember arriving home one afternoon just before Christmas and being annoyed to see the front door wide open with the heat blasting away. That time my TV was taken along with some unwrapped Christmas gifts, nothing worth filing an insurance claim over. The police never did catch the culprits, kids probably, who gained access to the house via my bedroom window. My daughter’s bed- room was ransacked then too but it was hard to tell with her being in the messy teenage stage of life. I can still picture the officer, notebook in hand, pen poised, staring at the disarray and his hesitant question, “Uh, was the room like this before the break-in?” 

   But this is different. This is a legally sanctioned invasion and as a law-abiding citizen (apart from the occasional speeding ticket) it is beyond frustrating to be so helpless, to have to listen to one’s home being ransacked. They went methodically from room to room. I couldn’t keep track of how many were in the house. They all seemed to have identical hair- cuts and voices. It’s regulation I guess. Finally, they are done. After some bluster from the sergeant or corporal or guy in charge, whatever he’s called, it is evident that they have nothing. No illicit drugs. Nothing without a prescription. Nothing. All this destruction and disruption for nothing. I am furious and getting up on my virtual soapbox, hands on hips, I lecture them on their Gestapo-like tactics and their place as agents of the state in our capitalist system. Okay, I was raised by a Communist. Once I get political they roll their eyes and depart and I am left to survey the damage. Despite my lack of sleep, adrenalin keeps me moving. First on the agenda: find the cats. Not mine of course. His takes this invasion in stride but my daughter’s two cower in the bedroom. They are street cats and may have encountered the police before. The littlest one runs away the following week, and perhaps illogically, I blame the police.  

   I coax them out of hiding and then return to my inventory-taking. I tried to film the destruction but my lack of video skills coupled with a shaking hand made the results dark and hazy. I tried watching it a few times afterwards but it was painful to listen to the outrage in my voice. It made me feel helpless again. My daughter’s bedroom has taken the worst hit. Heavy boots have kicked in the cupboard over the stairs. The doors were tied together with pink satin ribbon to keep the cats out but the police couldn’t be bothered to untie the bow or maybe they were taking out their frustration on coming up empty-handed. The cupboard contains stuffed animals and other toys. They break open a locked briefcase. It belonged to my late father and as such is very precious to my daughter. All it held were some of her old school papers which they dumped all over the floor. My bedroom seems untouched and the living room and dining room were hardly disturbed. The basement was gone through but not the shed although they did look under the deck. 
They spent a lot of time rummaging around in my kitchen cupboards looking for a meth lab I guess. They dragged out a brand-new unused kitchen scale which I threw out afterwards of course. The contents of my junk drawer were spread out all over the floor. When I open my spice cupboard I discover they have spilt my large bottle of pure vanilla. Baking is one of my passions. It relaxes me like no other activity. I love mixing the ingredients and the smell of vanilla and brown sugar. I didn’t bake for a year. Every time I opened that cupboard I remembered.  

   I am fortunate that my father had brought me up to understand that while we should always obey the law, we should never forget that the police were there to protect those in power, they were part of the system. That lessened my shock. Still, it was a bit of disappointment as a part of me wanted to believe in those comic book heroes. My daughter held no such expectations. She and her partner eventually arrive home without charges or apologies. They are tired
but not surprised. They sleep. I do not. I wait for the dawn. The sun rises and I am a different person. Still human. In fact, more human. When one looks back on life there are always a few life-changing moments that stand out-both the good and the bad. This definitely makes the list. But I am grateful for this experience because I have seen things from another perspective and am now better equipped to understand the challenges many people face in improving their lives. 

    My daughter and her partner were in that stage at the time, trying to rebuild their lives in a good way. Life is no longer black and white to me and it’s harder to tell the bad guys from the good guys. I took the day off to get some rest and clean up the mess but I have never repaired the door frame. It is a reminder to me. I don’t want to forget. I need to remember. I also kept my brass door knob with its tell-tale indentation. If there was any justice I would have overcome my fear of storms but no, that phobia came back with a vengeance.

   I still puzzle though, over the purpose of the raid. Was it a message? A warning? A training exercise? A fishing expedition? I have been told that it could have been much worse, that they could have punched through the drywall and ripped up flooring but apparently they only do that if they think they are going to find something. So again, what was the point? Whatever the rationale it was unwarranted. 

   This incident motivated me to become even more involved in social justice. Search warrants are powerful tools in the police arsenal and they need to be used fairly and only when necessary. This particular warrant was what is known as a dial-a-warrant and is granted by an out-of-area judge over the phone after hours, from someone who has no knowledge of the area and the players and must rely solely on the information the police provide. 
​
   I can bake now but when I sleep my fists are clenched, ready to do battle. Many mornings I wake up to aching hands and sore shoulders which are locked into permanent fighter stance. 

   And when I don’t sleep I lie awake listening for the sound of thunder. 
 

I joined NOWW for the first time in 2018.

I write poetry, which I perform with percussion instruments. I also write short stories. My work is mostly fiction. I am interested in YA and in writing for adults.
 
 I really enjoyed the book ‘ Small Island’ by Andrea Levy as it tells the story of Jamaican immigrants to London, UK and my parents were Jamaican immigrants. I have lived in Thunder Bay and in Canada for eight years. I also enjoy the work of Octavia Butler the Black sci fi speculative fiction writer. Nalo Hopkinson, a speculative fiction writer who I enjoy reading. I enjoy the writing of Audre Lorde who writes from a Black feminist perspective. I enjoy the use of  African American dialect of Zora Neale Hurston. Of course the writing of Nobel laureate for literature Toni Morrison and also writers such as Maya Angelou, her poem ‘ Still I Rise’ is iconic. The writing of Alice Walker. The writing of James Baldwin and the writing of Frantz Fanon, the Caribbean psychiatrist and political philosopher is inspired g and informative.
 
I have taken part in NOWW readings in the past and will be doing a reading on November 10, 2020.
 
One way to learn more about me would be to read my book of poetry ’Spectrum’. The book talks about race and identity. I use many of my own experiences of being a Black woman living in Ontario. The book is available locally in Indigo. The Groggy Toad Coffee shop, and The Bodymind Centre. It is also available on Amazon.
 
When I was young I used to be able to do the limbo dance and It was my party trick.    
I am interested in calligraphy and like to practice this sometimes     
 
I was born and grew up in the UK to Jamaican parents. I use patois in my poetry and storytelling. I have always loved fairytales. I have received a grant from the Ontario Arts Council to study fairytales and folklore with a view to incorporating these aspects into my own writing. I use percussion instruments and some African and Caribbean dance in my poetry and storytelling performance. I admire the Jamaican folklorist Louise Bennett who lived in Canada.

I enjoy walking in the beautiful nature of Northern Ontario, yoga, music and film.
 
 
My first collection of poetry ‘Spectrum’ was published in May 2020 during the COVID19 lockdown. The book seeks to raise awareness of what it is like to be a Black person. The poetry focuses on race and identity. My first piece of published writing was a short story published in 1996. It was about Black hair. I am currently researching fairytales and African Caribbean folklore and hope to produce some stories and poetry around that. 
 
‘Spectrum’ Amazon link,
 https://www.amazon.ca/dp/1714041549/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_-MYMFbWHYTJN7
 
 

 I am very inspired by the Jamaican folklorist Louise Bennett. I like her use of Jamaican patois and how she describes this as a language in its own right. My favourite writers tend to be Black women writers whose written characters have strength and resilience. This is because I recognize their struggle, as it mirrors my own.
 
 I like to incorporate the magic of fairytales and folklore in my writing. Writers such as Toni Morrison, speculative fiction writers Octavia Butler and Nalo Hopkinson also incorporate lyricism and imagination in their work. I do recommend these writers. I am inspired by the wish to improve understanding between groups. To promote anti racism themes. I also like to bring more awareness of African and Caribbean folklore and worldview to the public. I am inspired to write by the people I meet, experiences I have, and the natural world.
I enjoy participating in things like Nanowrimo and Camp Nanowrimo.

​I have just taken delivery of a world poetry anthology I collaborated on with four other authors from South Africa, Nigeria, Zimbabwe and India. The book contains some of my new poems including  ‘Xenophobia’ and ‘Minneapolis.’ The book is available on  Amazon and is entitled, "Mercy and Poetic Healing.’ The book is available on Amazon.
 
‘Mercy and Poetic Healing’ Amazon Link
 
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08KJ72798?ref=myi_title_dp
 
​

 
This is an exciting year for the Northwestern Ontario Writers Workshop. We have many new events and programs being offered, including our Peer-to-Peer Review. 
 
This provides you an opportunity to gain insights into your own work while also supporting other writers by providing them some thoughts and suggestions of your own. 
 
Commencing at the start of November and again in April, NOWW will accept submissions from writers wishing to receive feedback on their work. Guidelines will be posted in October. 
 
Shortly thereafter, anyone who has submitted their own work for review, will then receive an email containing a fellow writer’s submission. All who enter to receive feedback, will also provide feedback to another writer. This means that each writer is also a reviewer. 
 
Responses will be completed on a short form to ensure consistency of review for all who enter. We look forward to connecting writers and developing a system for critique and review that is available to all and helps us grow and improve in our craft. 
 
The Peer-to-Peer Review will work as follows: 
 
Timeline:
 
Day 1:             Peer-to-Peer Review Opens

Day 1-7:          Submissions may be sent in to the Peer-to-Peer Review Program.

Day 8:       Submissions will be mailed to the reviewer. Each participant will receive a     submission.

Day 9-29:      Reviewers will read and consider a submission and complete the Peer-to-Peer Response Form which they will then email to admin@nowwwriters.ca

Day 30:        Participants will receive an email containing the Peer-to-Peer Response Form       for their work.
 
Rules:
 
1.     Entries must be written in English.
2.     Only electronic submissions will be accepted, preferably in Microsoft word, RTF or PDF files.
3.     Submissions will only be accepted until Midnight, Eastern Time on the 7thnight. Any submissions received after this time will not be eligible for the Peer-to-Peer Program that month.
4.     Only one submission per Peer-to-Peer Review Month. You may submit once in November and once in April per year. 
5.     One submission of poetry is not to exceed 150 lines, in 12-point font, single-spaced. Note that if you are using specific formatting, pdf is the preferred document type.
6.     One submission of playwriting, fiction, creative nonfiction, YA, etc. is not to exceed 5 pages, double-spaced, in 12-point font.
7.     Submissions can be of any format: poetry, playwriting, fiction, creative nonfiction, YA, etc. in any style and of any theme.
8.     If you submit something to be reviewed, you are required to be a reviewer for someone else.
9.     You will return only the Peer-to-Peer Response Form. If you would like to discuss the submission further with the writer, please contact NOWW.
10.  If you have difficulties with returning the Peer-to-Peer Response Form, please contact NOWW in advance of the deadline.
11.  There is no fee to participate in the Peer-to-Peer Review Program.
12.  Pleasedo notinclude your name on your submission. 
13.  Provide your name and Title of Entry in the body of your email.
14.  Email entries to: admin@nowwwriters.ca
 
 
Eligibility:
 
To participate in the Peer-to-Peer Program you must be a member in good standing of the Northwestern Ontario Writers Workshop.
 
 
 

           Nowadays, poets mostly write free verse. Some exceptions might be birthday cards, kid lit and rap, but awards are rarely meted out to metric verse. Historically, the 20th century was the moment when free verse was finally freed from the formal rules of style, thought to be stodgy and confining (by esteemed poets such as William Carlos Williams and Marianne Moore). So, no more counting metre and listing rhymes.

            No beat, no couplets? You might wonder, how then is free verse rhythmic? What are its rhythms? Is it rhythmic? Is it only saying that makes it so? Is there really any difference between poetry and creative non-fiction—don’t both interrupt conventional syntax while engaging figures of speech? Is poetry just a chopping of line?

Compare this:

O brother, put me in your pouch as you would a fresh, sweet locust-pod. For I am frail as a flask of glass, as a fine grey egg, or a slender rod, O brother; and I am the golden ring you wear on your finger so gladly. For God takes everything from you tomorrow, and gives me everything.

with this:

O BROTHER, put me in your pouch    
As you would a fresh, sweet locust-pod.       
For I am frail as a flask of glass,          
As a fine grey egg, or a slender rod,   
O brother; and I am the golden ring          
You wear on your finger so gladly. For God   
Takes everything from you tomorrow, and gives me everything. 
​
                                                            (D. H. Lawrence, “The Child and the Soldier”)           
            Gerard Manley Hopkins, T.S. Elliot and William Carlos Williams all claimed that free verse seeks the inherently poetic rhythm of speech. If that’s so, is this a rhythm that may be heard, felt, shared, learned, known? 
            Let’s think about this some more.

Can you pack a whole story into just a few paragraphs? Of course you can!

The NOWW Flash Fiction Contest is now accepting short-short story entries of 500 words max. Quick and to the point.

The top three stories will earn cash prizes ($75/$50/$25) and publication in our blog this fall.


Contest Rules

• Free entry (you have to be a NOWW member—sign up here, if you’re not a member: http://www.nowwwriters.ca/join-noww.html)

 

• One submission per person

 

• Your story must be 500 words maximum, not including title. Stories that go over the word count max will be disqualified.

 

• Word document preferred (any text document is fine, though if submitting a PDF, please ensure we can cut and paste from it. Please, no links to Google Docs.)

 

• Times New Roman, 12pt., double spaced

 

• At the top of your entry, please include your name, email, phone number, title of your story, and word count (not including title). Then, include your title again and the story.

 

• You can view a sample entry here: https://www.nowwwriters.ca/noww-blog/the-noww-flash-fiction-writing-contest-is-back] ​
• Please do not include anything within the text of the story itself like your name that would make you identifiable. Change character names, if necessary, to ensure the judges will not recognize who the writer is.

​​

• Email to admin@nowwwriters.ca with “Flash Fiction Contest” in the subject line (mailed submissions will not be accepted)

 

• NEW STORIES ONLY, please. Your submission must be:
  • Your own work
  • Unpublished

 

• Deadline Extended to Friday September 25, 2020 at midnight. 

​

Two members of the NOWW board will judge the contest.

            When I submitted my legal mystery to potential publishers, I made two naïve assumptions. First, I presumed plot trumped everything in my chosen genre. Editors would be attracted by the unique, elegant murders I’d fashioned interwoven with authentic legal issues. Second, their job was to refine my grammatically correct, but otherwise utilitarian, prose. Provide the flair to keep readers engaged. A webinar with agent Elizabeth Kracht, writer of “The Author’s Checklist: An Agent’s Guide to Developing and Editing Your Manuscript” changed my perspective.

            Those of you with editors and/or publishers know what’s coming next, so you can stop reading at this point. As an unpublished, aspiring author and former economics teacher, I found her insights invaluable. The supply of manuscripts far outstrips the demand. Agents and publishers are overwhelmed with submissions. According to Kracht, most are three or four extensive edits away from being ready. As such, regardless of how compelling the story, they require too much time and labour to be economically viable. Authors that prepare strategically can avoid this pitfall and refine their work, therefore increasing the chances of success. Thus the purpose of her book.

            Drawing on another economic analogy, I found her work useful on both the macro and micro levels. While chapters are arranged alphabetically around specific focal points from Acknowledgments to World Building, I preferred to divide them into these two broad categories. I zoomed out to examine my overall novel when considering aspects like characterization, plot, point of view, setting, and themes. Checklist questions at the end of each of these chapters helped focus the critical analysis of my outline, the people who inhabit my fictional world, the conflicts they endure, and the context within which they exist. Her pointers on chapter arc were particularly insightful.

            On the micro level, she provides practical information to avoid common pitfalls. She delves into specifics on everything from proofreading to formatting. Each chapter has specific examples that help focus the editing process. In my own experience, this allowed me to layer my revisions, kind of like painting a room in various steps from primer to final coat. At the end of each chapter, she includes checklists to assure the goals have been accomplished.

            On the downside, I found some aspects a little too rigid. For example, she rejects manuscripts that fail to conform to her optimal chapter length parameters. I had heart palpitations after reading her advice. My first reaction was to scan numerous best sellers to see whether they conformed, and much to my relief, they didn’t. She also has rules about the requisite mix of action, description, and dialogue in a chapter. This too was perplexing for me, as some of my chapters have nothing but action as I describe a murder, while others are virtually all conversation as a suspect is interrogated. Again, my limited research suggests that the expectations are not so hard and fast.
​
            Prior to submitting my manuscript, I sought feedback from Beta readers and engaged a freelance editor with experience at a publishing house specializing in mysteries. Since reading Kracht’s book, I’ve spent a month re-editing and feel my story has improved markedly. Her guide provided clear direction to enhance my final product. It’s also far cheaper than hiring someone, although it is more labour intensive on my part. While there are no guarantees my work will be accepted, her advice opened my eyes to the difficult task ahead and brought a framework to meet the challenges of becoming a published author.

Dirty hands, bare feet, rosy cheeks, I was a child of the mud and sky. Fences, rock walls, boarders, and boundaries didn’t exist; they were just one more object to climb, like the swaying crab-apple tree, the rusted tin roof of the back shed, or the wooded composted heap. My parents would release me into the yard after breakfast, an inexorable hurricane. I roamed.


Of all my adventures, my favourite exploration was that of a strange old tub stuck in the middle of the yard, slowly sinking, consumed by earth and time. At night, I would lie awake thinking of the multitudinous crawly creatures that would stray unwittingly over the smooth porcelain sides, falling off the edge of the world as they knew it. And in the mornings, my sister and I would tumble out the back door, a flurry of small padding feet across the deck, in a race to throw ourselves upon the grass and peer over the ledge, to stare down in wonder upon the microcosm below. I was the goddess of them all, those centipedes, grasshoppers, ants, and aphids – and they were my subjects. The beetles were best, with a hidden rainbow to be discovered along the contours of their shiny shells when you held them up to the light. “Eat that one, I dare you” I would say to my wide-eyed little sister, her mouth already smeared with dirt. Our grubby hands were Titans released from the blue abyss above. They scurried. 


But one day, as we continued to chronicle our assortment of creatures, a matted brown nose shot up from the grassy plug hole and shockingly sharp teeth gnashed at the ants migrating up the tub’s slanted walls. We leapt from the tub with a shriek and the creature retreated into darkness. When it did not reappear, I told my sister to take a stick and jam it into the hole, to draw the trespasser out, but the hole was too deep to reach and it stuck. We filled the breach to the roots. It was a shrew, mom told us that night at the dinner table, and we should leave it alone. We waited weeks for it to return, our fingers curled tentatively around the overgrown edges along the tub. We darned not enter. But it never came back. Slowly, the long grass staked its claim, pushing its way through the ever-growing web of ceramic cracks, moisture pooled along the rutted foundation, and the acrid waters became a sea of decomposing insect carcasses. Meanwhile, overhead, we watched the stagnant little world be swallowed whole. We mourned.

 
     When I learn my body escaped, I can’t react. At least, not like I would have before. I have no nails to chew, no shoulders to tense, no cortisol to signal fight, flight to my brain. That’s Disembodiment’s whole selling point, after all. Lack of physicality increases productivity! Without a bladder, there’s no need for bathroom breaks. Without a stomach, no need for lunchtime nourishment. Coffee even becomes irrelevant. Coffee! It’s surprising how alert your mind functions when not captive to a demanding body crying, “Feed me! Walk me! Let’s play! Squirrel!” Kidding on that last one, but really, without the benefit of higher consciousness, humans are more or less like dogs. I’m not saying kill your dog. Just sometimes, when you need to get stuff done, the dog’s best left with a sitter. That’s all.

     Luckily, Disembodiment Tech set up shop (in my neighbourhood of all places!) in a clinic on Fourth above a weed dispensary. Like weed, I thought I’d give it a try once, just once, see what all the buzz was about—though I sorta, kinda got hooked. You can’t blame me. Disembodiment was a game changer! At first, it was just about distraction-free productivity. You know how your brain creates dopamine whenever you get a Like, essentially addicting itself to social media? Not a problem when you don’t have organs! I finished a week’s worth of work in eight hours. Then, two weeks’ worth in a half day. Soon, it evolved into something else entirely. It’s not just that I’d meet up with other Disembodied in the Cloud, it’s that We’d become One.  

     Click. A chord painlessly plugs into my cervical spine. OK, it hurts a little, but not more than a bee sting. My consciousness releases into the Cloud, while my body—set to Zombie Mode—dumbly walks the day away on a treadmill like a hamster in a wheel. Good for the heart they say. Not to mention the calves.  

     Except today, when my session expires, I’m not returned to my body.
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    “The bodies escaped.” A clinician appears on a billboard beside the Information Super Highway. Her pores look like tar pits, nose too close to her webcam. I zoom out. Better. She’s panicked, sweat beads dripping from her forehead. “Details are scant, though we’re told it was a large-scale event. All over the globe, bodies walked out. Just like that.”

    Enslaved to my body, I would have angered. Asked to speak to a manager. Demanded a refund! WROTE A SCATHING ONLINE REVIEW! Not my fault. Damn adrenal glands. I was under the influence of cortisol and adrenaline, mmmkay? 

     In the Cloud, it’s different. Not beholden to bodies, We Free. 

    We fly into the universe. On our way, We see headlines providing clues to Our bodies’ fates. Mass Migration to Coast! Bodies Taking Over Beaches Worldwide! And, Our personal favourite, Should Bodies Be Granted Human Rights?  
​
    With no pulse to keep rhythm, we chant: We Free, We Free, We Free.  
    

Congratulations to the winners of the NOWW Flash Fiction Contest. 
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Please enjoy the 3rd place winner, Laura-Lee Pernsky, and her story Mama Bear We will have the second, and first place winner posted very soon.  

“You should take the baby and go for a walk,” he said on his way out the door.
 
I had never wanted to hit someone so badly in my life.
 
I know he meant well, but he thinks that he gets it. He held my hand through it all, sure. Counted the breaths. Brought me the ice chips. Woke me up when I fell asleep through pushes because I was just so exhausted from being torn apart, and then sat beside me as they sliced my belly open and removed our son from the warm cavity of my abdomen.
 
But he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t have flashbacks of blood stained sheets, of excruciating pain, of failing as our baby tried, no, demandedto be brought into this world.
 
And he doesn’t understand the new fears… of everything. Climate change. Measles outbreaks. People who drive too fast on our road. I have to protect this tiny boy from everything and it terrifies me.
 
It had been a brutally cold winter, and no one wants to take a newborn out in that. But now spring was tiptoeing in. The incessant drip, drip of melting icicles on the overhang of our deck. A sun that shone not only light but warmth through our picture window where I would gaze out both hungrily and fearfully as the baby and I would sit in the recliner to nurse and nap. I decided to brave it.
 
I bundled him up in a buffalo plaid bunting suit and tucked him carefully into the carseat, wrapping him in blankets and pulling a little knitted hat down almost over his eyes. I nearly forgot my own hat, but that’s what seems to happen when you become a mom. Off we went.
 
My first steps were tentative, as they are likely to be when you’ve recently recovered from major surgery. My thoughts remained dark despite the bright cerulean sky.
 
We went about a kilometre, then the exhaustion took over and I turned toward home. A sudden rustling caught my attention, and I froze in terror as a bear emerged from the underbrush in the ditch. She was so black she was the absence of colour. I couldn’t move, could barely breathe. Two tiny, scraggly cubs crept out behind her, and our eyes locked over our babies. She stopped and raised her muzzle, tasting my scent of milk and hormones on the April breeze.
 
“It’s okay, Mama,” I whispered as she stared me down, daring me to interfere as the cubs trotted across the road. Then she followed them and disappeared into the leaves.
 
I found a strength I didn’t know I had as I pushed the stroller home at a trot, and exhaled in relief as the door closed behind us. I picked up my son and hugged him tightly. The world was scary for every mother, but I could do this. He was my cub, and I was his mama bear, and we were in this together.