Devour: Art and Lit Canada, issue 001 - Hidden Brook Press by Wet Ink Books

Devour Art & Lit Canada is dedicated to the Canadian voice.

Happy 150 birthday Canada!

ISSN 2561-1321 Issue 001 August 2017

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Devour Art & Lit Canada The digital flagship magazine of Hidden Brook Press.

Find some of Canadaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s finest authors, photographers and artists featured in every issue.

Photograph by Richard M. Grove from In This We Hear the Light

The mission of Devour Art and Lit Canada

is to promote Canadian culture by bringing world-wide readers some of the best Canadian literature, art and photography.

ISSN 2561-1321 Issue 001 Devour: Art and Lit Canada is published by: Hidden Brook Press 109 Bayshore Road Brighton, Ontario Canada K0K 1H0 905-376-9106 writers@hiddenbrookpress.com www.hiddenbrookpress.com

Editor-in-Chief – Richard M. Grove Layout and Design – Richard M. Grove

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Photograph by Richard M. Grove from In This We Hear the Light

Devour Art & Lit Canada

Content Feature Profiles: John B. Lee – In This We Hear the Light – p. 8

Shane Joseph – Fringe Dwellers – p. 18

Norma West Linder – No Common Thread – p. 28

Morgan Wade – Bottle and Glass – p. 34

Ivy Reiss brings Canada, The Artis – p. 39

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World-class poet, John B. Lee, partnered with world-class photographer, Richard M. Grove, to produce a world-class hard cover, full-colour book of splendour called: In This We Hear the Light. In This We Hear the Light, is an exceptional collection of Cuba-themed poetry by award-winning poet, John B. Lee. Without a doubt this book includes some of his most outstanding work, juxtaposed by an equally splendid assembly of Cuba-themed photography by Richard M. Grove. The poems and photographs represent the inspiration from many years of travelling in Cuba. Since first visiting Cuba, John B. Lee came to love the island and to admire her people. In This We Hear the Light, is an ekphrastic project, its literary efforts are beautifully complemented by Grove's exquisite world-class photographs. The poems and the photographs aspire to capture something more deeply felt than the reflections of a mere tourist. The combination of Lee's verses and Grove's images together contain the deep-felt mysteries that come from understanding Cuba on an intimate and cherished level. 8

Photograph by Richard M. Grove from In This We Hear the Light

Los Zapatos d’El Escultura de Cristabo Calone, Columbus Cove, Guardalavaca, Cuba, 2009

the green stone shoes of the statue are all that remain of the sculpture in the cove of Christopher Columbus where four years before I saw the entire ﬁgure of the great Italian navigator all there save one hand gone missing in a storm as he stood like the ghostly salutation of the absent father of the Spanish founding of this island and as he has absented himself almost entirely at this the small colossus of his ever present simulacrum one might hear the tourists seeking his story at the weathered lime and rocky crag plinth where he once was and is no longer as if upon removing his shoes he had simply swum out plunging into the aquamarine and ever‐sounding surf until he sank away forever far from the vanishing rubble deciding to die twice and then to die again though this second death more complete than the ﬁrst as it is for us all with each going little by little and less by less we fail to stay by John B. Lee

Martí’s Bust Cuban poet Martí was martyred in the ﬁrst skirmish of the last revolt against Spain as he rushed on with the wild nature of the quick‐to‐be‐dying poet brilliant and good and he is now dark on my desk in this ebon‐wood bust heavy in my hand as a stone lifted out from the sand‐suck of the sea fragrant with polish and scarred by thought, his forehead smoothed over like a far‐away moon he pulls on my mind like the touched while they dream that waking caress of the light of the world that lover’s concern with the day the child in delight and all slow concern transformed by the knowing we’re here by John B. Lee

Photograph by Richard M. Grove from In This We Hear the Light

Women Walking in the Sea women walk in the water women and girls, lovely girls and little girls walk in the waves that deepen and swell and fall away from their bodies in undulating crests and shallow hollows like the slow breathing of the moon‐breathed sea the ever‐breathing moon‐breathed sea these women waltz within the tantalizing music of the sea the all‐seducing blue‐green sea the foaming frothing sudsing and relentlessly rocking warm‐surfaced salt‐water sea they stand together in the buoyant cool‐warm waves in the ceaselessly lapping lift and settle motion for motion of the ﬂoating‐the‐body energetic thrill

Photograph by Richard M. Grove from In This We Hear the Light

one step forward, two steps back in this two‐partnered daisy‐chain dance this mother‐and‐daughter ocean‐for‐partner dance and the sea fathoms the ankle by the shore circles the ankle with its golden chain of porous light the sea rolls its silk and satin green illusion of cooling‐the‐calf to the knee and the thigh, the nut‐brown vein‐blue thigh it tastes with its tongue, it tastes with its world‐weary tongue the salt‐water fragrant seashell‐radiant raiment where it darkens the cloth

by John B. Lee

Photograph by Richard M. Grove from In This We Hear the Light

Coming Soon This is How We See the World begins with work written by John B. Lee when he was a nineteen-year-old undergraduate at University of Western Ontario being championed by Canadian literary luminaries Margaret Avison, Stan Dragland and Don McKay. This noteworthy series of eighteen chapbooks published between the covers of a single volume culminates in recent award-winning work that confirms those early supporters’ faith in Lee’s promise as a writer to be reckoned with. For his part, poet George Whipple calls Lee the greatest living poet in English. James Deahl refers to Lee as the premier People’s Poet of his generation, and Marty Gervais sites Lee as the best poet in Canada. Little wonder ISBN – 978-1-927725-50-4 then that Nelson Mandela, Alberto Manguel, Desmond Tutu, Australian poet Les Murray, have all seen fit to praise Lee’s work. Appointed Poet Laureate of both the city of Brantford and Norfolk County he writes what he sees in a voice for the ages.

ISBN – 978-1-897475-64-5

ISBN – 978-1-927725-13-9

Order either of these books from any Amazon around the world. Just cut and paste the ISBN or title into Amazon or any e-store. 17

Shane Joseph is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers in Toronto and studied under the mentorship of Giller Prize and Canadian Governor General’s Award-winning author David Adams Richards. Redemption in Paradise, his first novel, was published in 2004. Fringe Dwellers, his first collection of short stories, was released in 2008, and is now in its second edition; the story “In the Cemetery,” published in this edition of Devour, is from that collection. Shane’s third work of fiction, After the Flood, a dystopian novel of hope, was released in 2009 and won the Write Canada Award for best novel in the futuristic/fantasy category in 2010. His short fiction and non-fiction have appeared in literary journals such as the Book Review Literary Trust of India and in anthologies all over the world. His blog at www.shanejoseph.com is widely syndicated and he has a monthly column in The Sri Lankan Anchorman newspaper. Shane’s fifth work of fiction, Paradise Revisited, a collection of short stories that continues to explore the immigrant experience which he began with his novel The Ulysses Man (2011), was short listed for the Re-Lit award in 2014. His last novel, In the Shadow of the Conquistador, set partially in Peru, was released in the Fall of 2015. His latest collection of short stories, Crossing Limbo, was launched in June 2017. Shane is the editor and part owner of Blue Denim Press (www.bluedenimpress.com) a literary press he founded with his wife Sarah Jacob in 2011. He is also the co-owner of two travel agencies and says that his travelling informs his writing. To-date. he has visited 65 countries, one for each year of his life, with a few more to spare.

In the Cemetery by Shane Joseph I met her in the cemetery in the light of morning. I have come here with increased regularity of late. I feel compelled to walk among the gravestones, reading inscriptions; many tell stories—noble, tragic or unexpected—while their subjects repose below ground, amidst harmonious surroundings, at peace, finally. I sat on a bench a respectable distance away and watched. She wore a white chiffon dress that fluttered in the cool summer breeze. Occasionally, she tossed her blond hair so it caught the wind and billowed like a sail. Her back was turned toward me as she tended a recently dug grave. Unsettled mounds of earth and fresh flowers set it off from the others. Even though I could not see her face, the grace with which she bent over the grave was arresting, her hands gently caressing the gravestone, wiping off dust with her fingertips. 19

When she had carefully arranged the flowers around the site, she lay on the grass beside it, the shade from a maple tree casting her feet in shadow. She adjusted a scarf to shield her face from the sun, and very soon looked to be asleep. There was no one else in the cemetery. I couldn’t resist going over. She opened her eyes, sensing my presence, and sat up. She stared at me for awhile; our eyes locked. Blue luminosity, the absence of fear, then emerging acceptance preceded a smile. “Hello,” I said. “Nice day.” She looked around her. “Yes it is, isn’t it?” I pointed at the grave. “Close relative?” “Very close.” I read the newly cut marble headstone. Andrea Antoinette Fairley, left us suddenly on March 25th 2005. May she rest with the angels, for she earned heaven on earth. “I’m Andrew,” I said. She hesitated. “Annie,” she said, extending a slim hand; it was warm and moist in mine. I sensed I could sit next to her all day and she wouldn’t mind. “Can I pass the time here for a few minutes?” I asked, sitting on the grass beside her. “Yes—if you like. Why do you come here?” “The peace, I guess. I feel a connection here.” “I feel the same.” “Andrea’s gravestone message might describe the story of my life.” “Do you want to talk about it?” Her blue eyes were open, inviting, coaxing me on. “I haven’t talked much. Although they say it’s easier with strangers.” “And I am a stranger—to you.” She laughed. But I was reluctant; I got up. “I’d like to take a walk instead.” “I’ll accompany you, if you don’t mind. It’s a nice day for a walk.” She began putting her things into a cloth satchel that she slung over her shoulder. “There are some interesting stories on the gravestones. I spend a lot of time reading them.” “Me too.” The cemetery covered several acres and was the oldest and most prestigious in the city. What had once been Jewish, WASP and Catholic-dominated was encroached upon by sections of newer Greek, Chinese and South Asian graves, some even more elaborate than their Judeo-Christian forbears. “Those ones are interesting,” Annie pointed to three adjacent graves, set back from the familiar rows by the footpath. “The grandmother, Mrs. Smith, died the same day as her two granddaughters, aged two and four.” “Indeed!” The two smaller graves were on either side of Mrs. Smith’s. “They died in a house fire.” Annie said. “How do you know?” “Call it intuition.” I did not press her for an explanation. The Greek grave nearby also caught my attention; three generations of Kotsopouloses buried in it—Stephanos aged one 20

hundred and two years, Alexander aged eighty and Nikos aged fifty-five—all dead within a ten-year span, the youngest dying first. “It’s hard to lose a child,” she said, placing some flowers from her satchel on the Kotsopoulos grave. “Andrea did.” “So did I” I said reluctantly, and bit my tongue. She looked at me quickly. “You do feel okay now—talking to a stranger?” I shook my head. “Not yet. That was a slip.” “Andrea’s husband was a drunk. She fell for his vulnerability. And he beat her constantly —once, when she was four months pregnant with their only child. She miscarried.” We walked in silence—her words tore through me. “I drank too,” I said. “But only to forget.” “The memory of your dead child?” “Children.” “I’m sorry.” “Can I see you another time? I can’t talk any more today.” “I come here every morning—you’ll find me beside Andrea’s grave.” “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” I had to turn back and look at her from the cemetery gate. She waved to me. Never before had I experienced such concern and kindness. *** The next day, she was painting by Andrea’s grave; an easel propped up, paints strewn around her. “Hello Andrew!” She brushed the hair from her forehead and looked up at me. “That’s a horrible scene!” I gasped. The painting was so incongruous with the beautiful painter and the lazy scenery around us. A car was plunging off a bridge; the driver, a woman pressed against the windshield, her expression a contrast of grim effort to wrest control of the wheel and horrified acceptance. A man stood on the bridge, hands reaching out as if to stop the plummeting automobile. My temples began to throb. “Andrea’s last moments,” she said. “I’m trying to capture what it must have felt like.” “Her face is the focus of the portrait.” “Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to portray” “What a dreadful scene. You are a great painter.” The buildings in the background, the street scene, were all rendered in perfect balance, with the plummeting car and its occupant in the centre, a hole in the ordered fabric of civic life. “Thank you.” She put her brush down, stood back from the easel, looked at the picture, then at me, then back at the picture and said. “It’s beginning to take shape. I like to view my subjects from the outside.” 21

“I did not know you were working today. I thought we could walk by the gravestones and talk,” I said. “Are you ready to talk?” “Maybe. We’ll see.” She started to put her things away. She placed the easel and the canvas behind the gravestone. “We can pick these up later.” She took my hand firmly and headed south, towards the Catholic section. I was familiar with this area. Carol and Johnny were buried here. “You’ve been in this part of the cemetery before, haven’t you?” she said. “Yes.” “Tell me a story from here,” she said. I steered her away from the children’s graves. I could not suppress the tears and hoped she would not notice. “Well,” I began reluctantly, and then decided to let it all out. What the hell! “Well,” I said again, “There was this young couple. They married early, madly infatuated with each other, arts graduates straight out of university. Lots of pot and sex… you know.” “Uh, huh.” “The guy was a musician and a writer. She was a dancer.” “I bet they were poor.” “They were. He managed a gig at a club three nights a week, and the rest of the time he waited tables in the same joint. He was writing the great Canadian novel, but would never finish it at the rate he was going—snatches written in between breaks, losing pages when he smoked up excessively. She did a cabaret at the club but was always auditioning for the National Ballet. They lived in a rat-infested bed-sitter.” “Sounds like the usual rags-to-riches story. At least, the ‘rags’part of it.” “Unfortunately there were no riches, although the sex was always good in those days.” I found it easier to talk now. I held her hand tightly. She was like a life jacket keeping me from sinking into the depths. “She came home one day, overjoyed. She’d earned a spot with the National Ballet after three years of trying. I drank a lot and we celebrated that night in desperate release, throwing caution and condoms to the winds. Six weeks later she discovered she was pregnant and, being raised Catholic, could not think of an abortion. That blew her chances with the Ballet, and ushered in clinical depression that dogs her to this day.” We circled a sycamore tree and arrived at the twin graves by the street wall. I sat on the grass by the graves. Annie sat a few paces behind me. I couldn’t stop talking now. “The depression got worse. Once, she tried to kill herself before the baby was born. I was drunk that night, as things had gotten out of control. She popped a bunch of pain killers and a friend, who’d been keeping an eye on us, dropped by and rushed her to the hospital, while I buried my face in a bath of cold water.” 22

I had to stop now; the memory flooding back was making me shake. Annie filled the void by taking over the conversation. “Andrea’s husband suffered from depression. She put up with it, believing he would eventually get better.” She looked at the graves, reading the stones, names, dates of birth and death. “Are these your children?” “Yes. Carol, the eldest, was still-born.” “I can imagine. What happened to Johnny?” “When my wife returned from the hospital, I went on the wagon, determined to do a better job the next time. I quit the club—booze and drugs were too easily available there. Got a job in a second hand bookshop. Spent more time writing my novel. In fact, I finished a first draft, but I wasn’t happy with it—I was a long way from becoming a novelist. She went back to trying out for auditions at the National Ballet. But after a two-year lapse, one falls behind. She never danced with the same intensity again.” “And you never played music again either?” Annie enquired, an eyebrow raised. “But I had my writing—my remaining artistic outlet. She had nothing, and her depression got worse.” I had to get up and walk. Annie kept two steps behind me. “You still haven’t told me what happened to Johnny.” Her words followed me. “I’m getting there!” I said, almost shouting. She immediately caught up with me and took my hand, and I felt better. “Johnny followed a year later. Both of us were trying hard to erase the memory of Carol—wanting to do it right. In her lucid moments, at least, she too, wanted to do it right. I think it’s in our genetic makeup.” “Thank God for that!” I stopped walking and faced her. My hands reached around her waist and she yielded to me. “Annie—can we stop talking about bad things? I’ll tell you about Johnny another time. Just hold me for once.” “Sorry I asked,” she whispered. Then she kissed me, lips warm, soothing, relaxing. My anger rapidly subsided. I sensed people walking by on the path, but no one paid attention to us, nor we to them. There we stood, in a cemetery—two souls finding comfort. Nothing else mattered. *** The summer seemed never to end. Every time I met Annie, there was sunshine. The cemetery became our haunt. We walked among the graves, unearthing more stories from gravestones, picturing them happening in the different eras they spanned—from the mid nineteenth century to the Great Depression, during the two world wars, even to times as recent as the previous week. Everyone died in the end, no matter how progressed our civilization was. I started to feel better. 23

One day, she had her easel out again. This time she was working on a portrait of a young woman. I recognized Andrea, sans the terrified look. “She must be your twin.” I said, observing the remarkable likeness. Annie kept painting; delicately playing with the shadow she was giving the cheeks of her subject. “And you don’t even have a photograph to go from,” I persisted. “I know her well,” Annie said. “Where shall we walk today?” “Let’s not walk. Let’s talk. I want to tell you about Andrea.” I kissed her lightly perspiring forehead. The salt, mixed with her earthiness, was delicious, or was I imagining it? I sat on the grass beside her. “Andrea was a painter. She taught art in high school. Her students adored her paintings and they loved her because she loved to teach them. ‘If I can mine one gem out of all the stuff these children paint, my work is done,’ she would say. And there were many gems she unearthed. So many, that she held an exhibition of the best paintings from her students over the five years she taught at Flamer High. Those paintings still adorn the walls of the school.” “What did her husband do for a living?” “Oh, him? He was a layabout. A charming, gambling, drinking layabout. Finally, she could no longer take the binge drinking, the womanizing, the excuses. So she left him. This is how she would have looked, after she left. Unfortunately, she did not live long enough to experience her freedom.” “She met with the accident?” “The day she left, he was drinking heavily. When he saw her loading the suitcases into the car, he roused himself from his stupor and tried to stop her. Before long, they were rolling on the driveway, biting and kicking. For the first time, she struck back, and because he was so buzzed, was able to free herself. “She got in the car, relieved, aggrieved and mourning the departure all in one. She found the driving hard—rain was pelting down and the wind was strong. She had difficulty breathing; her husband had knocked in one of her ribs. When she got to the McLintock Bridge, she swerved to avoid a pedestrian who had stepped off the walkway as if signalling for a ride—on a bridge of all places, stupid man. Must have been another drunk. Her car hit the guardrail at such a speed, it broke through and plunged into the river below. They said she died on impact.” This time it was my turn to hold her; her body was stiff. She had applied a disproportionate overlay of shadow on Andrea’s forehead, making the figure look old and in pain. I held her until she relaxed. “We’ll have to redo the painting tomorrow,” she said. *** Things were starting to become clearer to me now. Our talks in the park, Annie and Andrea, their lives, mine—I felt these all as components of a higher purpose. I also realized that this idyllic time would soon pass. 24

We were lying on the grass in a quieter part of the cemetery. Earlier that evening Annie had completed the painting of Andrea, and they looked beautiful—both painter and subject. We had just finished making love—the first time had been the day she told me how Andrea died. On that occasion I was holding her so tightly, the fires from our bodies ignited and the next thing we knew, we were rolling on the grass, desperately clinging to each other for solace, comfort, pleasure—all those things that bring two beings together in the act of lovemaking. I had never experienced this in all my days of married life. Sex had been a physical act, nothing more; and after my wife’s depression and the loss of the children, something to shy away from. Now we made love regularly, every time we met in quiet parts of the grounds where we would not be discovered. The nights were the best in a cemetery, although occasionally teenagers sneaked in to try it out themselves, just for kicks. Those who could see us would probably think we couldn’t feel those emotions at our stage of life, but then, none of them were where we were, yet. I couldn’t get enough of Annie. Surrendering completely to her and knowing I was safe; that there would be no accusations of being a drunk and an errant father. There was only acceptance for who I was in that moment. We also talked a lot and came to realize how our lives had intersected. Sometimes we would go on for hours, until the sunlight broke through, or the birds began chirping. “Andrea looks beautiful in the painting,” I said. “The contours of her face, her expression. She looks a lot like you. And there is an inner radiance in her eyes that is just dazzling.” “It took a long time,” she replied. “I love you,” I said, turning on my side and kissing her ear. She kissed me back. “I’ve waited all my life to meet someone like you too, Andrew. It seems perfectly natural, what we do here.” “Like being in the Garden of Eden.” “Yes. But you know it’s going to end now, don’t you?” “Yes. I am preparing for it.” “You still did not tell me about Johnny.” “Ah, yes, Johnny.” I was scared to tell her about Johnny. I wanted to prolong our meetings in the cemetery. “Can’t we do it some other time?” “There is no time, Andrew,” she said rising. “Take me back to Johnny’s grave. Perhaps then you will remember.” As we went over to the Catholic section, memories returned to me. “Johnny was born with a weak heart, a year after my mother passed away. He was also allergic to everything under the sun—milk, dust, pollen, wet wood, penicillin, cold weather, hot weather. I forget what else. My wife blamed herself and slumped even deeper into depression. It was her cop-out, like booze had once been mine. She beat the child when she ran out of options to care for him. I had to take time off work to look after him when he was sick, because I could not trust her with him. My employer 25

wasn’t happy either, especially since I had already taken leave earlier to care for my mother.” “Johnny was too good for this polluted world,” Annie said. “That’s one way of looking at it. On Johnny’s fifth birthday, I lost my job at the bookshop—for taking all that time off, I guess—although they would not say why. They just gave me notice and three weeks pay.” “Some people don’t know how to be kind,” Annie said. Her words spurred me on. “I broke my promise that day—fell off the wagon. Drank from morning ’til late afternoon, ’til most of the three weeks’ pay was gone. When my wife saw me coming home, she called me a no-good drunk, grabbed Johnny and made to leave the house. I tried to stop her, begging for forgiveness, but I was so hammered. “I remember stumbling after her, down the stairs of our apartment. She let go of Johnny to take a swing at me. My boy fell down three flights and broke his neck. The police took her away on manslaughter charges. They locked me in the slammer too, until they concluded that I had not pushed either of them.” I was exhausted and we had reached the children’s graves. I sat down. I couldn’t speak anymore. Annie took my hand. She kissed the side of my cheek and I realized how wet my face was. “I know how you must have felt,” she said. “This talking has been good for both of us.” Then she rose and began walking away from me, and I knew that I would never see her again. I followed her to the cemetery gate, where she paused and turned around. “I only remember driving recklessly that day, holding my damaged side. There was a complete void afterwards that I was hoping to recapture. Thanks for helping me piece it together.” “Why did you wait so long? Why did you not leave the day you spoilt Andrea’s portrait?” “I waited for you. Watching you come to terms helped me do the same. It helped me restore Andrea to her true self.” Then she was gone and I knew it was useless to go after her. All I now had were the memories she had left behind, the sweetest ones I had retained in my entire life. All that was left of her was a faint glow that could have been coming off the street lights. After a while the glow dimmed, betrayed by the coming dawn. There was one more part of the cemetery I needed to visit; a part I had steered away from since first arriving here; an older part of the Catholic section where my parents were buried. I went over to the family grave. The duller inscriptions were still visible in the moonlight. Douglas James—born 1930, died 1980, suddenly taken away to God (heart attack, I barely knew my father). 26

Mona James—born 1931, died 1999, died in peace with God (cancer, God bless her soul, she fought hard to live). Below, was a fresher, more elaborate one: Andrew James, only child of Douglas and Mona, born 1966, died tragically March 25th 2005 Today, I felt vindicated. I was able to relive the day I burned my great Canadian novel in the realization that it was never going to be published, the day they let me out of jail and cleared me of my son’s accidental death. I could now relive the rush of river water as I jumped off the bridge, uncaring for my own life, but desperate to save that of the woman who had gone over in the car to avoid a drunk and staggering me who had been celebrating the burning of his manuscript. Nor was I any longer afraid of the memory of the slimy liquid gushing into my lungs, as the strong current swept me downstream so far, that when the cops found my body, they would not have connected me with the dead woman. Yes, it was time to let go, to accept the change and move on. I bowed my head over the James family grave; hovered and waited for the light that had taken Annie to return for me.

ISBN – 978-1-897475-67-6

ISBN – 978-1-897475-44-7

Order either of these books from any Amazon around the world. Just cut and paste the ISBN or title into Amazon or any e-store.

Norma West Linder was born in Toronto. She spent her childhood on Manitoulin Island, and teenage years in Muskoka. She is a member of The Writers’ Union of Canada, The Ontario Poetry Society, WITS (Writers International Through Sarnia) and is a Past President of the Sarnia Branch of the Canadian Authors Assoc. Linder is the author of 6 novels, 14 collections of poetry, a memoir of Manitoulin Island, two children’s books, and a biography of Pauline McGibbon. For 24 years she was on the faculty of Lambton College in Sarnia, teaching English and Creative Writing, retiring in 1992. For 7 years she wrote a monthly column for the Sarnia Observer. Her short stories have been published internationally and broadcast on the CBC. Her poetry has been published in Fiddlehead, White Wall Review, Room of One’s Own, Quills, Prairie Journal, FreeFall Magazine, Mobius(US), The Binnacle (US), Lummox(US), Pennine Platform(UK), and many other periodicals and anthologies. In 2006 she compiled and edited Enchanted Crossroads for The Ontario Poetry Society. Her latest publications are collections of poems entitled When Angels Weep , Lovely as a Tree, and Adder’s Tongues. A collection of her short stories was released in August of 2013, entitled No Common Thread, published by Hidden Brook Press. In 2014, Two Paths Through the Seasons, a poetry collection featuring Linder and her life partner James Deahl was published in Israel in 2012. In 2016, Hidden Brook Press published The Pastel Planet, a children’s book, and Tall Stuff, an adult novel. Her poem Valediction was set to music by composer Jeffrey Ryan, performed first in Toronto by the Tefelmusik Baroque Orchestra. She lives in Sarnia. When not writing, Linder enjoys reading, swimming, and photography. She has two daughters and a son.

Pumpkin Lady by Norma West Linder My too-easy smile betrays me again. Too late to kill it, even though it’s not being returned. Always been so anxious to please. Pathetically anxious. Should have learned reticence by now. If the years don’t bring wisdom, why go on living them out? Seventy -nine autumns I’ll have weathered—if I make it through this one. It’s hard to keep from being afraid when the leaves begin to fall. Especially this year. This year when I can’t rake them up. Maybe the old fool thought I was trying to vamp him. Just being neighborly… or trying to be. But how can anybody be neighborly in this high-rise beehive? We go unsmiling, each to his private cell. His private hell. Where the devil is my key? Should never buy a handbag with more than one compartment. Can hear Susan’s voice now. Don’t go out without your key, Mother. You know how absent-minded you are these days. 29

Good old Susan. Can always count on her for daily reminders of my mental deficiencies. Well with my memory I’d probably forget ‘em all if she didn’t. I’d probably have tried to struggle along, all alone in the house… The house. Old, ramshackle place. Knew every nook and cranny of it well as I know the back of my hand. It had lots of trouble spots, sure. Like my hand has liver spots. But it would have worked out. If only they’d given me a chance. Shouldn’t say “they”. This was Susan’s doing. All of it. Be putting in bulbs if I were home now. Bearded iris and grape hyacinths. And tulips. Lots and lots of tulips. Red and yellow promises of spring. Like the waxy colors my first-grade children used. Better stop this rambling and find that damned key. Walk wasn’t worth all this effort. Nothing but concrete around here anyway. Nothing to walk to. No park. Not like my old neighborhood. Ah, here it is. First compartment I looked in after all. Better take those glasses out of their case and put them on my head. Never see the key-hole without them. It’s not vanity. It’s just that they hurt my nose. Susan says it’s all in my mind. ‘Tisn’t though. Fool things feel like a great ugly bird perched on the bridge of my nose. Leave red claw marks for hours. Haven’t got a big fat face like Susan. ‘Course she’s fat as a pillow all over. Doesn’t take after me there. Harry either. Harry. How many weeks is it now? Never mind. Open the door. There. Good thing I left a light on. Only six-thirty and already dark. Must be about eight weeks. Will be two months exactly on the twenty-eighth of October. Maybe this is the twentyeighth. Hard to tell. Lost all track of time since moving in here. Only a week ago. Seems a lot longer. ‘Course they’re right, Susan and Paul. They might as well have the money now. Be theirs someday anyway. Someday soon, way I feel tonight. No appetite at all. Always had such a good one when Harry was alive. Somebody to cook for…to share with. Can’t be bothered eating. Just as soon sit here and stare at my Jack o’ Lantern. He does look a lot like me. Susan said so when I was carving him the other day. Couldn’t see it then. But now that the mouth is beginning to droop at the corners. Might as well set my glasses here on the table. I’ve seen enough. Ha! Susan accused me of acting like a kid when she caught me in the act of carving you, Jack. Talk about parents not understanding children! Other way around, if you ask me. Why I’ve carved your likeness every year for as long as I can remember. But you don’t look the same in here. You should be in the bay window of my house where you belong. There’ll be children again this year. Lots of them. I would have been all right. If they’d just given me a little more time to get used to the idea of being alone. Why did Paul just stand there and let Susan take over like that? He’s the older, after all. Guess he had no time to think. Had to get back to his family in Vancouver. Anyway, with Paul, that was the natural way. Susan always did order him about. Now his bright-eyed wife and daughters do the same. Men’s Lib—that’s what Paul’s always needed. Hope for his sake life does begin at forty. He’ll soon be there. 30

Ha! I’m a fine one to talk about liberation. Letting myself be railroaded into moving in here. More like an old folks home than an apartment building. Surrounded by senior citizens. Hate that term. Rather be called “Old Trout”. That’s what that nice British nurse called me when I had to take therapy for my arm. Shoulder still bothers me sometimes. Susan said I should have known better than to try to rescue a treed cat at my age. Especially when it wasn’t even my cat. Couldn’t argue with her there. Useless to argue with Susan anyway. She always turns out to be right. Suppose that’s why I let her talk me into this move… Maybe the house won’t sell. It’s pretty old-fashioned. Maybe nobody’ll want it. And there’s all our furniture to be disposed of first…funny how I still think “our” and “we” instead of “I”. Still can’t believe he’s really gone. Never forget his face that morning. Thought he was just sleeping in. But when I pulled back the covers…well, maybe that is the best way to go. Everybody says so. Lord, I wish I was back in my old house… Don’t mean to be insulting, Jack, but you’re not much of a conversationalist. Susan always was one to take over. “Great qualities of leadership” her report cards said. Never thought that leadership would be turned against me. People say such stupid things at funerals. Suppose they’re trying to give comfort. May have done the same thing myself. But Mattie Jackson saying, “I always did like that tie on Harry” –that was too much. Wish you’d quit looking at me like that, Jack. You and your droopy orange cheeks and weak mouth. Carved you too soon this year, that’s clear. You’re falling apart before your time. Here—maybe if you wear my hat you’ll cheer up. No? Well, it fits you about as well as it fits me. In fact, black velvet is just right for you. You look like a regular old Halloween lady. Better call you “Jackie”. Lord, it’s dark. That’s the worst part of the fall. Gets so dark so early. Cold, too. Should put you out on the balcony, Jackie. The better to save you, my dear. But save you for what? Won’t be any trick-or-treaters this year. No goblins allowed here. Or witches, or pirates, or spacemen, or ghosts. Never mind. We’ll take you out to the balcony anyway. Such a spread of lights down there! Can see clear across the river to Port Huron. Just like being in an airplane living way up here. Remote. Cars in the parking lot look like those matchbox toys we used to buy for Paul… With her head tucked underneath her arm, she walks the bloody tower. Ah, you’re in fine voice tonight, Ellie Hunter. Keep this up and they’ll be sending for the men in white coats. Might be better off if they did. Madness, like misery, loves company. We had our miseries too, Harry and I. Lord, some of the fights we had! Wasn’t what you could call a smooth marriage. Kids coming along so late in life didn’t help matters. But one thing—we were always able to take each other for granted. I liked that. no matter what those so-called marriage counselors say against it. Nothing better in the world than having somebody you can always take for granted. Real security, that. Crime the way so many marriages are breaking up today. Sure didn’t think he’d be the one to go first. Two years younger than me and 31

all. How he used to razz me about that! Bothered me no end when we were first married. Lots of things bothered me then. Always wanted everything just so. Always too damned anxious to please. Wanted to be liked, I guess. Not sure I ever was though. Wouldn’t be much left of a person if she were to fall from this height. Nothing but a lump on the parking lot pavement. A well-lit lump under that row of lights. Wearing my black funeral hat. Dramatic… Wonder if Susan will ever marry. She seems happy enough with Grant the way things are. Lord, when I think of how scandalized by that I’d have been years ago! Suppose part of me still is. What do you think, Jackie? Okay, you just go on resting your old orange head on the railing and saying nothing. You’re a good listener, I’ll say that for you. Yes, Susan’s happy. After all, she has that whole office full of girls to manage. To push around. No, that’s not fair. Susan’s been good to me, in her own way. Weren’t for me she’d probably have pulled up stakes and moved to Toronto long ago. She’s ambitious, Susan is. Can’t blame her for that. I was ambitious too. Always felt I had to make something out of myself, always a little on the defensive. Maybe I resented the fact Harry had a degree and I didn’t. But I did all right for a girl who started out on a dirt-poor farm. Didn’t exactly shake the entire teaching profession. But did all right, just the same. Normal school was considered a good education for a girl in my day. Teachers get away with murder today. Lord, when I think of how we had to mind our P’s and Q’s! Susan’s thirty-eight now. I was expecting Paul when I was her age. Except she’s fat and I’m thin, guess we’re alike in a lot of ways. Maybe that’s why we don’t get along. They say that happens when two people are too much alike. Opposites attract; like repels. But that doesn’t add up when it comes to Paul. We’re not a bit alike yet he’s moved as far away from me as it’s possible to get. Why does your son hate you so much, Mrs. Hunter? Never forget the time one of his friends got drunk and asked me that. But Paul was only eighteen then. He’s a grown man now. He has teenagers of his own. He must understand why I wouldn’t let him buy that motorcycle. Never can tell what Paul’s thinking. A good-looking man, but somehow a totally inexpressive face. Why does your son hate you? That question has haunted me for years. Mea Culpa. No doubt I protected him too much…in too many ways. And all I succeeded in doing was breaking his spirit. Getting windy out here. Windy and cold. Dark wind brushing my cheeks, tugging at my hair, seems to be pulling me closer and closer against the railing, drawing me with it over the very edge. What was that old soap opera I used to watch? The Edge of Night. That was it. That’s where I am now. At the edge of night. And life’s nothing but a soap opera after all. Maybe I didn’t break Paul’s spirit. Maybe he didn’t have all that much spirit to begin with. Nice thought, that. If I’m not a ball-breaker, I’m certainly a bitch. I can remember a time when I wouldn’t have dared even to think such words. World’s changed so much. Either go along with it or…

or what? or jump… small loss, after all. One entirely superfluous old white-haired lady with a sore nose and an aching shoulder… No. I can’t do that to Susan. Or Paul. Maybe I’ve made mistakes, but I’ve always done the best I could with what I knew at the time. Nobody gets a trial run at parenting. Right, Jackie? Besides there are still things to be enjoyed: winter children to watch at play, spring blossoms to smell, music to listen to, still so much. Better to struggle on with whatever time I have left. But I can’t struggle on here. Have to be my own person again. Die in the saddle as it were…in my own kitchen. Better still, in my garden. Anyway, who knows? Could live another ten years. Fear’s what I have to kill. Fear and indecision. And tired old ladies with sad eyes and drooping mouths. Good-bye, Jackie. Now that’s littering. One dead pumpkin down below. In a black velvet hat. Forgot about that. Never mind. Never liked that hat anyway. Now to call Susan. She’ll be surprised to hear I’m going home. She’ll argue like mad. But I am going home. For better or worse, I am going home.

ISBN – 978-1-897475-44-7

ISBN – 978-1-897475-91-1

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Morgan Wade’s Bottle and Glass, edited by award-winning novelist Helen Humphreys, is his second novel. It has been adapted into an immersive, sitespecific play that sold out at the 2016 Kingston Writers Fest and will run again in the spring of 2018. Morgan's first novel, The Last Stoic, also edited by Helen Humphreys, was long-listed for the ReLit Prize. His short stories and poems have been published in Canadian literary journals and anthologies, including, The New Quarterly and The Nashwaak Review. He attended the Humber School of

Writing and worked with mentor Michael Helm. He lives and writes in Kingston, Ontario.

Bottle and Glass Bottle and Glass is a historical novel set in Kingston in 1814 and the city’s historic inns and taverns play a central role in the story that unfolds. Kingston was a rough frontier town 200 years ago. Distilleries and breweries were the most common industrial establishments. One traveller in the mid-1830’s says that two thirds of the people he passed on the road were drunk. You couldn’t get life insurance if you were a teetotaler. In 1812, when Kingston had a population of 2200 plus 1500 soldiers, it had about 80 taverns; taverns with evocative names like The Old King’s Head, The Black Bull, and Mother Cook’s. The novel is structured so that each chapter takes the title of a historic Kingston tavern and each tavern is featured in the chapter in some significant way. The novel’s title is taken from the infamous watering hole, “Violin, Bottle, and Glass.” Impressment was another feature of 1814 life. Men were often held aboard ships against their will, for up to 11 years, never being ashore once in all that time. Sometimes, when they did get 24 hours of shore leave, they would have 70 or 80 pounds of accumulated pay to spend and they would spend it all in one debauched night. Bottle and Glass begins with the story of two young men getting impressed into the Navy and getting shipped to crude, tavern-strewn Kingston.

Glasses and bottles trembled. Hobnails clattered against the broad rib of granite shaping the moor, resonating through the inn’s foundation, up dry-rotted posts, and along scuffed oak planks. Miniature cat’s paws, a mariner’s telltales, ruffled the surface of swanky-filled mugs. 35

Jeremy Castor launched the heavy boom of his right leg out from his stool and swiveled, looking for his cousin. Momentum caused him to lose his balance and he compensated by clapping his left hand down. His vessel capsized and the brew gathered in sweet, viscous pools around his fingers. Merit Davey had just staked a guinea on the crude anchor etched into the table and he had his right arm raised above his head. A sunken, toothless man sitting across from him stared up at the fist, as though anticipating a blow. Merit held no weapon; he wielded a pair of pig’s knuckles of his own fashioning, slightly weighted. They favoured the anchor; not the crown. Never the crown. When Merit heard Jeremy slap the bar he turned abruptly, jouncing his blond curls. The cousins held each other’s gaze for an instant. From Jeremy’s expression, Merit immediately understood that the pressers would soon be upon them. And Jeremy saw in Merit’s face what amounted to an apology. “Best be out the back, lads” said the innkeeper, as he calmly opened a narrow door behind the bar. Merit turned back to the table and the gummy grin of the banker. Again, he raised his fist. “Merit!” Jeremy stood, overturning his stool. Merit squeezed his eyes, thrust the dice back into his trousers and ran toward the door. He was at the threshold when he remembered his stake. “My guinea!” Jeremy’s hand, wide as a fluke, spread across Merit’s back and propelled him through the opening. The banker wheezed as he salvaged the abandoned coin. The cousins tumbled out from the back of the tavern onto the moor just as the press gang mobbed through the front. A newly backing wind high above had corralled the clouds, wrung them of their moonlight, and condensed them into a low ceiling of damp wool. Shafts of yellow from the tavern’s windows reached into the gloaming. Jeremy clutched at Merit’s neck. “Nowhere to hide,” he said, breathless. “What have you done to us?” Five men stamped across the granite lobby of the tavern, making their contribution to the scuff that had worn and polished it dismal black. These men were unemployed miners from the nearby villages of Gweek and Goonhusband. For one reason and another, they were no longer fit for the mines, no longer fit for much of anything beyond snaring other young men for the Royal Navy. They were squat, meaty, rooted to the ground; thick in every sense of the word, made confused and irritable by the lead that dusted their lungs and clotted their blood. “Even’ to you Da,” one of them called Biscuit said through a curled lip, “a fine sty you run here.” The bartender mopped at the spilled beer on the bar and said nothing. 36

“I’s told two fishermen been by. You seen em Da? You seen em?” The bartender shook his head. “Who’s swanky you sponge Da?” Biscuit took the innkeeper by his suspenders and pulled them in left and right across his throat. “May have been,” the old man whispered, raising clouded eyes, “maybe it was they.” It took about fifteen minutes for Jeremy and Merit to reach the tor. A whiff of ammonia told them it was near. Far off they could hear the rustle of feathers and the ticking of talons on rock, but could see nothing. They crouched down, shoulder to shoulder, panting, looking back in the direction they came. With the woolen sky absorbing the soft spill of moonlight, nothing could be discerned across the moor. Narrow slits, emanating from the windows of the distant tavern, stared back at them like a pair of beastly eyes. For several minutes, there was only the sound of their breathing as they began, slowly, to uncoil. Merit was the first to break the silence. “’Tis a pity about my guinea, though,” he said softly. “Mer?” Jeremy whispered, after a time. “Aye.” “Where’s your special die? Can I see it?” “Why?” “I’d like to grind it beneath my heel.” “You’ll not have it,” Merit said. “It’ll lay a golden egg yet.” They were quiet again for several more minutes. “I’m sorry Jem,” Merit said, finally. “Truly I am. It was a hair short of prudent, I see that now.” “But I think we’re out of the soup now Jem,” Merit said. “It’s looking all clear. I don’t see a thing. Can’t hear nothing but the choughs.” Jeremy wasn’t fooled by his cousin’s bravado. He’d witnessed the same performance many times. It wasn’t the first near scrape that his cousin had inflicted on them both. And he knew on this occasion, like all the others, that despite his hopeful words, Merit’s own heart palpitated and his breathing was fast. Jeremy reached over and engulfed Merit’s knee in his palm, bringing the bouncing to a halt. His cousin, startled, looked back. He smiled, pried Jeremy’s hand from his knee, and kissed the top of it. And then he whooped. The lights at the tavern had been extinguished. “They’re gone! Packed in for the night.” He whooped again. “We’re clear!” Jeremy buried his enormous fist deep into Merit’s ribs, pounding the air from his lungs. Merit convulsed and clutched at his side. Jeremy peered around the granite outcropping. 37

Nothing. “Jackass,” he said with a hot whisper. He could no longer see the tavern. Night had foreshortened the overcast moor. No shapes. No sounds. Just a swishing of feathers. And another. And then a dozen. Jeremy turned to see five stocky shadows emerge from the crags behind them. “We was given up hope until we heard the hollerin’,” one of them said, dully. “Ain’t it funny,” another said, without a hint of amusement, “how wise the old owl seems until he opens his pecker and hoots?” The last image Jeremy Castor recalled of that evening was the row of studs in the bottom of the miner’s boot. Hard leather against the bridge of his nose. Hobnails. Short tacks with thick heads.

ISBN – 978-1-897475-63-8

ISBN – 978-1-927725-19-1

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Ivy Reiss brings Canada The Artis Compared to some of us old fogies, Ivy Reiss is a relatively new mover and groover in the Canadian art, literature and cultural world. Stand back and watch for her rise to the top. Not only is she a contributing art and culture writer and editor for LuxuryGlobe media and the founding publisher and Editor-in-Chief of the new quarterly lit and art magazine, The Artis, but she is a writer in her own right. Her first collection of poetry will launch in the spring of 2018. Ivy has been writing and performing poetry for 15 years, has been a Featured reader at numerous events, including the prestigious Toronto ArtBar twice and featured on CIUT fm Howl Radio. She has also been hosting lit events and book launches in the GTA for over 5 years, including the successful Lit Café reading series in Oakville, Ont, which was Featured on Cogeco Cable’s Arts Matter program in April 2013. Ivy has travelled to over 15 countries and lived abroad. She is currently writing about her experiences living with the Inuit in Nunavut. ‘The Artis’ magazine is a new quarterly publication focused on the 905 area and the 45+ age demographic. The magazine launched April 12th 2017 to great reviews! You can find The Artis at:

www.theartismagazine.com. 39

Photograph by Richard M. Grove

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