“Beckoning” by Angela Varghese

 

Like the scent of a rose that beckons the bumblebee
This blank page calls out to me

Like a dance
that moves and twirls
These words that choose
To waltz and whirl
Around inside my head to see
If they come tumbling out from me

Onto the page
push and pull
words will be
sharp or dull
tug of war
back and forth
find the image
evoking more

thinking, writing
rearranging
words into sentences
then back again
to the beginning
so it goes
never quitting
always fitting
words together
this is pleasure
beckoning
almost there…..almost
then back again

***

Angela Varghese lives in Oakville; she has four children who are all grown up now and have become adults.  It took 27 years.  This now leaves her time to write and take Brian Henry’s writing classes.

***

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

 

“Tell Him Now” by Valerie Clark

 

Grace looked up towards the ridge just eighty feet ahead of her with trepidation. Should she tell him now that she was ending their relationship? Colin, her partner of five years, had insisted they come on this trip, specifically to hike The Old Man of Storr on the Isle of

Skye. She had been hesitant at first to say yes, but her love of Skye had made her selfish decision an easy one. They were hoping this trip would change the tumultuous direction the relationship seemed to be headed. Already though, it was clear this trip wasn’t going to save them.The flight from Toronto to Scotland had been a bumpy one, both in terms of weather and Colin’s mood swings. It seemed as soon as he got on the flight, he became sullen, fidgety and refused to look at her.

Turning from the window in the hopes of getting his attention, she asked, “Are you O.K.? You seem withdrawn and far away again. Is there something you want to talk about? Do you want me to get you anything? Please talk to me!”

He grabbed her wrist and squeezed so hard it made her cry out. She noticed heads turn in their direction.

“Stop it Colin, that hurts! Why did you do that? People are staring.”

He looked at her and said, “I have a lot on my mind, and you’re pissing me off with your nagging questions. Take a nap!”

On edge for the rest of the flight, she watched his reflection in the plane window and wondered how long she could endure this.

It was early morning when they finally landed in Inverness, after a quick transfer in Edinburgh. Having slept on the plane, Colin seemed refreshed and told her to stay put while he booked the car rental. With a spring in his step, he came back to where she was standing.

“I can’t wait to get on the road, drop our stuff at the B & B in Portree and get out in the country air for the hike up Storr. I really need this!”

“Are you kidding me! We’ve had four hours of sleep in the last eighteen hours, and you want to do a hike?” Let’s take the day to settle in, get something to eat and go tomorrow.”

He grabbed her arm and moved her towards the car pick up que. “Get in!”

Rubbing her arm, Grace looked out the window as the car flew by fields of blooming heather. The vast open landscape had a dark Moorish mystery about it, but its beauty still took her breath away.

She had been coming to Scotland since she was a child and it never stopped to make her feel like this country was a part of who she was. This had to be the perfect place to tell Colin that they just weren’t right for each other. A gentle goodbye in a gentle landscape or so she kept telling herself.

Looking back over their time together, his behaviour had become more erratic and unpredictable. His angry outbursts when she didn’t agree with him, were getting worse. His nonstop comments about family and friends having too much influence on her seemed to be on a daily loop.  She was losing herself with the constant criticism of how she looked and what she wore. His touch was no longer gentle and wearing extra clothing to cover the bruises had become the norm. The escalation was scaring her, and the shame kept it secret.  

After booking into the B & B, Colin was quick to get Grace back to the car, still with no explanation as to why they had to do the hike now.  The silence and tension as they drove was almost suffocating.

The parking sign for The Old Man of Storr came out of nowhere, and nearly missing it, Colin turned into the half empty parking lot and shut off the ignition.

He jumped out of the car, leaning in to say, “Let’s go, before it starts to rain, and don’t forget your backpack with the camera.” 

Grace sat for a bit, and without a word, grabbed the bag and let the camera slide to the floor, leaving it behind. There wasn’t going to be anymore pictures of the two of them. It should only be a three-hour hike in good weather but following the outline of the Old Man of Storr on the ridge, she saw the mist rolling in and knew the elements would not be on their side.

It was a spectacular rock formation, created from landslides millions of years ago, rising 160 feet above the landscape. Legend had it that a giant once lived there, and when he was buried, part of his thumb remained high above ground to remind everyone he was still there.

Her Grandmother had told her this story countless times throughout her life.  She could almost hear that beautiful rhythmic accent saying, “Lass, you must always be like the giant. Never let anyone try to change you, and always keep who you are above ground for the world to see. You’ll understand one day, my love.”

What would her wee gran think of her now!

Looking skyward again, she shivered. The wind had suddenly picked up and the air felt heavy with the threat of rain. Within minutes, it seemed the sky changed. She couldn’t see the top of the ridge as the mist began to move in.

Colin snapped, “Let’s get going.”

He started walking briskly up the path in front of her. His pace was fast, and she had a hard time keeping up with him. Shortly after their start it began raining lightly, and she was concerned about tripping on the path. 

They passed hikers who were turning back before they reached the top. Some yelled out to them that it was unsafe at the top because of the poor visibility and slippery rocks. Colin just waved them on, assured Grace they would be fine, and kept walking. Visibility got worse and the rocks were becoming slippery, but she followed like a lost sheep. 

Grace looked back behind her but couldn’t see any hikers on their way up. The ridge finally came into view, so she decided to stop and catch her breath and get a good look at what was in front of her. With impending dread, she realized that Colin had passed between “The Old Man” and the small pinnacle behind it, and he was lost to her view.

“Why is he doing this?” she whispered to herself.

  He’d read the hiking guide and knew this was off limits because it was too steep, too slippery, and too dangerous. In the distance, she could barely make out his voice calling her name. As she walked forward his voice grew louder.

“Hurry up, Grace, let’s get some selfies before the mist blocks us in. You should see the view on the other side of the formation. Come quickly!”

Her feet felt like lead as she moved tentatively towards his voice. Her heart was pounding, and her breath felt like it was exploding in her lungs with each step, but she kept moving. Grace reached the pass and slowing moved around the pinnacle and abruptly came to a stop.  Colin was standing as still as a starless night, directly in front of her, and dangerously close to the edge.

He moved suddenly to grab her. She looked up at his face. His eyes looked dead and cold as ice, with lips drawn back tightly.  In that instant, Grace knew that he knew. He knew she didn’t love him anymore and wanted to leave. With sudden horror, she understood what he wanted to do. Time seemed to stand still. With every ounce of strength in her body she pushed violently on his chest. His face registered shock as he stumbled backwards trying to grasp at thin air to stop the momentum of the fall. She watched him disappear over the ridge.

There was no scream, which surprised Grace, just the noise of cascading rocks that seemed to go on forever. She had no idea how long she stood there, unable to move. What Colin didn’t know, thought Grace, was that she’d known what she was going to do. From the moment she got out of the car, she’d known.

***

Valerie Clark has just recently retired and continues to look for the next great adventure. With many Habitat for Humanity house builds under her belt, she is hoping to continue doing volunteer work and spending more time with her grandchildren. She loves a good mystery and can never get enough of Scotland, her home away from home.  

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

Canadian publisher Second Story Press seeks adult and kid lit, fiction and nonfiction, new authors welcome

Bernice and the Georgian Bay Gold
by Jessica Outram
published by Second Story

Second Story Press

20 Maud Street, Suite 401
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
M5V 2M5

https://secondstorypress.ca/

Second Story Press is a Canadian feminist press. They publish a mix of fiction and nonfiction, with books for all ages: from babies up to adults. They look for manuscripts dealing with the many diverse and varied aspects of the lives of girls and women, and those that fall under the banner of social justice and children's empowerment.

Like everyone else, Second Story is particularly looking for authors and illustrators from communities that have traditionally been underrepresented in books, including creators who are Indigenous, Black, people of colour, people with disabilities and members of the LGBTQIA+ community.

Second Story focusses on Canadian authors (either citizens or permanent residents of Canada who are currently living in Canada), and almost all their authors are women.

Second Story does not publish poetry, short story collections, traditional romance novels, rhyming picture books, or books with anthropomorphized animals. They require non-sexist, non-racist, and non-violent stories.

In your query letter, include a brief biography, a brief summary of your book, and why you’re the best person to write it. For all juvenile work, identify the intended audience / age range for your book. Consider how your book fits into Second Story’s list, how it’s different from similar or competing titles published by Second Story or any other press, and how your book fits into the marker; i.e., who is it written for?

What Kids Did by Erin Silver
published by Second Story

Include a C.V. with information about any relevant work, previous publishing credits, and academic history (where applicable) particularly for nonfiction. If you don’t have any publishing credits, don’t worry. Second Story happily publishes new authors. Please include information about any social media presence you have. 

Include a synopsis of your work (500 words maximum).

Adult Fiction and Nonfiction: Send the first three chapters.

Children’s/Teen Books: Send the first three chapters.

Children's Picture Books: Please send the entire manuscript. You do not need to include illustrations if you are not a professional illustrator.

Email your submission to: submissions@secondstorypress.ca

Format the subject line thus: ADULT/JUVENILE FICTION/NONFICTION, AUTHOR NAME, PROJECT NAME; e.g.: Juvenile nonfiction, Erin Silver, What Kids Did

Your query letter may be in the body of your email, but attach your C.V., synopsis, and sample chapters as a Word document or a PDF.

Please note that it can take a period of 7–10 months to receive a response.

Illustrators:

Second Story accepts portfolios only from Canadian illustrators. Please send samples of your work and a C.V. either by mail or by e-mail to illustrators@secondstorypress.ca

Please put Attn: Illustrator’s Portfolio on the package or in the subject line. 

See Second Story's full submission guidelines here.

If you're interested in writing for children or for young adults, join us for a weekly class this summer (see here) or in the fall (see here).

And don't miss pour upcoming one-day Kid Lit workshops with an editor from a children's pubilished and weekly classes, see here.

And check out upcoming How to Get Published workshops here.

Check out upcoming writing retreats here {and scroll down - because there's usually more than one)

See all of Brian’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

Navigation tips: Always check out the Labels underneath a post; they’ll lead you to various distinct collections of postings. For more children’s and young adult publishers, see here {and scroll down}. For book publishers in general, see here {and scroll down}.

“Spooning” by Kathy McHarge

 

My son was in the market for a charcuterie board, of all things. It was his girlfriend’s birthday, and he wanted to give her a carved block of wood you place meat and cheese on when guests come over for a drink. I thought it was an odd gift, but I didn’t say so. To me, it seemed unnecessary to own a kitchen board that looks like a giant ping pong paddle. I’ve never owned such a board, and I’ve only heard of them recently. Any time I’ve ever served cheese, I used a plain old plate or a platter if I got fancy.

I wouldn’t even know where to buy a charcuterie board. Are there stores that have a charcuterie board section nestled beside the display of seafood forks? Or do you happen to find the charcuterie board of your dreams when you’re walking the aisles looking for a new non-stick frying pan that won’t try to covet your scrambled eggs? But my son didn’t have to go on a quest to find a new home for his girlfriend’s brie. As luck would have it, one of his friends who is a carpenter by trade had a side gig at a local craft fair where he was selling wooden coasters, art pieces, and yes, charcuterie boards.

We had to pay an entrance fee to the fair just to look at the wide assortment of boards. There were short ones, long ones, and ones that were carved in the shape of a fish. My son must have been thinking of impressing his girlfriend when he picked out one of the biggest boards in blonde wood with a sleek handle and a natural swirling pattern created by darker grains. When I told my son it looked like a feather was imprinted in the wood, he was sold. The whole process took only minutes.

I wanted to get my money’s worth, so I informed my son that we were going to walk around the fair to have a look at the other stalls. He agreed without complaint even though the board was cumbersome and heavy to carry. There were food vendors selling maple syrup, baked goods, and honey. There were customized T-shirts, scented candles, purses made from jeans, and creepy dolls that seemed to be inspired by Elf on the Shelf. But the stalls that captured my interest were the ones featuring handmade jewellery. I found myself lingering at one stall that had trays of silver rings organized by size. I noticed that they were all different and surprisingly substantial looking. When I picked one up to try it on, a woman came over to tell me all the rings were made from spoons.

I thought I misheard. “Did you say spoons, like the ones we eat with?” She then explained that she acquires old spoons, cuts off the bottom portion of the handle containing the pattern, and then bends them into rings. I was duly impressed, deciding in that moment that the woman would now be known as the artisan. I had to have a spoon ring, if not for its value, for its novelty. It figured it would be a great conversation piece. 

My search for a spoon ring began in earnest. I wanted something attractive, but not something that screamed “spoon.” I wanted all my anticipated spoon ring admirers to be able to see the ring first and the spoon second, as if looking at one of those popular optical illusions containing two images. 

I also wanted the ring to fit. Apparently, when you’re bending spoons, you cannot be sure what size the ring will be. Some rings had ridges you would expect to find at the bottom of a spoon, but they were, well, too spoony. I liked the one I found featuring Winston Churchill’s face, but the imprint was tiny, and you had to turn the ring sideways to make it out. 

And then it appeared as if calling my name. I found a ring with a stem that swept across a shiny silver surface with the flourish of a painter’s brush stroke. The stem was delicate at one end and then gently widened at the other. It culminated with a very clear imprint of a lovely daffodil in full bloom. The ring wasn’t new but repurposed. It wasn’t made of precious metal but stainless steel. It wasn’t even circular in shape but more of a flattened oval. Still, somehow, it was beautiful, and my son, who knew I was smitten, offered to purchase it for me.

The artisan approved of my choice, telling me that it came from a flatware pattern called Daffodil. The name was so unimaginative, I thought she might have been joking, but after some research online, I learned she wasn’t. Daffodil was indeed the name of silver-plated flatware released by a company called 1847 Rogers Brothers. It was first produced in 1950, and the pattern was retired in 1973. So, not only did I acquire a spoon ring, but the flatware my spoon came from is vintage.

I’ve since thought about the years from 1950 to 1973 when the Daffodil pattern was popular. That was a long time ago. I know because I was born during those years that now seem so different from today, a more innocent time of setting a pretty table. I’ve wondered about all the hands that held my spoon before it was transformed, all the sugar bowls it was dipped into, all the cups of coffee and tea it stirred. And then there was the original owner of my spoon, someone who carried it as part of a gleaming new silverware set from a store to a home. 

Was it a woman who loved the pattern as much as I do? Maybe she was a woman of means who enjoyed entertaining. Or maybe she was simply a wife and mother who had an affinity for spring flowers. This thought reminded me of my own mother. I may have lived when Daffodil flatware appeared in kitchens and dining rooms, but that era really belonged to my mother who was raising seven children then. Interestingly, her favourite flower was the daffodil, and that is why it was etched onto her gravestone.

My son’s girlfriend received her charcuterie board the same day I received my daffodil spoon ring. Her magnificent board cost five times more than my humble ring. Yet, there was no way to distinguish between the utter delight we both experienced when we received our respective gifts. Hers was made of wood, mine of memories.

Kathy McHarge is a former teacher who is now experiencing retired life and all the possibilities of unstructured time. When she is not listening to audiobooks while walking her wily dog, Kathy is exploring new interests and getting reacquainted with erstwhile ones like creative writing. She enjoys writing poems and stories, agreeing with author Elizabeth Gilbert who said there is quiet glory in merely making things

 See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

Online Exploring Creative Writing class, Thursday evenings, July 13 – Aug 24

Exploring Creative Writing

 ~ Discovering your creative side

Online: Thursday evenings, 6:30 – 8:30 p.m.
July 13 – Aug 24, 2023.
Offered on Zoom and accessible from anywhere there's internet 

Note: “Writing Little Kid Lit” and “Intensive Creative Writing” are also on offer this summer. See details of all summer classes here.

This is your chance to take up writing in a warm, supportive environment. We’ll explore writing short stories and writing true stories, writing in first person and in third person, writing technique and getting creative, getting down your very best writing and just for fun writing. You’ll get a shot of inspiration every week and an assignment to keep you going till the next class. Best of all, this class will provide a zero-pressure, totally safe setting, where your words will grow and flower.

Instructor Brian Henry has been a book editor and creative writing instructor for more than 25 years. He publishes Quick Brown Fox, Canada's most popular blog for writers, taught creative writing at Ryerson University (now Toronto Metropolitan University) and has led workshops everywhere from Boston to Buffalo and from Sarnia to Saint John. But his proudest boast is that he has helped many of his students get published.   

Read reviews of Brian's various courses and workshops here (and scroll down).

Fee: $193.81 plus 13% hst = $219

To reserve your spot, email: brianhenry@sympatico.ca

See all of Brian’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here. 

“Pandora’s Box” by Jane Morgan

Swear to God, me and my sister Annie were always getting into trouble at school.  It’s not like we set out to be bad, but if you wanted to survive, there were some things you had to do, some lines that had to be crossed. We crossed them.

It was mostly routine stuff, if you know what I mean. Someone’s lunchbox going missing and showing up in either my backpack or Annie’s, following a crowd of kids to watch two champions sort it out in the back lanes, all of us silent witnesses to violence. And perhaps best not to mention the money we managed to persuade some of the younger kids to part with. 

Fact was, we were just two kids trying to keep under the radar in the tough old town of Lincolnborough, and if that meant running with the hare and the hounds at the same time, then yeah, we were going to do some questionable things.  Besides, it laid a strong foundation for what came afterwards, in the corporate world.  Stealing lunchboxes and watching kids beat each other to a pulp?  Believe me, that was nothing.

Most Sundays our Grannie would mind us in our house while Mam and Dad went to the pub. She called us her “Irish twins” ‘cos Annie and me were only 10 months apart and in thick with each other.  Sneaking about the house on a Sunday when our parents weren’t home was our God given right, least that’s how we saw it. Even though Grannie was downstairs, she was as deaf as a post and truly believed we were working on our science project. God bless her. 

In any case, those times we had free rein. Normally, we wouldn’t enter our parents’ bedroom when they weren’t there. It was strictly off limits, kind of like hallowed ground. If we were caught, we’d pay the price, one way or another, I was pretty sure of that. All the same, one Sunday, when they’d gone to the pub, we did. We just did.

First order of business was to dress ourselves a million which ways in hats, dresses and shoes, all from the bounty of Mam’s wardrobe. We took turns wobbling about the bedroom in her stiletto heels. Those things still scare the life out of me all these years later. 

And the hats? They were fun. I tried on an Audrey Hepburn style straw hat which was only just saved from looking like a lampshade by a deep blue ribbon, wrapped all around it.  Annie pranced around in a vintage pillbox hat. That style was the darling of the sixties. 

Anyways, it was on the same bedroom raid that we decided to delve into Mam’s jewelry box, gifted to her by her brother Roger, a merchant navy captain. Made from exotic Padauk wood that came all the way from the shores of West Africa, circles and arcs were ornately carved into its lid. 

Annie and me battled it out rock paper scissors style for who would have the honour of opening it. I won. I knew we shouldn’t have done it, that Mam had expressly forbidden us to go into their bedroom when they weren’t there, and that we’d crossed some sort of a line. She’d be absolutely furious if she knew we were snooping. But we did it and oh my, the reward far outweighed the risk.  

We were mesmerized by a tiny ornate ballerina wearing a silk tutu, the dusky colour of spun sugar, spinning around endlessly with hands held high. She looked like she wanted to do a highland fling right out of the jewelry box. I lost count of how many times we put that lid down and opened it two seconds later just for the sheer joy of seeing her twirl again and again to Strauss’s Blue Danube.  

We tried on every one of Mam’s bracelets, necklaces and broaches.  Anything in that box was fair game as we pranced in front of the mirror, admiring ourselves. What a way to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon. “Don’t forget to wind her up before we leave,” whispered Annie, “else Mam’ll know we’ve been here.”  And just as I was about to do as Annie suggested, I saw it. A tiny drawer next to the ballerina. So tiny I almost missed it. Almost.

Carefully teasing it open, I peered down at a rose gold ring which lay inside. So beautiful. So delicate.  I picked it up and held it to the light. To me it looked exactly like a wedding band. On the inside of the ring, the words “Barbara and Klaus” were engraved in the tiniest of letters. The problem was that although Barbara was our mother, Klaus was most definitely not our father. What on earth was going on here? Perhaps someone she’d met during the war?

That was the last time me and Annie ever poked around the house. Ever. One other thing I knew for sure. Something in the air had shifted. It would be years before I could speak to our mother about that ring. After all, Annie and me? We’d been trespassers on that rainy Sunday afternoon. Oh and the parent/teacher interviews? From that point onwards, they really picked up the pace.

***

Jane Morgan worked for several years at Aurora Public Library, and wasn’t sure which she enjoyed the most, the customers or the books. For someone who loves reading, it was her dream job, the only problem being the long walk home with all those books in her arms. Jane also enjoys music and plays guitar, mandolin and bodhran. 

 

 See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

 

“All I Needed Was the Girl” by Brian Lintner

 

Lessons were three times a week, 1900 – 2100 hours, after the galley-chow in the mess. Being at sea is busy – stalking, protecting, resupplying other warship vessels. Our empty hangar deck normally held two Sea King helicopters, but they had been grounded, again, in a state of perpetual repair. Our mission was submarine hunting. Yet, there were lags in operations. Long lags.

Our XO (Executive Officer) wanted to break the monotony of routine. Plus, he was preparing for his daughter’s wedding, his dance with the bride, and a celebration of families. He did not know any ah-one step, ah-two steps. He knew no steps, except how to march steps.

The Chief of the Boat, the Coxswain, was from a prairie oasis, where youthful Friday night dances taught him how to swing, jive, Lindy hop, and most importantly, how to waltz. His job included morale. During low-tempo lulls, the hangar was transformed into a dance studio. Equipment was cleared to the fringe, music piped in from the bridge. The Chief led. Men took their partners – other men. The XO danced with everyone. I danced with everyone.

We all learned ah-one step, ah-two steps, how to waltz steps.

After our six-month deployment and having returned home, all I needed was the girl.

***

Brian Lintner is a veteran and former corporate guy who loves good stories and word salads. He and his tolerant wife of 37 years have dragged their kids around Canada and overseas, and now live somewhere in the armpit of the Golden Horseshoe. When not writing, he is known to paint,  www.zendenart.ca and continues to pluck away at his ukulele, or occasionally babysit the grandkids.

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.