RCLAS Board of Directors

Nasreen Pejvack; Janet Kvammen; Antonia Levi; Sonya Furst-Yuen; Aidan Chafe; Dominic DiCarlo; Alan Girling;

Marianne Janzen

RCLAS Board Advisors: Sylvia Taylor; Renée Sarojini Saklikar

RCLAS Board Assistants: Deborah L. Kelly; Lisa Strong

3rd ANNUAL FRED COGSWELL AWARD FOR EXCELLENCE IN POETRY

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

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

First Prize: $500

Second Prize: $250

Third Prize: $100

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

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

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

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

Original date of publication falls between January 1, 2015 and December 31, 2015.

Book must be published in Canada.

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

Electronic books are not eligible.

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

George Fetherling is the judge for our 2016 Fred Cogswell Award For Excellence In Poetry.

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

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

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

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

with the reading fee (or proof thereof), and must be postmarked no later than October 1, 2016.

The society’s mailing address is:

Royal City Literary Arts Society

Fred Cogswell Award

Box #308 - 720 6th Street

New Westminster, BC V3L 3C5

Shortlist will be announced Oct 15, 2016.

Winners will be announced Nov 1, 2016.

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

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

Write On! Contest 2016

Fiction Winners & Honourable Mentions

4rd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2016

First Place Winner

Fiction

PUMPKINS

© Alvin Ens

“Checkers,” Grandpa advises, “Checkers will teach you all the really

important facts of life. When to be cautious, when to move in for the kill, when to

retreat, how to plan ahead. Really requires thinking, Boy. Sure, I wanna teach you.”

It is my mother’s idea. Visit my dying grandfather, talk to him, give him someone

to talk to. Play checkers with him.

Grandpa has come home to die—in his own house, he says. Surrounded by

family and familiarity—with enough care givers to administer the pain killers. And I

am co-opted to be a part of the care group.

Don ‘t get me wrong, I like my grandpa. But sitting with a dying man is not

my idea of fun.

I find the checker board and set it up beside him. “You play only on one

colour. Let’s choose the black. Ignore the red; half the world can be ignored.

“You win by being smarter than your opponent. Find a checker that got

ahead of the pack. Pounce on it. You know, I took a pumpkin once from Old

Florence like that. It grew on my side of the fence. I told her to keep her vines at

home. But she couldn’t be bothered. In midseason she discovered it among all the

greenery I’ve got around my compost box. But she couldn’t rescue it through the

page wire fence; would’ve meant cutting it from the vine early. So she left it.

About a week before the harvest festival I cut it and hid it. Was she ever mad that

I stole her pumpkin. Stole—nothing. I took what was growing on my side of the

fence. And that, after warning her. She hasn’t talked to me since. Florence, that’s

like the red squares. That’s half the world you can ignore. Play on the black

squares.”

It becomes my favourite time each day—come home from school and head

out to Grandpa’s. I learn to give up one to take two, to trade one for one and await

my chance. “Patience,” Grandpa advises, “Patience is what wins games.”

“Grandpa,” I ask one fine spring day when I have seen Florence in her

garden, “How about I make your garden for you this year?”

“Nah, better not. Might get in Old Flo’s hair. She’s already got a bee in her

bonnet.”

“Aw, Grandpa,” I declare, “She plays on the red squares; I’ll just play on the

black ones. Town’s having a pumpkin contest at the harvest festival, you know.”

“Florence’ll enter. You think you can beat her?” he offers. “Mighty big

pumpkin I took from her. Time to dig up the soil and turn in the compost. Use a

spade, not a garden fork, like Old Florence.”

I find the spade in his garden shed and begin my work. True to form, Florence

comes to her side with a fork and begins loosening her soil. I say, “Hi there. How

are you doing?”

“The old buzzard sent you to spy on me? How come he’s not out here?”

I tell her my grandpa has cancer and I’m filling in for him.

“Your granddaddy grows a mighty fine garden every year. Cancer of what? ”

“Stomach,” I answer. “How come you’re using a fork, not a spade?”

“Oh, that’s curable. Isn’t it? Lost my spade two, three years ago.”

I volunteer, “I’ll let you use Grandpa’s. Turns the compost under, you know.”

“I don’t need nothin’” She retorts.

“I’ll just set it by the fence here then.” I offer.

“How much is the old coot paying you?” Florence asks.

“We’re doing it together,” I reveal to her. “He provides the brains; I supply

the muscles.”

“Ought to be the other way around,” she retorts. “His brain ain’t too good.”

“Sometimes you give up one to take two.” Grandpa advises me. “Make two

hills for the pumpkins,” he instructs. “Then on each hill, place the black sheathing

of the planter buckets. Face them away from Florence’s view. Makes her wonder

what you’re up to. She thinks I’ve been planting seeds, and I’m protecting ‘em.

Then nip down to Early’s Nursery and buy bedding stock... Lazy Susan or Golden

Boy or some such variety... plant ‘em when she’s not lookin’ ... and store the

sheathing for another year. Voila, you’ve grown plants, she thinks.”

“What kind you going with? How’s your granddaddy doing?” Florence fires.

“Them fences make any difference?”

“I stutter, “He’s dying . Just seeds. Warms the soil.”

One day she asks, “Your seeds up yet?”

“No.” I attest, “I’ve been wondering if it’s time.”

“Mine all came up. Got a few extra. Care to have em? Got a second prize

with em last year. Red Delilahs,“ she volunteers.

I take two and crown each hill.

From his bed, Grandpa asks, “What kind of pumpkins we going with this

year?”

I scurry to the end zone to crown my king. “Red Delilahs,” I answer.

“Never heard of ‘em,” he states, “They grow big?”

“Yep. They’re prize winners.”

“Well, don’t let the old biddy know,” he rejoins. “How’s her pumpkins

doing?”

“About as big as ours,” I answer.

“Lots of time yet,” he advises. “Just watch who gets the first blossom.”

One fine June day I announce, “Gramps, our pumpkins are blooming. Got

one huge orange blossom and several big knots ready to open.”

“At a boy, Julian. Bet Old Flo is jealous. Tell her it’s Red Delilahs. That

you’ll give her a couple of seeds come fall.”

One day I ask Florence, “What’re you doing?”

“Weed wacking,” she says. “This is a grass whip. You ought to whip around

your compost box. I can lend you my whip.”

“I don’t need nothin,” I say, trying desperately to pull the thick growth of

grass and weeds.

“I’ll just set it by the fence here then.” She answers.

“What you been doing, Boy?” Grandpa asks.

“Oh, cleaning up the weeds along the compost box. Why do they call it

compost anyway?”

“Never thought about it. Weeds decomposes, turn back to soil. Decompose

equals compost. Makes something good of the weeds. That’s your job, Boy. Keep

weeding the garden. Florences’s vines sticking through the fence? Tell her it’s okay

to let her vines grow.”

One summer’s day finds me composting mopishly.

“What’s the matter, Boy?” inquires Florence. “Look at the size of my

pumpkins. You tell Old Grumps you can’t possibly win the harvest festival. Look

at this fella, must be four inches in diameter.”

“I was just thinking I never did show Gramps the blossoms and now they ‘re

all gone. And he won’t live to see ‘em next year.”

The blossom in the drinking glass that you see on his night-table—it came

from Florence’s garden. She thought it wouldn’t likely win a prize. He might as well

see it. I am to say it is a Red Delilah. That I picked it myself.

When I’m a grandpa, I’ll teach my grandchildren to grow pumpkins. You

learn all the important facts of life from pumpkins, to play on the blacks and the

reds.

4rd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2016

Second Place Winner

Fiction

METAPHOR FOR AN APPLE

© Susan Cormier

Eve didn’t want to share the apple. Adam just walked in on her at the wrong

time.

Adam was a great guy, as far as guys went -- when he was the only guy in

existence. But Adam was either overwhelmed or under-motivated or deadlines had

not yet been created, because Adam did everything – later. And God saw

everything.

So God created sleep and while Adam rested He pulled from Adam’s side a

bloodied rib, wrapped it in stardust and palm leaves, and He created Eve.

And when Adam awoke, he said, “My God! You have created such beauty!”

And he kissed Eve and thanked her for existing, then turned on the television. And

God saw everything.

And God said, “Adam, I give you this world and all the creatures in it. Your

job is to name them.”

And Adam named the stallion, the cock (you know, the rooster), the beaver

– then sat down to watch TSN, citing plenty of time in tomorrow’s schedule. And

God saw everything.

Eve rolled her eyes, sighed, stirred some leaves in a teacup, analyzed the

layout of the stars, and systematically created a lexicon of all the animal’s names.

She gave them each a scientific name of Latin origin, a common name for daily

reference, and a nickname to keep herself amused. She named jackrabbit, unicorn,

eagle; she named hyena, bullfrog, earthworm. When she grew tired and uninspired,

she named white-tailed deer, red-winged blackbird, and duckbilled platypus.

When she took a break and saw that all the dishes were stacked dirty in the

sink while the television was blaring sports stats and scores so loud it had knocked

all the unopened bills onto the unvacuumed floor, she slammed the door and

named three-toed sloth, yellow-bellied sapsucker, and dung beetle. And after three

years, two months, and a day-and-a-half of naming things, even though God saw

everything, given the current world population of two not one person said thank

you or offered to brush her hair, so she named the weeping willow and sat down at

its feet.

And God saw her solitude and He plucked a knot of muscle from her back

and three hairs from her head and mixed them with some water from last night’s

rain, and created a green-skinned man with oddly-shaped eyes.

The green man sat down at the foot of the willow tree just a little too close

to Eve, and he smiled.

“Have I named you yet?” she asked. “You are so beautiful.”

The green man shook the last of the rainwater from his ears just in time to

hear the last word. He stared hard at her and repeated, “Beautiful.”

“You look so familiar,” Eve said. “Are you Mustang?”

The green man replied, “Beautiful.”

“Are you Eagle?” Eve asked.

The green man glanced at her broken fingernails, calloused hands, bruised

knees, and dirty feet, and he looked her hard in the eye and said, “Beautiful.”

“I knew you well," Eve said, “In another religion. You were Osiris, I was

Isis. You were busy burning cities, I was busy burning bridges. You were Janus, I

was Janis: two halves of the same coin looking in opposite directions. How dare

you bring your pagan influence into this new mythology?”

And the green man smiled and said nothing. He was the last creature left to

be named, so Eve named him Serpent, for that was the last name left. And God

saw everything.

And God caused an apple to be grown on the branch above their heads.

And Serpent climbed the tree with still-moist legs and hands that knew no remote

control. He offered the apple to Eve.

And Eve knew that the apple held all the answers to all the questions she’d

left unasked. Like, “How many dishes must I wash before my hands are clean

enough for someone to hold? If my body was pulled from someone’s ribcage, does

that mean my heart must belong to them? How many names must I give away

before someone gives me one of my own?”

Eve held the apple in both hands, pressed it to her lips, touched its skin with

the tip of her tongue, opened her mouth –

And said, “Adam! I got this for” – she held the apple out to him – “you.”

Adam took the apple from her hand, polished it against his arm, and sank

his teeth into its skin. Looked at Eve. Looked at Serpent. Looked at Eve again. He

knew.

And we all know how this story ends.

Serpent was torn limb from limb – or rather, his limbs were torn from him –

and his tongue was split like Satan so that whenever a woman walked by all he

could say was a low moaning hiss.

And God said, “Eve, for your transgression I condemn you to a life of anger

and mediocrity. Your household will be silence, and dust, and misery. All the evil of

the world will be blamed on you. You sons will create murder, and lies, and war.

Your daughters will avoid snakes and be taught without explanation to fear strange

men with beautiful eyes, and you and your girls will bleed, and bleed, and bleed.”

Because God sees everything. And God apologizes for nothing.

4rd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2016

Third Place Winner

Fiction

THEY’RE ALL UP IN THE HILLS

© Marion Iberg

Marlene set her drink down on the picnic table and eyed the thin trail to the

outhouse. She furrowed her brows. The small building sat on top of a knoll, a

distance too far away for her liking.

Marlene and her husband Dal were visiting their Kelowna friends, Rob and

Janet. That morning the four left in Rob’s boat. After an invigorating ride on

Okanagan Lake, they stopped for a relaxing picnic at Halfway Point, a remote area

accessible only by boat and large 4-wheel drive vehicles.

Marlene noticed the little green building when they first came ashore. “I’m

going to the outhouse,” she said, looking across the table at Rob. “There are no

rattlesnakes around here, are there?”

“No. They’re all up in the hills,” Rob said.

“You sure?”

“Yup, I’m sure. Won’t be any here.”

Marlene studied her friend’s face. Rob always joked around, but this time he

looked serious. Relieved, she hurried toward the path. She slowed down when she

overheard her husband.

“Hey Rob!” Dal chuckled. “Did I tell you about the time I had to rescue

Marlene from a tiny garter snake?”

“Nope, haven’t heard that one yet.”

“Well, she was on her way to the garden and this harmless little fellow

slithered across her foot…ha, ha, ha—”

Not that story again. Marlene’s eyes darkened when she glanced over her

shoulder. Her husband leaned back in his lawn chair, laughing. “It’s not funny,

Dal,” she yelled. “If I wasn’t in such a hurry I’d come back and clobber you.” I’ll

have to let that one go…for now.

Marlene glanced at the green building and started up the path, making sure

she stepped exactly in the centre of the narrow trail— just in case. Her eyes darted

from side-to-side, scanning the ground around the grasses and desert plants all the

way up the hill.

Finally. I made it. Marlene blew out a big breath as she pushed the door

open and stepped in. Moving to the right to make way for the door, she swung it

shut and latched it. She took a short step to the toilet and flipped up the lid. A

sound came from behind her.

Ta-ta-ta-ta…ta-ta-ta-ta- ta-ta-ta-ta…

Marlene stopped dead. Oh, no. A rattlesnake!

Eyes wide, she listened.

Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. The rattling kept on and on.

Marlene’s ears pounded. She struggled to breathe. She didn’t dare move, but

needed to know the exact location of the snake. A lump caught in her throat. I

have no choice but to turn around. Over the next minutes, in excruciatingly slow

motion, she turned to face the opposite direction.

Oh my god! Marlene sucked in some air to keep from passing out.

The rattlesnake lay coiled in the corner, barely two and a half feet from her

grey Sketchers. Its head hovered a foot above its thick body. Black eyes glared at

her. A dark red, forked tongue flashed in and out. The vibrating rattler poked

straight up.

Ta-ta-ta-t ta-ta-ta-ta.

Marlene needed to put distance between her and the rattlesnake. No use

climbing onto the toilet; the snake would still be within striking range. Keeping the

bobbing head in sight, she backed up. Inch by inch, she made her way alongside

the toilet and into the far corner. She crammed the back of her body into the

uncomfortable spot and waited.

Ta-ta-ta-ta…

Marlene drew in slow, silent breaths to calm her wild heartbeats and bring

strength to her shaking knees. She must not faint. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. At

least she had the corner to lean into for support. Please God, don’t let me pass out.

One minute… two minutes … The tongue slowed. The snake’s head and rattler

began to sink. Then at last, the head and tail dropped.

Marlene focused on her options. The door would make the most logical

escape route but a good portion of the reptile’s body lay beneath the latch side. A

metal post joined the concrete floor to the wooden wall at each corner, creating a

six inch space around the bottom of the outhouse. Part of the snake draped

through the gap, but there wasn’t a chance she’d fit under the wall. She could climb

through the window, an arm’s length away, if there was no screen. Her nail scissors

would be useful now, but they were in her purse on the picnic table. Marlene

looked up. There was no way to escape through the roof. She was trapped.

Through the screen, the hostage watched her boating partners at the picnic

table, talking and laughing—totally unaware she was in danger. How could she let

them know? They were a distance away. She would have to yell…loud, to be heard.

She glanced at the snake. Too risky. Surely one of the gang will wonder why I’m

taking so long and come to check on me.

Marlene looked longingly out the window. They’re so close, yet so far away.

And here I am, at the mercy of this monster. Will I make it out of here alive? Will I

ever see my family again? I am so scared. She closed her eyes while she waited to be

saved.

No one came.

Marlene’s eyes shot open when she came to an unsettling realization. I have

to save myself. And there is only one way out of this prison—the door.

Arm high and jaw set, she leaned forward and slowly reached over the snake

for the latch. Little by little, she moved her feet ahead, keeping her eyes on her

hand. The reptile might mistake eye contact as a challenge.

A tiny bit more…more… At last Marlene felt cool metal on her fingertips.

Without a sound she opened the latch.

Gradually, she pulled the door toward her, opening it as far as it would go.

Clinging to the top of the open door to keep balance, she moved each foot a toe

length at a time toward the hinge side of the doorway. She must not nudge the

rattlesnake; it shared the exit like a grouchy partner sharing a bed.

Hardly breathing, feet barely moving, she inched through her side of the

doorway. Maneuvering off the concrete floor, Marlene pulled the door shut

without making a noise.

At first, she took small steps. Then she walked slowly down the trail, careful

not to fall; her legs shook like Jell-O. When she got to the picnic table she

collapsed in a lawn chair.

“Good! You’re back.” Rob licked his lips. “Time to—”

“Only by the Grace of God. I could have died up there. You said there were

no rattlesnakes around here. There is one in the outhouse.”

“Oh ya, sure, Marlene.” Rob chuckled. “That’s a good one—nearly as good

as the garter snake story.”

“I’m telling you, there’s a rattlesnake in the outhouse.”

Rob and Dal grinned at each other.

“You’re kidding, right?” Janet looked at Marlene, her eyebrows raised.

“I’m not kidding. Go see for yourself.”

A deathly quiet surrounded the picnic table.

Dal was the first to speak. “We should shoo that snake out of there. I’ll just

get a stick and push him out so someone else doesn’t run into him.”

“You do that, Dal…and take Rob with you. You might need a little help.”

Marlene rolled her eyes at Janet.

Within minutes, the men were back.

Marlene stifled a grin when she saw their red faces. “So, is the snake gone?”

“Oh my god, Marlene, that’s a big one.” Dal’s eyes bulged. “I’m not

touching it. We’ll fix up a sign and attach it to the door.” He got some paper towel

and wrote with a pen, RATTLESNAKE INSIDE, and off the men went to the

outhouse.

By the time Dal and Rob returned, not a trace of the picnic lunch remained.

The table had been cleared and everything packed away in the boat. Marlene and

Janet waited in the back of the vessel.

“Hey, we haven’t eaten lunch yet.” Rob stood with his mouth open and

pointed at the bare table.

Dal patted his belly. “We’re hungry.”

“Too bad!” Marlene jabbed a thumb over her shoulder at the town across

the lake. “We’re all going to Peachland. We can eat there…after I find a

washroom.”

4rd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2016

Honourable Mention

Fiction

MASTERPIECE

© Valerie Adolph

My wife doesn’t know how I can see character in a piece of wood - how I

can look at a piece of rough rosewood and see the chess piece I can carve from it. I

can tell how it will look, its size and character and how I can make it match the

other pieces. It’s as plain as anything to me, like a language I understand. The

queen I’m starting to work on now, for instance. How could you not know that the

piece of rosewood I’m holding is feminine? I couldn’t possibly carve a knight or a

king from that.

It’s as if you were blindfolded and held someone’s hand. You would know if

it was a man or a woman, if they were tense or relaxed or hot or nervous. Wood is

alive with character, I think of it as being like human flesh. In my workshop I can

make wood look like flesh and blood, fully-clothed people and I can even show

their character. If you were to ask me what makes a piece of rosewood feminine I

would tell you it’s the feel of it, the colour, the grain. That other piece, over there

on your left, that’s masculine. It’s not only masculine, that piece, it’s regal. I’ll make

him the king.

I chose this house because of this room. I love this room, it has the best

light, year round that’s why I made into my workshop. From the moment I step

inside and inhale the wood scent I feel at peace. This is a room for creation.

In the twenty five or so years I’ve spent in here I’ve adapted to its smallness. After

all, it doesn’t take much space to work on the fine carving of chess pieces. It’s a

warm room and it smells of rosewood, even when my wife gets impatient with my

mess and sweeps the floor clean of all my shavings. Myself, I’d leave them – I think

I would feel part of the rosewood itself if I was ankle deep in shavings.

My wife doesn’t understand how I feel about this wood but she understands

people better than I do. She’s practical – well, I suppose one of us has to be. She

can tell right away if someone is no good or if there’s something about them that

makes her feel uncomfortable. She always knows who will pay and who won’t.

She doesn’t like Dr Wilson, for instance. She says there’s something odd

about him. I don’t understand why she thinks that. I know he’s not a real doctor,

just a professor over at the university, but for more than a year now he has often

come in to look at my chess pieces. I’ve even allowed him to follow me into my

workshop so he can watch me carving. He sits out of my way, quiet and still. I’m so

used to him that I hardly notice him anymore.

A few months ago he asked me to carve a special chess set for him. He

wanted a chess set that represented King Arthur’s court, He even had a name for it,

he called it his Camelot Scene.

I knew it would take a long time because first I had to research it carefully.

He brought me books from his library with pictures, pointed out the details of each

knight and told me stories about their character so my carvings could bring them to

life.

He didn’t quibble about the price. My wife quoted him a price that took my

breath away, saying it was because of all the extra work. He even paid me half up

front for it and he has paid a bit more each month. By the time I’m finished he’ll

have paid full price so my wife will be happy and I’ll have been proved right. What

can be wrong with him? He’s old, he’s a professor and he is paying up front. He

even stays silent while he watches me so he doesn’t distract me. It’s all good.

In truth I’d have charged him much less because this work is what I’ve

honed my skills towards for years. This is the first time I’ve been able to allow the

characters to enter my imagination fully and express themselves totally through my

hands. I know I will never have this opportunity again so I carve each figure slowly,

almost holding my breath. With this Camelot Scene I can achieve perfection. If my

tiny chisel slips or a detail displeases me I can discard that piece and create a finer

one that reflects the soul of the knight or the lady.

The golden rosewood I’m using yields to my detail chisel and starts to look

as if the queen is actually walking, strolling to meet a lover. When I touch the piece

I feel as if I am caressing it, caressing her. I hear a rustle and look up to see Dr

Wilson. He doesn’t disturb me, he sits down quietly on the wooden chair still

wearing his coat and hat. All day he watches my hands create the queen of

Camelot. He doesn’t try to hurry me. His shoulders are stooped and he never looks

at my face, he just stares down at the pieces of the chess set as they take form.

“Queen Guinevere.” he whispers one day. “You have her perfectly.”

I smile at her. Indeed even the lift of her eyebrow is perfect. I have carved the

Arthurian court as he has instructed me and I am almost finished. In the centre is

King Arthur, older and bearded. He has become almost like a friend and a couple

of times I’ve been tempted to ask him for advice. Lined up beside him are the

knights, almost identical, but not quite. Look closely enough and you can see Sir

Lancelot, the great swordsman but at heart impure, an adulterer. On the other side

is Sir Gawain, young, but standing straight and loyal. To me they have become like

real people, my companions over the last few months.

I have never been as proud of any chess set I’ve carved as I am of this one. I

know this is my masterpiece. I almost wish Dr. Wilson had not paid up front

because if the set were mine I could keep it forever, maybe in a glass case. Then,

when I grow old and my hands get stiff so I can only carve rough furniture, I could

look at it proudly and say, “Once I carved this!”

I tell Dr. Wilson that the set will be ready in a week and he comes in every

day to watch me. I wonder why he is here and not at the university teaching his

students.

Finally I am done. The set has been sanded and burnished until the

rosewood glows. I can think of nothing further to stretch out the task. Dr Wilson

pays me the last of the money he owes and I take down the box lined with silk that

I have prepared for the set. To stretch out the last moments before it will leave my

workshop I ask where he will display my chess pieces – somewhere just for himself

or where everyone can admire it?

He lifts his eyes from the pieces and looks at me for the first time. Now

even I can see that he is not quite sane.

“I am Merlin!” he says. “I created Camelot. It was my masterpiece. I made it

a place of beauty and goodness but they corrupted it and made it evil. Now I must

destroy it.”

He picks up the chessboard with all the pieces and very carefully lowers it to

the floor. Then he stamps on it. Stamps and stamps again, shattering every single

piece, grinding each one angrily into the floor with his heels. Then he turns and

stumbles out.

I kneel on the floor running shreds of golden rosewood through my fingers.

By some miracle I find the cheek and beard of King Arthur and I cling to the tiny

fragment with my finger-tips. I don’t even realize that tears are running down my

face until my wife comes in with a dustpan and brush.

“Why are you crying?” she asks. “He paid you for it, didn’t he?”

4rd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2016

Honourable Mention

Fiction

HALLOWEEN 1965

© Brie Wells

In a fit of childish cruelty, my older brother informed me there was no such

thing as Santa Claus. “Santa, elves and guardian angels are made up stories to make

little girls behave.” Gleefully he added, “Everybody knows but you.”

I shot back, “If there aren’t any angels then there can’t be a devil, you can’t

have one without the other because the devil’s a fallen angel.” I had remembered

that from church. He told me there was a real devil and one day I’d be sorry.

But by 1965 I was ten and well over the loss of a flesh and blood Santa.

Halloween was my new favorite day because all you had to do to get candy was

wear a costume. That year I dressed up as a gypsy fortune-teller. I wore a paisley

scarf on my head and an old skirt with playing cards stapled to the hem. My next-

door neighbor and best friend Peggy, was a cat. She wore a black turtle-necked

sweater and matching ski pants. Her mother made ears and whiskers out of pipe

cleaners. We were so excited this was the first year of trick-or-treating without

having to babysit any of the younger kids.

We met up with Barb Medinger and the McKay twins, Mary and Joan, at the

McKay house. Barb dressed as an artist and wore a beret her father bought in

France during the war and a white shirt with big sleeves. Mary and Joan dressed as

ghosts and pulled old bed sheets over their heads with holes cut out for their eyes.

It was windy when we set out, our excitement heightened by the dark houses and

rustling bushes. Our adventure started at the Drakes who gave caramel apples.

Next the Archer’s gave packets of M & M’s. There was homemade salt-water taffy

at the Lee’s. Mrs. Lee, dressed as one of the munchkin ballerinas from The Wizard

of Oz and sang for us. By the end of the block our bags were filed with licorice

whips, chocolate nut bars, popcorn balls, malted milk balls, jelly beans, squares of

fudge and ribbon taffy.

We were feeling pretty lucky and wanted to increase our loot, so we debated

on whether we should risk it and cross the big street: Ashland Avenue.

Ashland was the busy street that separated the rich houses on the hill from our side

by the railroad tracks. We were told never to cross that street because it was too

dangerous.

But, we were big girls now, we were in the fifth grade and we wanted more

candy. Mary and Joan McKay backed out because they promised their Mom they

would not go beyond our block.

Peggy, Barb and I crossed into the unknown while Mary and Joan walked

towards Mr. Armstrong’s house. We waved and watched the twins pass under the

amber streetlight as the wind ballooned their ghost costumes.

We didn’t know the neighbors on that side of the street so we decided to go

to only two houses. At the first house a young couple gave us little bags filled with

candy corn, bubble gum and jawbreakers. Next, an older woman gave us

homemade sugar cookies wrapped with wax paper.

Encouraged by the friendly faces, we walked along the shadowy sidewalk

and searched for the next porch light when a car with two older boys pulled up to

the curb.

One boy leaned out of the window, “Hey little girl want some candy?”

“Candy? Sure!” I started to move forward.

Peggy grabbed my arm and whispered, “No don’t. Kidnappers.”

I stepped back and muttered no thanks.

The driver said something to the boy at the passenger window and they

laughed. The tires spat dirt as the car sped forward. We held each other and

watched them turn left by the Armstrong house.

Peggy grabbed my arm and pulled me across Ashland in the middle of the

block; back to our side of the street and safety.

Finally safe inside Peggy’s house, we sipped hot chocolate and dipped vanilla

wafers into the steamy cups. Barb and I swapped a chocolate nut bar and a bag of

M & M’s because Barb can’t eat nuts. I put my hands on my knees and told Peggy

this was the best holiday ever.

Once home I went into my room and hid my candy from my brother under

my pillow because last year he stole it all. My Mom entered my room without

knocking and I jumped, I thought it was my brother.

She smoked a Benson and Hedges cigarette and asked me about my night.

I made her laugh when I told her Mrs. Lee dressed like a Munchkin and sang to us.

My Mom asked if it was better than last years Betty Boop costume. I told her we

got hot chocolate at Peggy’s house. Then I told her how Peggy saved us from the

kidnappers who asked us if we wanted candy.

“Kidnappers!” Mom said. “Oh my. Well we have no money for ransom.

That would be pretty sad, huh? We have your daughter you better give us $200.00.

Well, you can keep her because we don’t have any money.” Mom laughed at her

joke.

“Come on. Time for bed.” She said and left.

It was at breakfast the next morning when Mr. McKay and two police

officers knocked on the back door. My brother whispered I was in big trouble and

pinched my arm.

Mr. McKay looked as tired and wrinkled as his raincoat. My mother asked if

he wanted coffee as she lit up a cigarette.

The older officer held his hat under his arm and said they were here because

Mary and Joan didn’t come home last night. He asked if he could speak with me

privately. My mother agreed and offered Mr. McKay a seat at the table. She

handed him a cigarette from her pack and poured a cup of coffee from the

percolator.

The officer sat with me in the living room and asked all about last night.

What costumes we wore and how much candy we got. I brought out my pillowcase

and pulled out a few treasures and told him where we got them. He saw the

cookies and asked where I got those and I told him it was from the nice lady across

the street.

That’s when I remembered the boys in the car.

He asked me all sorts of questions about the car and the boys. I got scared

and couldn’t remember what color the car was or what the boys looked like. I told

him it was dark. I did remember the sound of the tires spinning in the dirt.

After that the officers thanked my Mom and guided Mr. McKay out.

No ransom note came that day or that week or that month. On

Thanksgiving it snowed and covered the city in five inches of soft cold down. I

wondered if Mary and Joan were warm enough, if the kidnappers were taking care

of them.

Christmas passed and so did New Year’s. The McKay house, once full of

light and laughter, now grew dark and quiet. Mr. McKay stopped working and

spent more and more time at the taverns occasionally asking if anyone had seen his

girls. Mrs. McKay took in laundry to pay the bills. They both had empty eyes and

moved like marionettes.

In spring the air turned and snow began to melt. A man, walking along the

railroad tracks down the hill from my house, spotted bloodstained sheets. Hidden

underneath were the twins broken bodies.

About a month after Mary and Joan’s funeral I saw the older policeman at

the corner store. He recognized me and asked me how I was doing.

I don’t know why but my stomach started shaking and I began to cry. He

knelt down and held my hand. Through my sobs I said, “Mary and Joan died

because there’s no such thing as Santa, or guardian angels. They’re just stories to

make bad girls behave.”

He made soft sounds and told me these things don’t live on the outside, they

live on the inside and he pointed to my chest. “In some people Santa takes root

and generosity blossoms.” He said. “Some people become guardian angels and

help in countless unseen ways.” Then he told me he would always be there to help

me.

Soon after that I began to see Mary and Joan in crowds across the street or

running down the school hallway. I would run to try to catch up to them but they

disappeared long before I got there.

By the time I was in eighth grade I stopped chasing them.

When I see them now I just smile.

2016 RCLAS Write On! Contest

BIOS: Fiction Winners & Honourable Mentions

Alvin Ens is a retired high school English teacher. He

writes poetry and prose for both the secular and Christian media. He is a farm boy from a large family. He learned to play games with his siblings and with community kids. He remembers with fondness playing table games with an aging father.

Born in Saskatchewan, he and his wife now reside in Abbotsford where he is active in several writing groups.

Métis multimedia artist Susan Cormier has won or been

shortlisted for such awards as CBC's National Literary Award, Arc Magazine's Poem of the Year, Anvil Press’ Lush Triumphant, and the Federation of B.C. Writers’ Literary Writes. Her short films have screened around the world at festivals including the Montreal World Film Festival, the herland Feminist Film Festival, and the Berlin Zebra Poetry Film Festival. Susan’s current projects include “Back Down the Rabbit Hole” - a Canada Council-funded

research video essay about youth bullying - and organizing Vancouver Story Slam with her fiance, Bryant Ross.

Marion Iberg was born in New Westminster, B.C. She is

a retired teacher with ten years’ experience teaching elementary school students. In previous years, she was a partner in a dairy farm business where she was involved in all aspects of running the farm. Farm life, and personal and childhood experiences have created ideas for her writing. Several of Marion’s stories and a poem have been published in anthologies and magazines.

2016 RCLAS Write On! Contest

BIOS: Fiction Winners & Honourable Mentions

Valerie Fletcher Adolph is an award-winning author published in

magazines, newspapers and journals in Canada, the US and England. She

is the author of half a dozen books and editor/author of half a dozen more.

Newly published is her novel historical novel Bride Ship Three. Written to

explore the lives of three women in the time of the British Columbia gold

rush; it weaves history into a good story. Her ebooks, Graved in Gold and

Veiled in Gold, continue the theme.

Val is an experienced interviewer and public speaker who has addressed

large and small audiences live and on television and radio. She writes an

occasional blog thestorysolver.com about story telling. She enjoys social

history, natural history and storytelling as well as time spent with family

and friends.

Brie Wells transplanted to Vancouver in 2014 through her

husband’s career in the Film Industry. They are the proud adopted parents of three boxer dogs. She writes Magical Realism fiction and has a YA series in the works.

2016 Write On! event videos here.

Look for more Write On! award-winning poetry and prose to

be published in our September and October fall issues!

AA

A fabulous night of celebration, poetry and prose! Thank you to everyone who

came out to our 2016 Write On! Contest Awards Night, a LitFest New West

event. Thank you to venue provider, Stephanie for hosting us at her cool

establishment, The Old Crow Coffee Co. located on Front St. in New

Westminster. Congratulations to all our winners and honourable mentions.

Thank you to my co-host/co-organizer, James Felton. Cheers!

– Janet Kvammen

RCLAS WRITER OF THE MONTH

Una Bruhns

Una Bruhns immigrated to Canada in 1969; she now resides in North

Vancouver.

Una is a published poet, an avid photographer, and videographer. Some

of her work can be viewed on Youtube, at the North Vancouver Public

Library and Lynn Valley Archives. Both Una and her husband Juergen’s,

photography were displayed in a recent exhibition at the Chinese Cultural

Centre Vancouver celebrating the Silk Road Routes and Beyond during

the Asian Heritage month in May 2016.

Una’s lists of accomplishments include:

North Vancouver’s 2015 Culture Days Community Ambassador.

A Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival Sakura award for her winning

Haiku

An award winner for her “Tanka” in the North Shore Writers annual

competition.

A Community Ambassadors Award from Writers International

Network

A World Poetry Empowered Poet Award

An active member of many groups including the North Shore Writers’

Association, West Van Photography Club, Pandora’s Collective, and Royal

City Literary Arts Society, she attends many literary and art events around

the Lower Mainland.

“Indeed you may. I have a copy here on this card prepared specially for you!”

I handed it over to him. He read it whispering to himself. He looked up and smiled. We

shook hands. As I was turning to leave, he said his final words on the subject.

“I’ll keep it under my blotter!”

Spontaneous Human Combustion

by Una Bruhns

Phenomenon? Fact? Fiction? Or Paranormal?

Reading the novel Bleak House by Charles Dickens some years ago on

“spontaneous human combustion”, left me fascinated.

Since then there have been 85 cases reported. The last known case reported on July

1951 in Petersburg, Florida. Excessive alcohol consumption has been associated

with this phenomenon, whereby it is assumed the human body sometimes burns

from within without an external source of ignition.

Some have tied it to magnetic irregularities in the Earth. Vincent Gaddis, known

for his broad studies in phenomena, suggested a tie to depression and even suicide.

Possibly the forces which, when directed outwardly, produce suicide might, when

projected inwardly, lead to the burning of the body?

Then there is the static flash fire hypothesis:

This is a condition in which static electricity apparently builds up to such a degree

in the human body, that a sparking discharge can ignite clothing.

One famous case occurred in 2005, in which an office worker reportedly managed

to light up his office after building up a huge charge by walking across a carpet.

During dry winter weather almost anyone can build up an electrostatic charge as

much as 20,000 volts.

In my unscientific mind my understanding is the human body consists of 60 – 70%

water and lacks highly flammable compounds.

I cannot believe that a human body could be that cruel and attack itself by causing

such intense heat from within capable of destroying its bones.

Fiction of the imagination perhaps, I leave that for you to ponder…

VIOLIN © Margo Prentice

“If I could be a musical instrument I want to be a violin.”

Sparks crackle inside ribbons of grey smoke and shoot high up into a blackened

sky. I am held in the strong arms of Andre, tall and handsome with black curly

hair. His dark eyes shine as he holds me firmly under his chin and in his arms. He

moves the bow touching my strings with at the speed of light making me sing like

no other gypsy in all of Europe. Andre plays me with gusto, tenderness and

passion. Roma gather around the fire as they have done for hundreds of years, I the

expression of their soul.

My neck is made of maple wood, my fingerboard is ebony. The hair on my bow is

horse hair. My strings are made of gut. I come from the earth. Everyone who

hears me is filled with joy, sadness and passion.

For the people of the countryside I am a “fiddle.” As the fiddler passes the bow

over the strings those who listen are stirred. My music fills them with the desire to

dance. I am played merrily at harvest parties and weekly dances, and at weddings

and funerals. Dances and my music pieces are passed down through the

generations. The Cajuns and French Canadians and many cultures dance to my

music

“Bluegrass Music,” a mix of fiddling and blues. I love it when the old-time fiddlers

play my music. The greatest jazz violist of all was Stephan Grapelli. When he

played me it was a work of art.

I sit in the front row of symphony orchestras poised, to start in the hands of the

first violinist. From the master virtuosos Paganini to modern violinists Jimena

Lovan the grand master compositions slide off my strings in powerful cascading

crescendos. Vivaldi composed his music with me. His school was filled with

orphans’ girls whom he taught to play in fifteenth century Venice. My sounds

filled the salons of the elegant homes in the major cities in Europe.

Great masters, like Heifetz could make an audience so moved, that to hear me

played by him was blissful. Heifetz even gave me a name, “David” and when he

died he left me to the San Francisco orchestra. The great masters die but I live on

in the souls of people who hear me.

Yes, I am the violin; I have been with humankind for hundreds of years. I am

everywhere! My soulful music is played in concert halls, around gypsy fires, at

weddings and dances. I am the sad melody in the solo ballet performance of the

dying swan in Tchaikovsky’s, ballet, “Swan Lake.”

I have so many favourite pieces; Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D minor is one

of my most moving. Tears flow easily when I play in the background music in

movie, particularly when lovers part or are reunited

The greatest composers of all time wrote for me. All for me. I am a violin.

------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright Margo Prentice

The City of New Westminster will host a celebration of its waterfront

June 19, 2016

11:00am to 2:00pm

Pier 2 Landing which will take place on Father’s Day, includes

activities and performances along Westminster Pier Park, Front

Street, and Sapperton Landing Park.

City of New Westminster staff will be on hand at the event to engage

residents about the Waterfront Vision that will celebrate New

Westminster’s strengths - its natural setting, vibrant downtown and

year-round activities.

Other family-friendly activities include: Live entertainment, barbecue,

bike decorating, sandcastle building, community art projects,

Live5210 Playbox, a pop-up museum, historical and environmental

walking tours, Paper Girl art program, cycling tours, and a bike rodeo.

Come by our Royal City Literary Arts Society table to say Hello!

LITFEST NEW WEST

Saturday, May 14 – Douglas College

Social Media for Writers and Authors

presented by Lori Henry

Key Highlights Compiled by Lisa Strong

Lori introduced the topic of Social

Networking by asking us to think about

why we would like to pursue social

media in the first place. She directed

our decision with these questions.

She mentioned the commitment

involved to keep the content fresh and

timely, and suggested following the

80/20 rule – where only 20% of your

posts are self-promotional – and the

remaining 80% could include such

ideas as quotations from your

favourite authors and links relevant

to your genre.

Lori believed we should consider creating profiles in all three of the

most popular social media sites.

She left us with the thought of scheduling our posts to be released at

pre-determined times. For example, Facebook allows you to schedule

your post for a future time and date, while Twitter needs a third party

platform such as Tweetdeck ( https://tweetdeck.twitter.com/ ) to do the

same. If you’re using multiple social media platforms, you can login to

one third party service such as Hoot Suite (www.HootSuite.com) and

manage all platforms at once.

Lori’s presentation was extremely well organized with many examples for both beginner and intermediate users

of social media. You can contact Lori Henry via her website for more information about connecting to the cyber

world.

Lori Henry is a travel writer and podcast host based in North Vancouver, Canada. She is the author of Dancing

Through History: In Search of the Stories That Define Canada, and her work has been published in travel and

lifestyle publications all over the world. Stay tuned for her new podcast, launching this summer. To keep up to

date with her, visit her website: www.LoriHenry.ca.

The art of observing: the act of being present, paying attention to what is seen, heard,

touched, smelled, tasted or otherwise perceived within the body is one of the nine

primary tools utilized in any creative thinking. It is probably the core basic tool that any

artist starts with in any of their creative pursuits. Why?

All worldly knowledge begins with observation. In order to convey the world to your

audience, you need to perceive it accurately and see it in its reality. You are probably

thinking that observing seems fairly basic. You’d be wrong. Recognizing is easy. It's a

bit of survival wiring in our brains. For example, you recognize a stop sign from learned

habit. You don't really see it once you learn the habit. It registers in your brain and

nothing more. Observing is much more. It takes time to observe. According to Georgia

O'Keefe, “to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.”

Picasso learned to observe and draw one thing (a pigeon's foot) before his art teaching

father would allow him to pursue his passion of painting. The process took months and

months before his father would allow him to paint. By focusing on that one thing, he

learned the keys to observing and describing everything.

Observation isn't simply about the visual. It is about all your senses: sight, taste, touch,

smell, and aural. As an exercise, I sit on my porch and listen to the sounds of my

neighbourhood. I try to access has the sound feels on and in my body. I try to feel the

wind, rain, cold or heat on my skin. It's all part of the experience.

Try this exercise in observation. Select a category of a “thing” you'd like to observe.

Examples of two of the participants from one of my creativity workshops were

mushrooms and fences. Choose something that seems variable and interesting to you.

Notice its form, lines, colours, sounds, tactile characteristics, smells, and tastes where

appropriate. What are the differences within your items you've chosen to observe. Write

a short descriptive paragraph for each subject. Do one category one month and change it

up to something new the next month. But remember to have fun with this exercise. It's

play and not meant for anything other than improving your observation skills. Jump

outside the box. Try to create sounds for items that don't have sounds naturally. Squeeze

that mushroom. Bang that fence post.

Writing what you know is really about writing about your emotional experiences.

Observing: A Tool For Creative Thinking

by David Blinkhorn

Observe as you live your life. Observe passionately and with intention. Go out for

regular walks. Observe the world around you. Fill your artistic well (Julia Cameron)

with images and experiences for later use. Make notes and sketches of your

observations.

Remember that your mind senses control the senses of your body and, as such, the mind

skews and filters what you experience. As a result objective observation is not truly

possible. It's your reality that you observe. The writer lives the experiences but he or she

observes and analyzes them too.

How can you improve your observation skills? Training in the visual arts is a start. Even

if you don't want to practice the art, take the time to observe form and style. Go to the art

gallery. Take it in on an emotional level. It is well established that practising art leads to

improved scientific observation. This equation works in reverse equally well. Study

science, natural history, medicine and anatomy. Some of my most enjoyable poetry to

create involved a blend of science with the music of words. Somerset Maugham and

William Carlos Williams were doctors. The poet, Marianne Moore studied biology.

Collect things with passion.

Learn to be a better observer. Observation lies at the heart of all creative pursuits.

David Blinkhorn is the founder and director of the Fraser Valley Writers' School (fvwschool.blogspot.com) and an accomplished instructor in the areas of

creativity, avoiding writer's block and fiction writing. An award-winning poet and writer who is a graduate of SFU's Writers' Studio (Fiction) in 2011,

David finds his passion in creating unique, varied stories and helping other writers to find their voice in their chosen genre. In 2014, David organized a

successful writers retreat in the Mediterranean and is currently organizing the plans for Euro2017. He has been a member of the RCLAS for three years and

is a corporate member of the New Westminster Arts Council. Follow his creativity blog at fvwschool.blogspot.com for regular posts and ideas on ways to

improve your own creative pursuits and your creative life.

RCLAS on the Road

with Lisa Strong

During May, four long term members of RCLAS (Royal City Literary Arts

Society) had the opportunity to work with intermediate students at an

elementary school in Burnaby. Our Poetry Month opened with a visit from

Enrico Renz, a teacher from Cameron Elementary who shared song writing

tips with our students. Mr. TDS, our music teacher joined him for an

impromptu jam session on guitars.

The following week Candice James, Poet Laureate of The City of New

Westminster shared some of her original works including Ghosts of the BC

Penitentiary, Tumbling Down, The Afterglow, Java Jazz, Ballad of Billy

Miner, and Justin Bieber and the Blue Petal Dream (written especially for

this visit).

She introduced students to the concept of ‘open mic.’ Two students bravely

came up to the mic and shared their talents. Candice generously donated

copies of her books to the school library.

Deborah L. Kelly, winner of the 2016 (WIN) Writers International Network

Distinguished Poet Award was next up. She shared her poetry and

samples of her art work including the mandala collage pictured below.

Our series continued with Lilija Valis accompanied by Enrico Renz. Lilija,

an accomplished spoken word artist, shared upon others, her poem, The

Blues. Some students shared their own poems in an ‘open mic’ session

with musical accompaniment.

A big thank you goes out to our guests for the time and talent they shared

with our students!

Benefits of Membership All non-profit Societies, no matter their size, rely on funding and membership dues to sustain them. RCLAS is no exception, and we are by no means big. At present, funding comes from two sources. First, we benefit from a very modest grant from the City of New Westminster (for which we’re exceedingly grateful). And second, we depend heavily on dues from members like you. Without a growing membership base, RCLAS cannot sustain the activities that we initiate and run. We really need your help to keep the literary arts alive in our community. When you become a member, you not only help us keep the torch lit for writers. You also help yourself. Here are some of the benefits of your RCLAS membership:

Your personal profile on our website with links to your endeavours

Significant discounts (or sometimes free!) for any RCLAS Workshop

50% discount on submission fees for any RCLAS-sponsored writing contest

Varying discounts (or sometimes free admission!) for any RCLAS Programme or Event

Our electronic newsletter, free! (10 issues a year)

Email notifications of upcoming RCLAS activities, automatically sent to you

‘Schmooze nights’ and networking opportunities with other members Please join us today. Tell others about us, too. Enjoy these benefits and in the process, help keep the literary arts alive both here in the Royal City and in the Lower Mainland. For more information, visit our website at: http://rclas.com/membership/become-a-member/ Thank you.

Janet Kvammen, RCLAS Vice-President/E-zine janetkvammen@rclas.com

Antonia Levi secretary@rclas.com

Open Call for Submissions - RCLAS Members Only

Poetry, Short Stories, Book excerpts & lyrics are all welcome for

submission to future issues of Wordplay at work.

Sept 2016 - Poetry & Prose Theme: New Westminster Deadline Aug 1

October 2016 – Dead Poets & Halloween Deadline Sept 15, 2016

No E-zine in July and August.

Submit Word documents (include your name on document) to

janetkvammen@rclas.com

VOLUNTEERS NEEDED!

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

bigger contribution, please contact our event coordinator.

Director/Event Coordinator: Sonya Furst-Yuen

sonya.yuen@rclas.com

WORDPLAY AT WORK FEEDBACK & E-ZINE SUBMISSIONS

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

Thank you to our Sponsors

City of New Westminster

Arts Council of New Westminster

New Westminster Public Library

Judy Darcy, MLA

Renaissance Books

100 Braid Street Studios

The Network Hub - New Westminster

Boston Pizza

The Heritage Grill

See upcoming events at www.rclas.com

www.poeticjusticenewwest.org

Facebook

June 2016 Wordplay at work ISSN 2291- 4269

Contact:

janetkvammen@rclas.com RCLAS Vice-President/

E-zine Design

“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if

you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the

imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to

creativity is self-doubt.”

― Sylvia Plath