PEI Writes 2013 Anthology

By PEI Writes

The PEI Writes 2013 Anthology is a compilation of work by some of the Island's finest writers, both established and emerging. Drawing from the talent of the PEI Writes Group, established in 2011, the collection reflects the evolving tastes and expanding creativity of each and every contributor.

This anthology offers a cross-selection of both writing styles and genres, including expositional and comedic non-fiction, dramedy, young adult paranormal, fantasy, and a wide selection of poetry.

Already known for its creative talent in many other art forms, this volume as a whole showcases the growing pool of gifted authors living right here in PEI.

About PEI Writes: Established in the fall of 2011 by a small number of Island authors, the group meets monthly at the Queen Street Commons to share information, inspire each other and create together. Now with forty-four members and still growing, PEI Writes is a comfortable, fun and progressive collection of new and established writers looking for exciting and innovative ways to do what they love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PEI Writes
• Release date: Mar 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301144808

Book preview

PEI Writes 2013 Anthology

A cross-genre collection written by Island authors

Edited by Patti Larsen and Colleen McKie

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © PEI Writes 2013. All rights reserved.

Cover art © by Valerie Bellamy. All rights reserved.

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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This book is dedicated to all Island writers, dreamers and creators.

Yes, we can.

***

Foreword

When PEI Writes came together in the fall of 2011, its goal was simple: to create a comfortable, safe place where Island writers could meet and share their work, find answers to questions and make friends with others who shared their joy in writing.

It evolved into yearly retreats in delightful Inns around the Island and monthly write-ins at the Queen Street Commons, with the numbers of members growing constantly.

The idea of collecting an anthology of the work of our members seemed a logical next step, one that has been embraced with great enthusiasm by PEI Writes. Anthologies are works of love, shaped by many hands and hearts and creative souls. Twenty-two authors have contributed fifty-four works of fiction, non-fiction and poetry to this collection, many of whom have never been published before.

How amazing is that?

In all honesty, this book was an experiment to see what might happen if we came together and worked as one. We’re very happy to say it’s been a wonderful success I know will lead to more in the future.

Patti Larsen

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Catherine Ann

I am an artist. I love to delve into ART–Visual, Music, Writing, Film, and Theatre. It stirs my soul and lifts me to an exhilarating place within myself–and just as importantly–without myself. In this place I can find opportunities to confront what is true about myself and the world around me. In this place I can find lies I created in order to shield myself from my truths. In this place I can find release from chaos. In this place I can find freedom. In this place I can find the totality that is Catherine Ann. In this place I am always safe and always at risk.

Find more at http://agentleriotousbella.blogspot.ca/

***

A Conversation With Aleksandr

Devastated was the word. Yes, it fit.

The night before found her restless and fitful, up and down, churning, besieged with scattered thoughts. Noisy chattering, fragmented bits of fear, hurt, shame, regret, disappointment and judgment, all jostling with one another, all scrabbling like jackals to be the first to gnaw on her bones.

Why was she carrying the full burden of shame? His flaws had been uncovered on several occasions.

But as the indignation rose, the words of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn wept through like an Artesian wellspring of wisdom reminding, But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?

WAIT JUST ONE MINUTE HERE, AL! she protested.

crickets

Oh no! says she to herself, as she dusted off her Ouija board, You will come back here!

Nervous fingers and shaky vocal chords work together in a synchronized effort to pull him away from his glass of fermented potato and there he was, a bearded wild haired man with an intense stare that left her wriggling under her skin. But she was on a mission and she would not be deterred.

Clearing her throat, she began, Mr. Solzhenitsyn—

Aleksandr raised his hand up in a gesture to stop her and his heavily accented English softly penetrated the air.

Pебенок, tell me, what do you need?

I need to understand.

Tell me why, he pressed.

Why? She forced her words past the hurt that sat lumped in her throat, I'm trying to make sense of betrayal. How can people insist they truly love even after lies have been uncovered?

Tell me Кэтрин, would you agree that morality can often be found to be at odds with passion and desire?

She nodded.

He continued. And that our good intentions are often found to be at odds with unconscious motivations?

Yes, she whispered.

Aleksandr sat thoughtful for a moment and then gently and softly spoke. You understand Кэтрин, your problem is, you want too much from understanding. It cannot turn shadow into light and it cannot right wrongs. So, no Pебенок, you are not in need of understanding. What you need is to accept that a thing is what it is.

He drew on his pipe and smiled tenderly. And you need to make a decision. You must decide if your wounds have made you more... or have made you less.

***

Charity Becker

After years as an avid reader, literary academic, and teacher of literature, I finally decided to try my hand at writing. When I am not reading, writing, or teaching, I enjoy spending my time going to movies and traveling with my partner Jason, playing with my dog Romero, and scrapbooking and going for coffee with my friends. The things that happen to me and around me inspire my ideas, and the things that happen within me translate those ideas into poetry.

***

Confession

Yesterday I shot the neighbour’s cat.

(I’m not even sure exactly which neighbour this cat belonged to,

As it seemed to materialize in a new place each day.)

It really wasn’t my fault;

It just wouldn’t leave us alone–

Always teasing the dog (I mean, what cat wants to nestle up against a dog?),

Following us up the street,

Loitering on the front doorstep staring hungrily through the window.

Oh sure, it seemed innocent enough.

Some might even call it adorable,

Which is why I finally had to capitulate.

So I shot the neighbour’s cat

As it sat in all of its feline splendour

Within my 4x6 frame.

***

Dead Cat on the Side of the Road

A dead cat on the side of the road

And my heart breaks:

For the cat,

For the family that might find it, or might not,

For every animal that has suffered,

For every family that has lost a pet,

For every child who has had to cry themselves to sleep,

For the loss that no one should have to bear,

For every broken heart

That will mend with time but always bear the scar

Of a love that once was and in some ways always will be,

And my day is changed

Because I cannot just drive past and not be affected

By a dead cat on the side of the road.

***

What Matters

I’m hungry; I don’t have any lunch, he says,

And I know he drinks every weekend and I wonder how he always has money for alcohol.

But it doesn’t matter.

He has to get through two classes this afternoon and he won’t do it on an empty stomach

So I give him what change I have in my purse to buy some lunch.

Can you spare some change? Anything helps, she says,

And she looks healthy and able-bodied and I wonder why she doesn’t just get a job.

But it doesn’t matter.

She has nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep.

So I buy her some food and water so at least she won’t go hungry.

Can you spare some food for me and my dog? he says,

And I know how much it costs to own a dog and I wonder why he doesn’t give the dog to a good home.

But it doesn’t matter.

Maybe his dog is his only friend and it’s obvious that he cares for it.

So I give him some fruit and dog food, and pet his dog and wish him well.

Can you give me a lift? I have no way home, she says,

And I know she has a job and I wonder why she doesn’t just ask a co-worker or call a cab.

But it doesn’t matter.

It’s a long walk to town and she’s already been working hard all day.

So I give her a ride and we both get to enjoy some conversation along the way.

Not a word he says as he stands outside the coffee shop,

And I know there are jobs available and I wonder why he isn’t out looking for work instead of begging for change.

But it doesn’t matter.

The wind is bitterly cold already and the day is only supposed to get worse.

So I buy him a muffin and a hot coffee so he can warm his hands.

He’s washing the windshield at the corner or she’s busking on the street corner,

And I wonder if bad choices or just bad luck have put them in this situation.

But it doesn’t matter.

At some time we all need something,

And a smile, a thank-you and warmth in my heart are just the something I needed today.

***

Travelogue

July 2012

Rome, Italy

Centre of life during the Roman Empire,

And centre of death.

Opulence of Palatine Hill and the Roman Forum,

Immensity of the Colosseum,

Now reduced to ruins, rubble.

Cars and crowds compete for priority

On streets once ruled by chariots.

And along a quiet stretch,

A curve of the Colosseum under construction,

A cat dying of starvation,

Lying on its side, abdomen sunken-in,

Barely able to lift its head,

Mere feet from tourists stuffing their mouths with over-priced victuals.

Unable to look for long we began to walk away with broken hearts,

Stopped short, looked back.

€7.00 for a ham sandwich and a bottle of water at the concession cart.

Fifteen minutes breaking off small pieces of meat and bread, set gingerly on a concrete slab.

Do you think we helped it or just prolonged its suffering? asked quietly.

Teary eyes answered, Everything deserves to be loved for at least one day.

Then we continued on our way, tourists travelling from one trap to the next.

But somehow the city seems just a little less beautiful,

And our feet a little slower to transport heavy hearts.

***

What It Means to Be a Mother

Although I have not borne a child,

I know what it is to be a mother.

I know what it is to raise a being from the first months of its life.

I know what it is to have it rely on me for all of its needs.

I know what it is to call a doctor in the middle of the night when it is sick.

I know what it is to cry when I do not know what is wrong with it.

By my experience is also different from that of many mothers.

My child will never hate me even for a moment,

But I also entered this commitment knowing he will not outlive me.

I will not suffer many of the things a child puts their mother through in growing up,

But I know that I will have to bear the ultimate pain that no mother should ever have to bear.

So do not tell me that my child is any less a child for not being human,

Or that I am any less a mother for not bearing a child.

***

Kilmeny Boates

Kilmeny Boates was born and raised in O'Leary Prince Edward Island. Growing up photography, painting and drawing occupied a lot of her life. She completed her first portrait at the age of 9. Her work was on display with the Gifted and Talented Show that was done across Canada, when she was 13. Her work and all the works in that show were on Display at Montreal Art gallery.

Writing was just not her strong suit, and it seemed to be a struggle. This changed abruptly when she was going through her divorce. Her time was well occupied with her two sons. Money was tight, and out of the blue she heard words. She firmly believes that it was another gift given to her that would cost no more than pen and paper—writing. It was in 1996 she wrote her first poem, Spring Melody.

Living on the Island has soothed her soul and touched at times when she needed a creative boost. After 25 years Kilmeny has returned to Mount Allison University, taking Fine Arts. She has already completed her second year and will return shortly.

https://www.facebook.com/KilmenysCreations026009593

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Importance

A new year has come again,

Bringing forth a fresh new start.

Time to let go of our garbage,

Embrace life by doing our part!

Choices face us every day,

It's our time, so step up to the plate.

Will we remain silent on important issues?

Or will we set a just course steadfast at the gate?

These times are beckoning us to think,

For once we go ahead there is no going back.

What really is important?

Our beloved family or a money pack?

Once we finish a day

That time has gone by.

Never can we return again

Thus leaving regrets as we sigh.

***

Spring Melody

Come, come, lured the gulf

Calling me today.

Tugging, tugging within my soul

Beckoning me all the way.

My soul filled with a delightful song.

Flowing through me with emotion.

Luring me to her sandy shores

Caressing my heart like a lotion!

Freedom escapes her undulating waves

Thundering, crashing and sweeping with glee,

Rolling, and pounding the rocks,

While gulls cry her spring melody!

***

Angel Darville

Angel has been writing as long as she can remember.  She is currently working on a fiction novel for adults and has performed at local coffee shops.  This is her first publication.  Angel lives in Rustico with her partner and son.

***

Dancing In the Wind

From afar I see her perched still and free

gazing to the rapid river below,

brunette hair cut short,

and her beauty transfixes me.

I've never seen this woman before

This wild flower at home with the earth

I've never met her but in my dreams.

There she's smiling, her hands exploring

and blue eyes keen

Now I watch as she stands,

stretches

her arms high toward the blue sky

And dances.

She dances alone in the wind.

Twirling amidst the wildflowers

her skirt flowing about, a grin on her face.

Grinning and free, as happy as can be.

This angel so seductive is everything I desire

Or could ever hope to be.

Her confidence ain't one that's lacking

And the skirt she's wearing ain't made for packing.

No, no she's all woman who has mesmerized me.

Every sway of those hips, rhythm of artistic

fingers in the air

My breath catches and watching from afar

I can no longer bear.

And so I inch closer, every step I step

is one of certainty

Though we've never said a word

She's the one I've been waiting for

This wildflower was made for me.

She spots me, her smile never ceasing

Gesturing me over with her hand.

Recollection shines in her depths

as if in the past she has seen my face.

She reaches for me,

And then we dance.

Together we dance in the wind.

Twirling amidst the wildflowers

her skirt and my hair flowing about with our silly grins

Grinning and free, as happy as can be.

This angel, so seductive, is everything I desire

all I wanna love, or hope to be.

***

Stacy Dunn

Stacy Dunn’s downtown Charlottetown apartment is a shrine to her love of music that includes Elvis Presley’s 1968 Comeback Special DVD, framed Stevie Nicks albums and a book and CDs autographed by Anne Murray. Stacy thanks PEI Writes for encouraging her dream to be a memoir writer and rock music essayist.

Mixed Tape of a Rock Snob Chick blog

http://mixedtapeofarocksnobchick.wordpress.com

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Writing Something out of Nothing

Ah, November 1st. It marks eight weeks until the end of year. How will I make it memorable? I’ll support Movember, the national awareness for prostate cancer. I love this campaign, because men show their support by growing moustaches or shaving moustaches and beards that have been part of their look for years. This year, Movember added men’s mental health to its program. I know a group of guys participating; my friend Tom’s shaving off his 35-year-old beard.

I attended the kick-off party to cheer the start of Movember and Tom’s brave act. The barber worked on him for thirty minutes on a 1890s leather chair. More luxurious than the chair were white towels fresh from the microwave applied to his freshly shaved face. After witnessing this marvel of relaxation, I now need to schedule a facial for myself and sooner the better. I have to write about this experience. It may be the inspiration I need for National Novel Writing Month.

Writing a novel in thirty days may be another way to make November memorable. It’s the gist of National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, its nickname for those in the know. People write as much as they can for the month and share their progress on NaNoWriMo’s official website. You must register online and build a profile. I like the idea of sharing your writing every day for a month. I’m not so fond of logging in with a username and a password. I will probably do this project on my own. My brother Stu and my boyfriend Robert are doing Movember on the side. They’re not in it to raise money like Tom. They both think it would be funny to grow a Fu Manchu. Okay. . .

I am writing this piece November 16, 2012, with a group. They are all nice people, but it's very quiet in this room now. We all have our noses to our laptop computers, rising occasionally for peppermint tea. The tickity-tack of keyboards is the excitement of the day here. It's enough to make my eye twitch. There goes my attention deficit disorder again.

Shut up, you!

I am at a desk in the corner of an orangey-yellow room, no space to join the four other writers at the table at the center. I feel like the little kid sent to the corner for doing bad. I'm not allowed to move