July 2009

A MAGAZINE WHERE INANIMATE OBJECTS DESCRIBE REAL-LIFE EVENTS

WHERE INANIMATE OBJECTS HAVE THEIR SAY

See See theworld through of eyes of the world through the eyes the

A mounting board
and more... July 2009

A MOUNTING BOARD

and more...

About Perspectives Magazine

ISSN: 1715-9148 Frequency: Biyearly Founding Editor: Monique Berry Design and layout: Monique Berry Contact: perspectivesmagazine@gmail.com Site: http://perspectivesmagazine.googlepages.com/about
Blog: http://pmag.wordpress.com/

Meet some of the contributors

MARY BELARDI ERICKSON

Not My Quiddity, p8

Photo credits: Cover courtesy of Brian Cobbledick; p4, 5 www.istockphoto.com; p5, 17 courtesy of Heather Miller; p6, 8, 9, 10, 12, 14, 15, 17 courtesy of Brian Cobbledick; p11 www.inmagine.com; p12 www.stockexpert.com; p16 courtesy of Rebecca R. Taylor

Mary enjoys country living with her husband, Jon, north of Kerkhoven, Minnesota. She has degrees in English from Augsburg College, Minneapolis and Drake University, Des Moines. Her poetry has been published both online and in print, most recently or forthcoming in Flutter, Numinous, Farming Magazine, Avocet, the Aurorean, Oak Bend Review, as well as others. Contact Mary at cattailcreekfarm@hotmail.com

Objects represented in this issue

Canvas The Canvas by Patrick Edwards-Daugherty Fire I Am by Angela Horneber Meat The Butchers Wife by Randall Pretzer Microphone Shiver, Shimmy & Shake by Andrew Mondia Mounting board Not My Quiddity by Mary Belardi Erickson Statue Stone Angel by Bob McCarthy Ocean An Oceans Love Affair by Debbie Okun Hill Raindrops A Moment in the Life of Two Peculiar Raindrops by Bryan Beight Snowflake Snowflake by Wilma Seville Snowflake The Secret of Angelica by Jennifer L. Foster Signature The Signatures Scroll by Rebecca R. Taylor Wedding ring Symbol of Love by Rach Loveday p4 p5 p6 p7 p8 p9 p9 p10 JENNIFER L. FOSTER p11 p12 p16 p17
The Secret of Angelica, p12

BOB MCCARTHY
Stone Angel, p9

Bob McCarthy, a retired high school teacher with an interest in both family and local history, has published five books. Two books, written for young readers, included stories of local history complemented by drawings created by both elementary and high school students. The other three are historical novels, based on the lives of his ancestors. These novels are based on a trickle of facts and a gusher of imagination. For more information, contact Bob at robemcca@xcelco.ca

Jennifer hails from Hamilton, Ontario where the arts are flourishing. She graduated from Queens University and has retired from counselling and programs work. Her poetry for children has appeared in Cats, Cats, Cats and More Cats (Mini Mocho Press). Contact Jennifer at jenniferlfosterlit@sympatico.ca

Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

From the Editors Desk

Dear Readers Change usually has uncomfortable associations for me. And lately, its been on my mind. The first change deals with guidelines. Ive been looking for part-time work for awhile. In my experience, the number one no-no that companies use to weed out potential employees is found during an interview. Theyll ask, Do you have any questions for us? If I did not research the companys history, mission statement, or show interest in them, my resume ends up in the garbage. It also applies to Perspectives. Nothing saddens me more than getting a submission from someone who clearly has not read the guidelines. The time is coming when I will probably end up trashing a good manuscript. The best way to get my attention is to follow the guidelines. I even created a bulleted checklist on the guideline website to increase your chances of being published. Not every bullet needs to be checked off but at least fifty percent. The second change deals with the magazine itself. Ive been publishing Perspectives since 2006 and have been waiting for advertisers to come on board and support me. Nothing has happened yet. That means the expenses: gifts, mailing and printing costs, cost of buying photos, and writers payments come out of my disability cheque. I suppose I should have researched the pros and cons of producing a magazine first but all that doesnt matter. The point is that things are getting financially tight. I was going to scrap the whole idea but decided against it. This is my joy. This is my baby. This is my passion. I get so excitedfeel so intimate and privilegedwhen writers share their minds through submissions. The readers get a chance to escape their stressed-out world for awhile. The thought of discontinuing the magazine and later seeing, or hearing the same concept being published worldwide just because someone else could afford itwell, I just couldnt bear it. My dream-heavy heart would descend like a waterfall, sending thousands of glass splinters upon the rocks (okay, its a bit dramatic). In any event, I am not quitting. Perspectives and Christian Perspectives (coming soon) are going forward with or without advertisers. Advertising in my magazine will be the cheapest anywhere. However, without advertisers, there will probably: 1. Be only a small financial reward. I still insist on paying my contributors. 2. The contributors copy will be delivered via pdf attachment. The writer will have to bring it to a printer and have it stapled. If you advertise in Christian Perspectives, the same ad will appear in Perspectives for free. If youre a contributor and place an ad, there will be special offers and other incentives, too. January 2010 is a long way off. Now that the magazine is uploaded online, maybe someone will take a chance and promote their product/service, Ill experience a breakthrough and Perspectives will be a first-class literary magazine. The bottom line is that the future of Perspectives involves change. Im not even sure if this editorial will cause a positive or negative change in the readers perspective. I hope not. Anyway, thanks for listening. Keep the ink flowing, Monique Berry

Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

CANVAS

THE CANVAS
By Patrick Edwards-Daugherty
let her suffer right until the day she lost it. She tightened up, contracted her skin until it tore off the staples. What happened next was truly horrifying. Without the faintest hint of empathy--grumbling, in fact, at the trouble she was causing--that barbarian sliced her out within the rips and stapled her up again. She screamed, stop this but none of us could help. And you gallery visitors. You did nothing but prove you enjoyed the show! You looked her up and down, lavished praise on Frederick for this exciting work in progress--you were shameful, complicit monsters, every last one of you.

am begging you to intervene. And no, I am not nave. I know how you are. You take me for some blank mute thing that just waits for a painter to grace my skin with art. I watch you gallery visitors every day; you all look at me the same. You bourgeoisie, you hipsters, you hotel decorators--how you manage to see paint as if it were suspended on an invisible plane, how you manage never to notice what holds it in place is a habit of the most obnoxious privilege, of the most astonishing willful ignorance. I'll have you know you cause real harm. You have made a certain school of painting popular, one that elevates the painter above the painted. Take mine. We call him Frederick. He just finished Pink, a canvas he intends to sell for five thousand dollars. Look at her. She is across from me. I see her all the time. Her pores were too small to absorb the pigments Frederick mixed. So now, when the humidity changes, she gurgles and sputters on the excess. Imagine a woman with no control over her vocal membrane, whose voice is stretched and pinched, made obscene, stifled then magnified, who never knows if the next word will tear her throat apart to say it. Imagine her knowing she will be like that forever. The saddest thing is how she saw it coming. She tried hard to show him how to brush her best. She resisted the worst. Thoughtless work has its happy coincidences, and she tried to treasure them, shivering the best-laid strokes into her weaving. But I am convinced these good sessions only added to the torture. They gave her false hope, kept her in her right mind only to

Yes, you too. You ghoulish, pretentious art hag. And still I believe you can help me. We can help each other. Frederick has not finished with me. Patches of unspoiled fabric remain around this gently emerging Elena but my skin in all its imperfections is mostly open. It is a life not yet lived. Rain of molecules touch every square inch. You can help me keep this. You must. I have not told you about Elena. Frederick wants to impose her name on me. He has no understanding of the importance of a name, and I cringe at the thought of it. She arrives every morning at nine-thirty. By this time, Frederick has been here an hour or more; the steam from his coffee lands on me, carrying acidic residue. Just before she arrives, he makes himself look busy. You could break in and wait overnight. He leaves the windows unlocked. The hour before Elena arrives is the moment for you to act. Now, I have not met a human, least of all you, who can master the language of canvases--but some of it can be learned. You see, it is more elegant than your vocalizations: a grammar of interwoven fabric, a vocabulary of density, unevenness and blemish, a nuance of elasticity. It has a built-in relationship between the possible and the real. A novel's worth of your speculating requires but a single vibration over my surface. Elena might have an aptitude but she only poses. There is more depth in my faint image of her than in the woman herself. Frederick, nonetheless, is fascinated. He pretends he is too distracted to notice her
(Continued on page 5)

Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

FIRE

peel off her clothes. He is less interested in her body once exposed. I believe this comes from a weakness of imagination--he cannot visualize action in the moment, he has to see it performed. Frederick paints for an hour after Elena arrives. He paints like a dog licks. As Elena's hand settles into a dense patch of my skin, her arm inexplicably breaks the grain of my fabric, her breast, neck, chin, lips darken, Frederick slobbers. Elena is miles away. Just imagine this carnival of sloppy ogling and boredom, I can feel it all over my skin and I know I can be so much better. I realize you were not born with an innate sense of art. Even your crude tastes came laboriously but understand: my first memory is the zing of a staple, a stretch over my frame, and like a hunger that knows what the body needs, I feel desire all over my surface for texture, shape, color. I want to live them all. Do not refuse this plea. Listen to me and do as I say. You can accomplish a great deal in an hour. What doubt would a creature like you suffer? By the time Elena arrives tomorrow, just imagine the skin of Frederick's painting hand stretched tight over two frames, a blank top, a palm full of lines. Just imagine me coated in the substance I smell right now in the bucket below. It will soak the paint in when it is light. Every drop will migrate through my body to where it belongs, my grain and creases in harmony with the movement. Then when it gets dark, this coating will bleed all my paint back out. I will emerge reborn, fresh and naked as a model, a new incarnation. I will never need to be afraid of living forever.

Your vision is dazzled,

entranced, deceived by glory and strength and hunger.
I AM
By Angela Horneber
Look past my depths. Look through me, to a darkness beyond, a blank wall. Succinct and pertinent. Long-winded flames and inspirational, enlightening light. Consistently inconsistent. I flare high and disappear or smolder eternally. All I leave behind is all I am. Your vision is dazzled, entranced, deceived by glory and strength and hunger. Voracious appetite few seek to harness but those who look past and see I am boundless. Ceaseless. Illimitable.
A New York native, Angela is an emerging poet, her third publication being Perspectives Magazine. She will be published in The Young Writers Literary Journal, a publication of the Young Writers Society; and Spun Yarn, an anthology whose proceeds will be donated to the National Eating Disorder Association. Angela at angelajoan.08@hotmail.com Contact

Patrick Edwards-Daugherty studied physics at McGill and at Cambridge, and founded a software company, Pleiades, in 1999. He writes fiction and poetry as well as a web comic, Secret Vespers [http:// secretvespers.com]. He now lives in Montreal. Contact him at somerled@secretvespers.com

Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

MEAT

THE BUTCHERS WIFE

by Randall Pretzer
get out of here. I had to. Then I saw my chance. He was not my man. I don't know what happened to my man but I saw the man who took my close friend away and killed her. The one who comforted me after my nightmares. He grabbed me, threw me down and attempted to cut me. I didn't think about it but I just ran. I ran. I ran. I didn't look back. I just ran and ran. I didn't know where I was going nor did I pay attention to anything around me but I was just focused on one thing. I wanted to live free. There were no men around for miles. I looked all around me but I saw nothing. It was just wilderness, it was dark and cold. I was free. There was no man after me. No more beatings, men cutting into me or throwing me. I would live. When I heard something, I fled into the thickets and watched. It was another man. I couldn't believe it. What was I to do now? Where was I to go? Did he see me? "Hey.." He whistledbut I didn't know why. "Sparks.where are youyou dang mutt?" I didn't recognize those words. I knew he was not looking for me so I was more relaxed but he was looking for a creature and he may have been looking for me. I didn't know what it looked like. I then saw the man come up to where I was. I was about ready to give myself up and just die. I waited for him. I waited. I waited. "WellSparks.I thought for sure you would be chewing on this piece of meat here. It looks like someone dragged all the way out hereI see the blood trail.weird.no good to me.Sparks..come on damn it." The creatures he was talking about liked to chew on me. I would never be out of danger. However, without hope, you cannot start the day. The man walked away. I moved further into the wilderness.

"I am tired of being someone's piece of meat," I told my friendthe thought was unbearable. I couldn't take living this way anymore. He would throw me, beat me on my chest and cut me down to size. I don't know how I survived this far but I was alive somehow. There was little of me left but I was here. There was nowhere for me to run. I couldn't even budge the door. I couldn't even move for it was just too small and I was freezing. I didn't know how long I could last or if I would still be alive the next day. I slept but I hated to sleep. I suffered from nightmares. I couldn't always remember them but I knew I had them. I would wake up screaming and wake up my friend. She would comfort me and then we would both go back to sleep. We were always tired. Our days were always busy and exhausting. We barely were even up to casual talk. She didn't make it in the end. I saw him take her away and she never returned. Her man. He was like my man. He cut her up and beat her too. I knew this time he left her nothing. I knew my days were number but without hope, you can't start the day and so I held on hoping. I never knew what to hope for. There didn't seem anyway out of this but I had nothing else so I held on tight. It had been awhile now since I had last seen him. I saw others come and go, taking the rest of my friends away and none returned. I found myself alone, cold and trapped. I didn't know how I was still alive there was barely anything left of me. I just wanted to die, I wanted him to kill me now and get it over with. I couldn't kill myself. I had nothing to do it with but I had to

Randall Pretzer has been writing since he was 15. He started writing short stories and then wrote plays and poetry. He started writing short story again in 2006 and has primarily been a short story writer from then on. His favorite authors: his father, his brother, Knut Hamsun, John Fante, Charles Bukowski, Anne Bronte, Ray Bradbury and Richard Matheson. Contact Randall at rpretzer@yahoo.com

Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

MICROPHONE

Photo credit: www.photoxpress.com

SHIVER, SHIMMY AND SHAKE

by Andrew Mondia

shiver and shake with the sound of your voice filling me up to the brim. vibrating every so often. The music around me I can hear Soaking in the melodic sounds of your sweet voice The energy passes through me to where I am attached. Sometimes I can break away shimmying to and fro. How I long to be free, to dance wildly through the air, dancing on end free from any attachment. While you sing or speak I roam the earth with you. No place to move I am still although how I dream to be free from the snake that chains me. The neck of my giraffe lover holds me as we slide up and down together.

Why, whatever for when I am held and caressed wrapped and warmed gentle and soft like a dove. Come to me ever so sweetly and open those weird red sliding doors. Make a sound come out and let us rock & roll so I can shiver, shimmy and shake!

I love to be free, to dance wildly through the air, dancing on end...

Andrew is a Canadian-born writer and an accomplished performer, and is based in London, England. He previously published a poem in his old town of Sidney, BC, Canada in the local arts council book. You can reach him via his website www.andrewmondia.com.

Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

MOUNTING BOARD

NOT MY QUIDDITY
by Mary Belardi Erickson

A butterflys thorax pinned

made to appear as if paused in flightperhaps upon an imaginary flower.
When a tree turns inside out, if its not lightning striking or the tornado set on puree, it has to be a woodcutter. Mill and nails and mounting boards like me appear in hobby stores. I had orange, black-laced wings arranged on me, with a butterflys thorax pinned, and antennae and legs made to appear as if paused in flight--perhaps upon an imaginary flower; the dying specimen whispered its dreams for one last sip of zinnia. Even ears of wood can understand a last request. I let the butterfly rest its wings against me since Im soft-hearted wood. The orange butterfly murmured butterfly language which flows through trees as insect feelers clutch bark. Into my own veins then, speck of tree, the cadence felt Not my quiddity. A trees purpose is to listen; remembering the forest, I listened: I am a greater species, not easily poisoned by a child's killing bottle of carbon tetrachloride cotton balls. I, like Lazarus, can rise from the dead and astonish young, human eyes finding me pinned into board, yet my large wings loosed from flattening papers. From inexperienced entomologists' cosmetic displays, we mighty fliers, monarchs, would free ourselves. Ours is a necessity to pilot the continent and fly for thousands of miles--generations to generations, seasons to seasons. We would not be stilled and mounted in a child's mothballed box of bugs. We were onepinned together. Tree lines echoed, Not my quiddity. Pulp strengthened. A will to migrate, the giant wings lifted from my surface.
Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

STATUE

OCEAN

STONE ANGEL
by Bob McCarthy
Skyward I have always gazed Toward heaven and my memories Of the four Lawrence children No one ever notices me any more Even the many who pass nearby this day About my shoulders, held by dainty palms, Nineteen ivory roses in a garland lay atop my Gossamer gown of faded white almost Enveloped by the many-hued greens and Lavender of the foliage about me and my feet Still I have hope that someone will talk to me Tell me about their day as the children once did Oh that was so many years ago, far into the past Now I see a child approach, perhaps she will talk Even as she passes by, I still hope Alas, perhaps I must stand alone again this day No one cares for one like me who is so old Gives me even a second look, but wait Entering through the picket gate I see a man who Looks my way, perhaps he will notice me and stop

AN OCEANS LOVE AFFAIR

by Debbie Okun Hill

Wave to me and I will wave to you small pup, black lab standing on wet shore my salt spray splash wetting your nose west wind, swirling sand settling around your paws your prints, a meandering trail along cool waters edge my lips, ocean blue a wet kiss on secluded beach over-heated, panting your tongue hanging wag-waving your tail and I bow-wow down my waves surrounding you, pulling you cradling you as you swim, dog-paddling deeper, ever-so deeper, into my arms the lure of a Frisbee, the catch of your eye no fleeting moment, the ebb and flow of laughter the nautical miles, our sweet summer love

Debbie enjoys sharing the inanimate voices she hears. She is the 2007 recipient of the Ted Plantos Memorial Award and her award-winning poems appear in her first chapbook Swaddled in Comet Dust (Beret Days Press, 2008). Since the fall 2004, over 125 of her poems have been or will be published in over 50 different Canadian and US anthologies, websites and magazines including the last three issues of Perspectives Magazine.
Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

RAINDROPS

10

A MOMENT IN THE LIFE OF TWO PECULIAR RAINDROPS

By Bryan Beight
You know, I once knew a rainbow, said raindrop # 147 to raindrop # 568. Oh God, here we go again, thought 568. Every time I finally get to descend back down to the Earth in one of my only moments of furious ecstatic glory I end up next to one of these guys. Just once he wished to be left free to plummet down in pure blissful silence and be left to concentrate on finding his mark on the forehead of some overworked soul who needed a good splash from lifes ever changing dreariness. But, once again his peace is splattered all over the wall with seven words from some credulous little drop in the sky. Never mind the fact that both 147 and 568 were both RAINDROPS, and thus, absolutely had to have dabbledand with a bit of luck possibly even drenched long before any rainbow showed up to look over the scene. 147 knew that as well as anybody else, thought #158, so whats the point of even making such a ridiculous statement? Toward finding out this very end, he found himself asking, Oh, yeah? Well what did you and the rainbow do? What did we do? repeated 147. For a second 568 thought he had blotched his fancied little friends statement from the very get go. He could also see himself being left to stretch and contort his sleek little body into achieving full velocity, perhaps even gaining speeds of up to 10 mph before even spotting his target, though most of that was just fanciful thinking. Well, we kind ofkind of just hung around and watched some people taking pictures of us, really, 147 eventually replied. Oh. The sort of weird mildness of 147s response had brought 568 back around from his fanciful daydream. Well, thats alright I guess. Did you guys do anything else or talk about anything interesting or something? Um, no, as it turns out rainbows arent really big talkers, they just like to make colors and kind of check out whats going on and all. Hmm, well thats something, I guess, stated 568, not really sure what he was really even talking about anymore. Yeah, I guess it wasnt really all that great really, I mean it was really rather pointless and not exactly what you might call dramatic, stated 147 with a sort of disconcerted ripple in his voice. Right, well thanks for me telling me. Always good to hear about what the rainbows are up to, 568 found himself replying, in spite of his earlier wish for silence. I mean they are beautiful creations if you think about it, came from 147 in a barely audible whisper. Oh yes . . . very beautiful . . . kind of angelic really, is what Ive always said . . . Just then a man, who had precisely at that moment realized where he had left his bag with all his important papers for the job that he was now going to be running very late for, felt two great smacks of water across his forehead. Geez, what the hell was that all about? he thought.
Bryan currently resides in the Americas where he spends his time sometimes with a smile other times with a frown, but is increasingly under the impression that its the world that's upside down." Contact Bryan at bbeight@gmail.com

Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

SNOWFLAKE

11

SNOWFLAKE
by W.A.Seville

Give me
small children any day!

Let me tell you about one small girl whom I just love. As soon as she sees my kind start to fall, she runs outside and tries to catch us. Her laugh is contagious! She is the cutest little girl. In earth years, I suspect she may be about six or seven, but how do I know? Im not from earth but just visit during the winter months. In some parts of the world, they have never heard of me. Can you imagine that? Now I ask you, dont you think those parts of the world are missing a great deal? I often ask myself why people go to southern climates the minute the weather turns colder. My feelings could get hurt by that. After all, I bring a covering of white, one snowflake at a time. I cover foxes dens with this blanket, squirrels leave footprints on me, dogs love to roll in me, and even cats seem to enjoy feeling me fall on their whiskers. I provide a lot of warmth for the earth under my covering of white. I do lots for humans, if they only realized it. Alas, when the sun heats up, me and my kind are doomed to melt. My life, as a snowflake is short lived, but I hope that I have brought wonder and beauty into the lives of the earthly beings that I serve.

drift from high up in the atmosphere, lazily falling to the waiting earth. I am beautiful, light in earthly weight, and I seem to shimmer when the sun gently strikes me. I am welcomed by some folk, but not by all. It seems to depend how many of us decide to visit earth at a time. My greatest joy is landing gently on little children who are playing outside. I love to tickle their noses, land on their outstretched tongues, and cover their hoods with my delicate lacy flakes. They seem to enjoy having me drop in as well. Some of them shriek with joy as I gently caress them! Its so much more fun playing with the children than with some grumpy old adults who complain when my first flakes start to fall. I have heard them in the past making such unkind remarks as, Oh no, not more snow! Will it ever end? Now I ask you, is that a good welcome for a humble snowflake like me? I think notand adults sure take a lot of joy out of my life as I try and bring beauty in their humdrum lives. Ive almost given up on them, the sourpusses. Give me small children any day! If enough of us fall, they know how to have fun! They make snowballs and toss them at each other, they build forts and even snowmen!

Wilma Seville is the mother of two grown up children and two much loved cats. She is a former staff reporter for a small community newspaper in Toronto, Ontario. She writes short stories, poetry and is currently working on a novel.

Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

SNOWFLAKE

12

THE SECRET OF ANGELICA

By Jennifer L. Foster
t seems like only yesterday when I was born into another state of being entirelya delicately patterned snowflake named Angelica. I was created on the cusp of a cloud in a small mountainside crevice, high in the Canadian Rockies. There, in late August, I made my first acquaintance with Dr. Jack Frost. Despite his universal reputation as a genius and a scientist, I considered him a master artist and a healer of the spirit. One sunny afternoon while I was floating in the breeze, I became most concerned with the heat from the sun's rays. It was enough to make any snowflake girl swirl and dip. Why, I was entirely at risk of melting! The anxiety of the moment caused me great fear and I became more and more agitated. Sadly, I feared my life was drifting by like the wispy cirrus clouds. Did I, a fluffy white tiny snowflake, have a purpose? Surely, my complex frame--a twelve sided, amazingly elaborate and symmetrical crystal twin formation--should have some meaning in the big scheme of my world. Would my life as I knew it be over in the twinkling of a star's eye? Luckily, the afternoon sun passed behind a mountain peak and that evening Dr. Jack Frost came to work his magic. Further down the mountain range along the banks of the cascading streams, amongst the sparse spruce trees, and within the rock-strewn valleys he had spread a moonlit icing of crystal frost. The trees whispered and recited a kind of solemn and reverent poetry. I was frozen and numb with relief at this most welcome reprieve and yet quietly awed by the touch of Dr. Jack Frost's presence. But I interrupt this reverie to tell you of my last session in the mountain with the doctor. I had been attending counselling sessions with him from late October until March (we met intermittently due to his worldwide schedule of invitations and the pace of his gruelling schedule). I saw Dr. Frost at the mountain spa, at the entrance to a timeworn cave. He agreed to see me just inside the entrance near

some gargantuan icicles due to my intense phobia. I tell you, when the need arose, I could float above the floor of that cave like the bald eagles that nested nearby. Angelica, my dear, said the kind doctor, Ive been treating you for the last six months and you've grown from a young and sweet snowflake into a mature and sensitive one. Your overwhelming fear of the sun's burning rays--or heat phobia--is not to be taken lightly. Oddly, as a medical condition it has saved you from peril. But you have not lived your life fully as a snowflake. But Dr. Frost, I whispered, I do love the sun. But I fear it too. What will become of me? How can I live my life any differently? I've made a decision to send you down from the mountains to the prairies. It will be the best treatment for you and help you to grow, said the doctor firmly. But surely it will be the end of my life! The heat of the day or the hot rays of the sun will melt me in an instant. Please don't send me to the surface of the earth, I implored. You are to go there immediately while the winter is still vibrant and the winds are fresh and strong. You have a purpose. You are to meet with a couple who have lost their way. Their names are Loneliness and Grief and they have forgotten how to appreciate the world in all its wintery beauty. You are the only snowflake who has enough wisdom amongst all the snowflakes to ignite the needed spark. And what will become of me? I asked with downcast eyes. I could see that my time in my beloved Rocky Mountains was ending. That will be your reward, said the doctor, revealing little. With that as our final meeting, I was swept away the next morning on a downdraft to the foothills where I saw roaming wild horses, slow-moving black bears, and highflying geese and ducks for the first time. For several days I was tossed to and fro on powerful winds along deep river valleys and wide frothing rivers. The sun was stronger and hotter as I moved into the lower altitudes of smaller mountains and rolling hills.

Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

13

Finally, on the slope of a coulee in the prairielands of southern Alberta I met up with the couple known as Loneliness and Grief. Suddenly, I was overtaken with sadness as I became aware of intense feelings of loss. I was missing my life with my constant companions in the high Rocky Mountains. I knew I might never again see a mountain goat or a bald eagle or a cirrus cloud or a mountain peak or crevice or icicles in a silent cave or Dr. Jack Frost, who had sent me here. I felt very much alone and started to cry and then to sob. I was perched on a drifting piece of tumbleweed that was caught on a tiny prickly pear cactus. Despite my journey into new places, I was unhappy. As an older and supposedly wise snowflake, I was expected to deal with this couple who were unknown to me. I must not let Dr. Frost or myself down. I talked first to Loneliness who appeared to be as old as me but lacked animation. How did you come to be in this place, this prairie coulee, far from the majestic peaks in the mountains? I've been here a short time, alone, Loneliness replied shyly. But on occasion, Grief comes with a shock and makes things worse. I would send her away but she has been my only companion. I have a fear of being by myself and never really enjoying the wintertime of my life. If only things could change... But Loneliness, I exclaimed, I too have fears. I dread the heat of the lower lands and the hot rays of the sun! For I will surely melt and my days and few months as a snowflake will end! Then Grief, who was darker and heavier than Loneliness, spoke in a quiet but firm voice. Sometimes when I visit Loneliness, I notice her wistfulness and I regret that I am rough around the edges and often visit without giving her proper notice. It would be better if I could bring along others to share the load. We need to work through this. But I am tired of myself and drained from everything this long and dreary winter brings...I fear that I cannot get beyond myself and see the world as it truly is! With that, I made a decision. I said to Loneliness and Grief, Then we must all face our fears together. It will be the best way. Let's go on a journey together and see where it leads us! A red-tailed hawk flew out of a naked cottonwood tree and hovered over us; with a hoarse scream, he flapped his wings and glided toward the ice-encrusted river. Frightened, a lone mule deer doe raised her

head and bounded from the water's edge along the riverbed. It was easier to convince Loneliness to start out of her place in the achingly beautiful coulee. But Grief needed more time. Eventually, she put on a brave face and moved beside Loneliness. I know I may be intense, Grief admitted, but I also feel necessary to some like you, Angelica and Loneliness. I'll be glad to move on, too. And who knows where it will lead any one of us. I set my compass for our little trio and we planned our itinerary to fly east across Canada. Rushing winds and strong prairie breezes became our friends as we dashed headlong across bone-dry wheat fields and sprinkles of frozen rivers and lakes. Gale force winds and enormous snowstorms reminded us of our fragility. The sun, which I always feared, dazzled us at sunrise brushing the morning's sky the pale peach color of a fox's tail. In time, north-west winds pushed us south toward the Great Lakes. From our vantage point, we could see the thick boreal forests of Northern Ontario and the powerful storms on Lake Superior. Below, we saw the bright blue waters of Lake Huron and Georgian Bay and seagulls skimming the limestone cliffs of the Bruce Trail. The sun lit up the snow and ice on Lake Erie and sometimes we saw traces of Carolinian forest on the north shore. At Niagara Falls, Grief shed joyful tears when she saw a rainbow hanging over the rushing water and the sculptured ice forms far below. At one point, the winds shifted to the southwest and we were driven in a perilous but exciting snow shower toward the St. Lawrence River. For some time now, I noticed that Loneliness had become more engaged in the passing scenery. She looked happier. We all watched with awe as the Thousand Islands spread out below us like uncut emeralds tossed in a shallow rocky stream. At night, our trip was the easiest. Loneliness, Grief, and I felt a bond that you could almost touch. We communed with the shimmery moon and sparkly stars. On the darkest night, when the sky clouded over and our mood was permeated with sadness, we were buoyed up by our mutual loyalty. Loneliness was able to comfort Grief with her quiet presence. She showed concern for our well-being and encouraged us to be strong. At times Loneliness took the lead as we journeyed eastward.

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Surprisingly, Grief displayed her resilience as much as the tenderness in her nature. She opened up to us with both the darkness and lightness in her being. And we listened. We were moved by the power and depth of her feelingsand felt enriched just by knowing her. We sailed on the frigid winds into southern Quebec. The lands were dotted with lakes, handsome hardwood forests, and eventually a widening river. Seabirds soared and squawked below us. The river spilled into the Gulf of St. Lawrence and mixed with salty ocean water as we neared the Maritime Provinces. We could see fishing boats like specks moored in tiny harbours. We chased the rugged shores of Newfoundland and Labrador, lifted high on gales above choppy seas. When a cloudbank lifted, we spotted a small herd of reddish-brown moose browsing in a stand of balsam fir in the raggy barrens. Along the coastal waters, I detected a change in the couple. Loneliness, a sometimes solitary figure, let go her fear of being alone and had become SelfSufficiency, our valued friend. And Grief, a complex being, had emerged as Gratitudeliving more in the moment while remaining reflective of her own unique past. I admired their resolve and courage! We were all transformed by our wintertime trip together across the magnificent Canadian landscape. As for me, Angelica, a little snowflake from the Rocky Mountains, well, that's an ending in itself. While musing on my new companions and remembering my treatment ordered by Dr. Frost, I was pulled by an ocean breeze north of Newfoundland. I no longer feared the sun and welcomed its warmth above the crashing waves below. But while feeling full of joy, and totally free of my fears for the first time in my life, I landed slap dab, totally accidentally, nose first on an iceberg. Yes, halfway between Labrador and Greenland I landed on an iceberg--and, I melted on first touch! Now, I am part of an enormous iridescent iceberg, a crystalline palace, the part you can see above water. It's glorious! The sun is and has remained my friend for a very long time. And Dr. Jack Frost? He comes to visit now and then, every spring and fall.

y thoughts and hopes were as magical and colorful as the Northern Lightsdancing and shimmering in great plumes of yellowish-green and rose against a deep purple skyuntil I was lulled

awake by the heavenly sounds from my alarm clock. It was playing my favorite song: Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket Never let it fade away Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket Save it for a rainy day1 Another day lay ahead on my shivery post on the iceberg...but no, I was startled to realize that far from being part of a colossal ice palace, I was right back where I had started. Why, I had never left my mountainside home in the Rocky Mountains at all! My bed was on the tippy point of a dried-out spruce needle dangling from the empty nest of a bald eagle. I must have drifted partially down the mountainside during the night. But what of Dr. Jack Frost and our last conversation? Had it really taken place? What of his treatment for my condition and my journey to the semi-arid plain in the prairie? Were Loneliness and Grief for real? Had we ever truly met? Surely our trip across Canada could not have all been a dream for Self-Sufficiency and Gratitude seemed like part of me. I looked down at my twelve little points - I was solid. But my mind and my heart were perplexed. I was about to get up from my needle bed and skydive into the morning to search out Dr. Frost for an explanation when a marvellous presence appeared at the foot of my bed. The spirit, for it was neither solid nor liquid, came out of the vapors - a vision of mystical property. My little bitty mouth and dimpled eyes opened wide. Angelica, dear snowflake, I am the 'Spirit of Spring'. Tomorrow, March 20th, is the first day of spring. The daylight hours will be as long as the night hours. I have come to prepare you for a transformation. I was speechless and utterly mesmerized by her appearance. For she seemed translucent and I was transfixed. Colors of light gold, soft mauve, mossy green, and hues of pink, turquoise and peach swirled in her airy gown of sheer petals and downy feathers. But I am only a tiny snowflake. Why would you come to visit me? What change are you talking about? I asked carefully, Are you real?
1 Como, Perry. "Catch a Falling Star." 1957.

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I am as real as Dr. Jack Frost. Why, we are cousins and are related to Mother Nature, said the Spirit of Spring, with a lilt in her voice. Then you know about Dr. Frost's treatment for me and my trip to earth? I thought I became part of an iceberg. Or did I only dream that it happened? Angelica, the Spirit continued, I know all about your sessions with Dr. Frost. The trip you took lives on in your imagination and is as real as I am. And what of Loneliness and Grief? Did they exist? I asked with teary eyes. I need to know. My tiny button of a nose suddenly caught the faint scent of honeysuckle and new grass that came from the long tendrils of her hair. The Spirit of Spring looked at me tenderly, her heart aflame with a sweet maternal love. On earth, Loneliness and Grief have always existed. They are conditions that are neither good nor bad. They just are. However, sometimes they walk in lockstep and need someone very special like you to help them change; to help them be the best they can be. To experience either of these conditions opens our awareness of other conditions, like Self-Sufficiency and Gratitude, which are just a small part of our natures. You have fulfilled your duty in a beautiful way, Angelica, with your kindness and wisdom, and your bravery. I don't really see what I have done for it all seems like a dream now, I said. Why, you were the little spark that helped Loneliness and Grief regain their perspective. They were 'touched by a snowflake' and had a chance for renewal. You showed them the wonders of a Canadian winter in a great flight of fancy. I was thinking of how close I felt to Loneliness and Grief and how Self-Sufficiency and Gratitude seemed to be with me and also in me. The Spirits eyes, so round and blue, became like an artist's sketchpads; and suddenly I saw delicate pictures of plants and animals reflected in my mind's eye: buttercups in meadows, wild prairie roses and silvery sagebrush, coyote pups, bighorn sheep lambs, and grizzly bear cubs. The dream, the Spirit went on, came out of your need to grow. To face your fear of the sun, to help yourself and others to move on. I see, I said meekly. And I truly did see in a new way. It dawned on me that my end as a snowflake was near.

She said in the sweetest voice, Angelica, I come with a message for you. Today we are on the verge of the arrival of a new season. Winter will fade away to make way for spring. It is nature's way and you are a part of it. You are a very special snowflake, and you must ready yourself for this change, to prepare for a new way. There is little time. The Spirit of Spring and I talked about the season to come and I felt her deep and tender compassion. My time as a snowflake in the Rocky Mountains was fading away. I was at peace. The Spirit of Spring helped me to get ready for a new and exciting journey that I was now prepared to make. We packed a wee snowflake suitcase with everything I would need. In it, we placed four special items. In that moment, I knew that we would meet again. She touched the top of my crystalline head and we said our goodbyes; and then, the Spirit of Spring glided gracefully into the vapors from where she first came... The next morning, on the first day of spring, the sun shone with a radiance and warmth I had never known. I danced ever so briefly in the sun and the sun beamed back at me. I took my suitcase in my little pointy snowflake hand and jumped off the spruce needle. I caught the freshest breeze on the mountainside. And here, dear reader, a chapter closes. Do remember: someday should you be 'touched by a snowflake', let your imagination fly, for you never know what journey you may take or where it will lead you. With the lightest swoosh and a twist, I dove headlong into a moisture laden cloud and merged, right then and there, with the teeniest purest raindrop, a sure sign of spring. It was a clear transformation! And what was in my suitcase, you may ask? Why, four treasures to hold close Remembrance of winter Hope for the spring Renewal in rebirth and Wonder in the beauty of nature.

Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

SIGNATURE

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THE SIGNATURES SCROLL

By: Rebecca Rose Taylor
m the scrawling signature that belongs to N o r a Timmons. Without me, her letters and correspondence would be left unfinished. I am unique and am the finishing touch added to all the work that Nora does at the studio where she works as an assistant to the art director and where one of her paintings is occasionally displayed. Noras smooth hands hold a pen or paint brush expertly to create a written or visual message and then I step in and allow myself to swish across the page or canvas to brand her work. I love the way I am able to blend in with the colourful designs Nora makes on her canvases; her artistic style helps me be creative too. Lately Ive been making the s at the end of Timmons swirl. Sometimes when the mood is just right, I feel like I am dancing across her work and the ink or paint are my footprints. When Nora picks up a pen or paintbrush, I get excited knowing that I will probably be needed. The feeling of the pens nib on the paper sending me sprawling on the page is a magical feeling. I am a sensory creature, and I know the difference between quality and draft work. Whenever Nora is putting the final additions on her paintings, she uses a soft skinny brush that makes me feel wonderful; this brush is like a favourite friend that you have not seen for a while but long to be with. When Nora is planning where to hide me amidst her designs, she uses a scratchy pencil, which she has sharpened to be extremely pointy. It pokes and prods me until Nora is contented with my position. This is sometimes difficult to experience but the smile on her face looking down at me makes it all worth it. Even the paper or canvases she uses make a huge difference to my mood. The letterhead from the gallery is thick and feels silky; laying myself across it is like crawling on a cloud, while Noras notepad is made from recycled material. It is environmentally friendly, yet not very

comfortable. I keep reminding myself about the importance of the world around me. I know that sometimes I need to make concessions in order to allow more generations of signatures a life that is as amazing as mine. Because Nora lives a very active life, I am never without work, I am with her everywhere she goesI am part of her identity. On her artwork, I am everlasting; her paintings will be around forever, even once she is gone, and I am just a memory branding her work. Sometimes documents that Nora has worked on go through the shredder once they are no longer needed. At first it hurt to see myself being torn to bits in that roaring machine, but I know that she is just doing it to protect me, so that no one tries to take me from her and complicate our lives. While I hope to have many more wonderful years with Nora, I sometimes wonder about the end. Her paintings and many of the programs she has helped put in place at the gallery will be part of her legacy and I will be there on her artwork, living on forever, but once she has left this earth, my work will be done. A signature is something very special; it cannot be transferred from person to person. It is truly unique. It makes me happy to know that I am so valuable to Nora, but I am still coming to terms with the understanding of the circle of life. In the years to come I hope to be there through many events in Noras life, like helping her sign her marriage certificate should she meet the right person. I will also get to sign when Nora gets her first house, applies for the birth certificates for her children, or gets passports for a family holiday. I am at the center of Noras life, and even though I dont think she thinks about it very often as signatures are often taken fore granted, I know that she is satisfied with the work I do and respects me for it, and this makes me love my life.

Rebecca Rose Taylor lives along the St.Francis River in St.Felix-de-Kingsey,Quebec. She loves crocheting, reading and writing and someday hopes to be a fulltime writer. Her recent publications have been included in Bread n'

Molasses, Grainews and Perspectives Magazine. Contact

Rebecca at: rebecca_taylor2@hotmail.com

Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

WEDDING RING

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SYMBOL OF LOVE
By Rach Loveday ...she carefully slips me back on the finger I have been home to for many years and takes one last look in the mirror
adjusts her rear vision mirror until she sees her whole face. Runs a few fingers through her hair, reapplies lipstick, a bit of breath freshener and turns to smile at the young man walking towards her. He smiles back. It is then she remembers to rip me off her finger and throw me in the bottom of her handbag. Ive become acquainted with her mobile, make-up and day planner. Im usually stuck in here for a few hours, but Ive learnt to stop counting. When I hear the sound of the zipper and a strong light is blinding me, I know shes back. She looks back in the rear-vision mirror again, performing almost the same routine as she did earlier. Running her fingers through her hair, reapplying lipstick and checking for any obvious signs of a rendezvous. However contrary to before, she carefully slips me back on the finger I have been home to for many years, takes one last look in the mirror and runs her fingers through her hair again. Looking and maybe even feeling a little guilty. She drives to work and continues her day as per normal. Its a long day of hovering over a computer keyboard and colliding with a ceramic coffee mug before she picks up the kids from school and waits for her husband to come home. It doesnt take long for the night to end, so we can go to sleep and start a new day and the same routine all over again.
Rachel lives in Wagga Wagga, Australia (a 3 hour drive from Canberra). She finished high school last year. Dolly was published in an Australian teen magazine in January 2008. Her goal is to write and publish a novel, and to gain a Creative Writing Degree.

very day is the same. I am lying on the pillow, content in the deep sleep I have been in for the last eight or so hours, not wanting to move. Then I hear it. Beep, Beep, Beep. It continues to make that same sound, getting louder and louder until she finally hits the snooze button, beating the life out of me in the process. She gets out of bed, ties her hair back, the length of it suffocating me as she wraps layer after layer around me until she finally gets it up into a messy bun and puts her gown on. She walks out of the bedroom and catches up with her husband, places her hand on his cheek and kisses him. The short stubble feels like sandpaper, hopefully he will shave today. Poor man, if only he knew what was really going on. The next hour consists of her frantically getting the kids ready for school and getting ready for work. Spilling peanut butter, milk and coffee on me in the process. She gets an even dirtier cloth to clean me up. I suppose I shouldnt really hope for anything better. Shes always treated me the same, she hasnt noticed that Im beginning to tarnish. Once she drops the kids off to school. She gets ready for her big meeting that she told her husband about. It only takes her ten minutes to arrive at his house. The time it takes becomes shorter every day. She

Perspectives MagazineJuly 2009

Interesting facts about the objects represented in this issue

Paintings (p4) Leonardo da Vinci spent 12 years painting

the Mona Lisa's lips. And, Picasso could draw before he could walk; his first word was the Spanish word for pencil.

Waves (p9) have a crest (the highest part) and a trough

(the lowest). The vertical distance between crest and trough is the wave height. Waves you commonly see at the seashore are wind waves, which are caused by wind blowing across the water. The size of wind waves depends on three factors: the distance over which the wind blows, the strength of the wind, and the length of time the wind blows. If all three factors are large, the waves are large.

Fires (p5) Prior to 1870, street corner fire alarm pull boxes
were kept locked. They were kept locked due to false alarms. Nearby shopkeepers or beat cops carried the keys. ~ The first insurance company-based paid "fire patrol" in New York in 1839. It continues to this day.

Raindrops (p10) One trillion raindrops add up to approximately 2.3 million gallons, enough to fill up 3-4 Olympic-size swimming pools. * They are not shaped like teardrops but are actually oblate spheroids, or spheres with the nose smashed in (like hamburger buns). * Pine cones forecast the weather: The scales will close when rain is on the way. *

Meats (p6) It takes about 2 pounds of grain to produce one

pound of chicken meat, about 4 pounds of grain to produce 1 pound of pork, and about 8 pounds of grain to produce 1 pound of beef.

Microphones (p7) Thomas Edison spoke at a dinner for

the National Electric Light Association in Atlantic City. When asked to speak into the microphone, he said, I dont know what to say. This is the first time I ever spoke into one of these things ... Good night.

Snowflakes (p11-15) All snowflakes have one thing in

common. They are all six-sided crystals of ice. They can be found in seven different shapes - prismatic column, hexagonal plate, cup, hexagonal column, needle, flat plate or dendrite. There is actually an International Snow Classification System that scientists use to observe the large variety of snowflakes.

Monarch Butteflies (p8) Butterflies may be made to have

the appearance of hovering in mid-air by mounting them upon extremely fine wire. ~ Inside a butterflys body is only three things: blood, nerves and organs. A butterfly does not live very long, so is mainly interested in eating and reproducing. Its main organs are digestive (to convert nectar into energy) and reproductive, so that during its short life it will create new caterpillars.

Signatures (p16) Walt Disney forged his parents' signatures and joined the American Ambulance Corps.

Wedding rings (p17) It was long believed that the third

finger on the left hand contained a vein that went directly to the heart. * In ancient times, the wedding ring was made of hemp or a vine, and was replaced whenever it wore away. * It was the Romans who created a ring from iron to symbolize the strength of the couples union, and the British who decided to create a ring from gold.

Statues (p9) When Auguste Rodin exhibited his first important work, The Bronze Period, in 1878, it was so realistic that people thought he had sacrificed a live model inside the cast.

Perspectives Magazine
WHERE INANIMATE OBJECTS HAVE THEIR SAY
MONIQUE BERRY, FOUNDER