SLEEPING GIANT WRITERS FESTIVAL, 2009

What would August in Thunder Bay be without the Sleeping Giant Writers Festival? Even the Giant would protest.

This year a change in venue, with more space for the increasing numbers of participants. No longer the old Prince Arthur but now the Old Fort.

And what a line up! Linda L. Richards on mystery thrillers. Scott Steadman on publishing , Fred Stinson on historical fiction. What to do? Which way to go? I know when the time comes I’ll go crazy picking my workshops.

One writer I will not miss is Lynn Coady, whose short stories I enjoy very much. By chance, I just read her story, “Jesus Christ Murdeena” anthologized in the Penguin Book of Canadian Short Stories, edited by Jane Urquart. I love short stories and this is a great example of a fun, thoughtful and unforgettable story. Great characters, great dialogue and crazy plot as Canadian as boreal rock – what more could you ask.

Keep your calendar clear for August 28, 29, 30, 2009.

WIND by Elizabeth Kouhi

A hundred thousand
muted harp strings sweep
long phrases, as winds
sough through Boreal tree tops.

THE STASI FILE

My good friend author Peter Bernhardt's thriller, The Stasi File, is available at Amazon.ca Read the first chapter below.

WHAT'S IT'S ABOUT. Dust from the demolished Berlin Wall has barely settled, the East German police state is teetering on the edge of collapse and Stasi General Holger Frantz will stop at nothing to save it. Caught in his intrigue are two unlikely heroes: American lawyer Rolf Keller, recently divorced, fresh off the bottle, and mysteriously dispatched by his senior partner to coordinate document drops by a defecting Stasi agent, and aspiring opera diva Sylvia Mazzoni, Rolf's former lover who has been coerced into acting as courier.

CHAPTER ONE
Sylvia Mazzoni stepped out the stage door of the Big House, the locals’ name for the Stuttgart Opera Theater. In her blue jeans and sweatshirt, she looked more like a member of the cleaning crew than a soprano leaving a rehearsal called solely on her account. She took several deep breaths, releasing the lingering tension with each exhalation. A gust of November wind whipped the trees around, causing shadows to thrust and parry in the dusky Schlossgarten Park. She shivered, pulled a long wool scarf from her shoulder bag, and wrapped it, Pavarotti style, around her throat. Anything to protect The Voice. She removed her hair clasp to allow heavy, dark tresses to cascade around her shoulders.

The music director had engaged her for two performances as Micaëla in Carmen after seeing her in the part at the regional opera in Ulm. She had done well this evening, but would she pass the real test tomorrow? Her debut at the renowned Stuttgart Opera could make or break her career. If she failed to impress, she’d be relegated once again to bit parts in provincial houses. She vowed not to let that happen. She had worked too hard for too long to fail now.

The park adjoining the theater, brimming with life all day, was deserted. Sylvia thought of waiting for a colleague to accompany her, but eager to catch the next streetcar, she ignored her intuition and stepped onto the cobblestone promenade along the lake. A glimmer of city lights filtered through the bare branches of giant oaks and sycamores. Dim sidewalk lamps cast long, crooked fingers across the dark water. To shake the foreboding image, she looked for the soft ripples that would precede swimming mallards and swans, but it was late even for them.

Sylvia peered up the dark path. A few meters ahead, the desiccated leaves of a giant poplar rustled in the night air. From there it was only a few minutes to the shopping arcade and the streetcar stop. She pressed on.

A burly man came around the bend, his right hand tucked inside the front of his leather jacket. Startled, Sylvia felt an adrenaline rush. She clutched her umbrella and stepped to her right to give him a wide berth. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a sudden movement, a lunge toward her. She spun around. Glinting metal ripped through her sweatshirt and slashed her left upper arm. She winced with pain as she jammed the metal tip of her umbrella as hard as she could into the attacker’s chest. He grunted. The impact jarred the umbrella from her hand and sent it clattering to the ground. Warm liquid trickled down her arm. Sylvia staggered onto the damp lawn. She fought to regain her balance but slipped and fell hard.

Frantic, she looked for the umbrella, but it had rolled down the path, beyond her reach. Get up, she exhorted herself in a panic, but too late. The towering figure came at her again. Heart thudding, Sylvia skidded backwards on the grass. She heard herself scream, “Help, help . . . help me!”

The man drew back the knife and slashed downward again. She rolled. Her face, covered by her tangled hair, flattened against the wet ground. She clawed the hair aside and saw the knife plunge to its hilt into the ground where she had been a second ago.

“Damn you, traitor!”

She’d heard that guttural voice before. She raised her head and found herself staring into hate-filled eyes. Could it be . . . ? Before she finished the thought, his massive body crushed her, knocking the breath out of her. She opened her mouth to cry again for help, but could only spit blades of grass. Cold fingers dug beneath her loosened scarf and closed around her throat. Muscular thighs straddled her hips, pinning her so that struggle was useless. She brought her hands up, trying to loosen his grip, but the vise only tightened.

“Ple . . .” Sylvia’s voice trailed off in a gurgle, her trachea compressed in his grasp. Blood rushed in her ears. The man’s menacing face became a distorted blur. Panicked, she fought for a breath. Her limbs went numb. Darkness swallowed her.

Then a sharp thump penetrated the void. Dead weight slumped against her chest. The vise at her neck loosened.

She gulped for air, fighting the crushing weight. One small breath came, then another. She opened her eyes. The attacker’s face pressed at an unnatural angle against her chest. Blood trickled from the man’s slack mouth. Repulsed, she pushed the stubbly face away and struggled to shove the corpse aside. It tipped for a moment, then rolled back on top of her. She shuddered.Sylvia took several more ragged breaths, gathering her strength, but before she could make another attempt, someone lifted the body off her. Her chest heaved with relief.

“Frau Mazzoni, are you all right?”

She stared at the man. Then she recognized Intelligence Officer Dieter Schmidt. “Herr Schmidt. What are you—?”

“You’re safe now.” He took her right arm to help her sit up, then pointed at the blood-soaked clothing on the other. “Can you move your arm?”Sylvia gingerly lifted her left arm. The pain was tolerable. The sweatshirt’s damp sleeve clung to the wound, stemming the blood flow. “I guess it’s okay.”

“Good.” He motioned toward the lifeless body lying in the grass next to her. “Do you know him?”

She forced herself to look. “He’s with . . .” She took a deep breath. “He was with the RAF, a friend of Horst.” She shivered. For years she had looked over her shoulder expecting the Red Army Faction terrorists to come for her. They never had. Why now, twelve years later, just when she’d begun to think she was safe from their revenge?

Schmidt nodded. “I was afraid of that.” He bent down and felt for a pulse. After a few seconds he said, “His terrorist days are over.”

Sylvia stared at Schmidt. “Did you shoot him?”

He steadied her on her feet. “We’ll talk about this later. You have to get away from here now—before the police arrive.”

He scrutinized her face. “Can you make it back to your hotel by yourself?”

In a daze, she nodded. “I have to take care of things here, but I’ll check on you as soon as I can.” He collected her bag and umbrella and thrust them toward her. “Frau Mazzoni, not a word about this to anyone. Go. Now!”

Sylvia stumbled in the direction of the shopping arcade.

STILL LIFE

by Sharon Irvine

Layers of delicate snow pastry
curve over the eaves
defying wind and gravity
inviting a caress,
like the curve from waist to thigh.
The air bites at exposed flesh.
Trees snap and crack
in the clean cold
Tops etch into the azure sky.

Spruce and balsam lean drunkenly
with the weight of uneven clumps:
Dairy Queen nostalgia trapped in branchy nets.

The picnic table stands evenly loafed,
waiting for a winter gaggle of children
to mitten sculpt.

By the lake,
a whirlwind
vacuums the smooth crystals of drifts,
chases the evening veil of mist and light.

Above
two ravens flap angrily in a jack pine,
sending a shower of snow
sifting through the branches.

Beyond the lake,
the upper reaches of jagged pines,
silvered and ghostly,
waiting
to be set free by the sun.

The tang of smoke, acrid and musty,
rides on the cutting edge,
of a northern wind
that smoothes and shapes
the white winter clay.

This singular landscape,
Parts
but whole.

Litmags threatened by new funding guidelines

By Stuart Woods

The Harper Tories have promised to maintain existing funding levels for the country's magazine industry ($75.5-million annually), but guidelines announced this week for the new Canada Periodical Fund could put Canada's small-run literary magazines in jeopardy.

The new Canadian Heritage-run program merges two other federal funding bodies ­ the Canada Magazine Fund and the Publications Assistance Program ­ in an effort to streamline operations and tie support of the periodical sector to the reading choices of Canadians.This new system won't become a reality until at least 2010, but when it does, funds will be allocated using a formula based on paid circulation, and magazines with less then 5,000 annual subscribers will be shut out altogether.

The new formula would be a huge blow to the small number of literary publishers that depend on Heritage to survive, including respected journals such as The Literary Review of Canada, The Malahat Review, and Matrix, which have typically received annual subsidies ranging from about $15,000 to $20,000. As it currently stands, the minimum circulation requirement would exclude pretty much every literary and arts magazine in the country,says editor Andris Taskans, whose Winnipeg quarterly Prairie Fire relies on Heritage money for a significant portion of its operating budget and about half of its postage costs.

Taskans says the new guidelines are a deliberate slap in the face to small magazines,and that he would like to see the special status of literary magazines restored. Says Matrix editor-in-chief Jon Paul Fiorentino, whose magazine has published early works by authors like Heather O'Neill and Pasha Malla, There's value to what we do beyond the number of readers we get per issue.

According to the Canadian Heritage release, the department is still finalizing the guidelines, so there's still room to have them revised, if not removed completely. People have to be realistic that there will be some form of minimum, says Mark Jamison, CEO of the trade group Magazines Canada, so the question is, how do we manage a specific challenge for a very specialized sector?

Jamison believes there's reasonable hope that Heritage will ease its restriction on small magazines if the literary community succeeds in bringing its message to Ottawa. From Quill and Quire.February 20, 2009

Martial Arts by Keith Johnson,part 3, conclusion

For Part 1, see list of posts below or go to http://literarythunderbay.blogspot.com/search/label/Keith%20Johnson
For Part 2, also listed below or at http://literarythunderbay.blogspot.com/search/label/Martial%20Arts

Eric appeared to be favouring his left leg but otherwise the group seemed to be uninjured. Martin’s inquisitive look and obvious concern prompted a self-conscious grinning response from Eric. “I never thought about a frigging dog, the son-on-a-bitch, a big black Alsatian. It feels like he got a chunk of me. Outside of that, I guess we’re OK. How’d you like the fireworks? I think Larry is a real artist, a pyrotechnical wizard, no less.

From the recesses of his haversack, Martin retrieved a first aid field pack which he opened while he indicated Eric to expose his wound. It was the calf muscle just below his left knee that was torn and encrusted. Fortunately, he had replenished his canteen with fresh spring water which he now offered to help Eric swallow a couple of large sulphonamide tablets. With a moistened gauze pad, he swabbed the area then dusted it with marfanil powder and taped a dressing on it. Hopefully, that dog was a member of their papered canine corps, healthy, and not a carrier of rabies. Probably he would receive the same military honours as the other enemy casualties of this night’s encounter.

Eric gingerly eased his trouser leg down over the sore spot commenting that he’d heal all right but he doubted his pant leg would. At the ensuing strategy powwow, they observed that the commanding view the castle on the hill possessed would now become their advantage. Anyone attempting to leave the redoubt either to flee or to augment their water supply from the spring would be exposed whether here or anywhere along the roadway through the valley. They decided to withdraw to the forested area where the road first entered the valley.

The cloistered enemy had had their teeth pulled. Their fuel cache and arsenal had gone up on flames. Their vehicles had been incapacitated, radio demolished and they’d had their water cut off.

A tangle of underbrush marked the transition from meadow to forest and this screen would prevent those at the abbey, with even the most powerful optics, from observing the squad. They, in turn, could select their vistas of both the fortress and the spring. The buildings atop the hill were well within rifle range and the waterhole was about half that distance.

Pietro had departed on his bicycle. He would go to his sister’s place and borrow their motor scooter which would serve as ambulance to convey Eric to their home where he could recuperate and if necessary get medical attention. Larry and Martin occupied themselves erecting a bivouac to shelter them and some of the irregulars who volunteered to help in the stake-out. The eastern sky was lighting up. Fleecy clouds floated across the pre-dawn indigo sky. It looked like the weather had broken and the sun would shine upon the group while they enjoyed some well deserved R & R.

War is synonymous with atrocity, carnage, brutality and suffering, yet it is also the catalyst which brings forward much of the scientific and technological advances which we enjoy. It is the proving ground for many procedures that would otherwise never see the light of day. One is hard pressed to find any other field of human endeavor which has not benefited because of this. Even military practices themselves have evolved in this manner. The abhorrent butchery of ancient battles has, to some degree, give way to new strategies which, though still bloody, are not the hopeless grinding battles of attrition of the past. Mobilization, lightning war, (blitz krieg), rapid attack and counter attack, these manoeuvers and tactic or the second World War were welcome relief to the “stand and deliver” trench battles of World War I. We’ve come a long way and I’m sure that military historians would declare that Siege Warfare had no place in modern hostilities and furthermore they would unanimously deny that it had been practiced as recently as the middle decade of the twentieth century during World War II but, then, of course, they had not been there,

TOWARDS A MISTY GOAL

By Margaret Rose Cunningham

Avoiding the river of someone else’s passion
I leap (or creep) from one stone to the next
Afraid that it will sweep me with it.

Feet wet, I leap for the next rock
Secure but exhausted
And remove the tentacles of water plants
That would have caught me up.

Alone, I navigate the river
Forever moving on
Discovering new balancing acts
Uncovering hidden surprises
Inching towards a misty goal

WHEN YOU LEFT

Award winning poem by Erin Stewart

things you didn't
take into account

the death tricks
Autumn plays on us
And Winter's wish
we shut ourselves in.

I should have said

don't forget last spring we flowered
in a frosted car
and Summer was spent
mostly naked.