This cover, featuring the names of all the winners and honourable mentions of the 2013 writing contests, was created by Tetro Design.
Mike Barnes Judge's Notes
Lauren Carter Rhubarb
Janice McCachen Green Shoes
Keri Lund-Teigen This Much, I Know
BANFF CENTRE BLISS CARMAN POETRY AWARD CONTEST
Sue Goyette Judge's Notes
Owain Nicholson Hunter (II)
Sylvia Legris Glandula Botanica
Anne Marie Todkill Flock
Catriona Wright Kiviak, or, Delicacy in Greenland
CREATIVE NON-FICTION CONTEST
Sharon Butala Judge's Notes
Rita Greer June 1967
Kathleen Kennedy Remember This
Ruth Morris Schneider Wind River Rendezvous
Nadine Sander-Green Little Rabbit
* * *
Amanda Merritt Two Poems
Anita Doron Lola Grimm and the Humanity Machine
Richard Kelly Kemick Two Poems
Maureen Hynes Litany for a vacation
Andrew Boden Pop Goes the Zastava
Leonard Neufeldt Words and Tree
Michelle Kaeser Upside Down on Friday Nights
Catherine Brunet Two Poems
Carly Dow Flame Keepers
Ruth Morris Schneider
Richard Kelly Kemick
Anne Marie Todkill
Josie’s family came from Saudi Arabia when we were in grade four. She stood at the front of class as the teacher introduced her, one hand cupping a bony elbow and the ends of her long hair tangled like they’d been dipped in sugar. We watched as she, alone in the schoolyard, wound her fingers through the chain-link fence and stared out at the lake, at the fishery’s squat white boats motoring out and back in, seagulls accompanying them like kites. I wondered what it was like moving somewhere with so much water after a place with so much sand but I didn’t ask her or say anything about it to Sam and Lara as we whispered in a clutch by the gym door, beside the four-square. Over the weeks Josie’s colour faded to a tan and she became one of us, her pigtails jumping in the blur of plastic pink rope.
– Digsite, Athabasca Oilsands, August 17, 2013
Early autumn and winter, already moving in the roost,
peruses clutches of ravens on the eaves,
trucks, a hare thrown to the shoulder.
In 3-degree-above-freezing morning we listen to wolves howl.
An accidental kinship to the yowling from machines
felling the forest. . . .
I come in, spent, after a long spring Friday evening, vibrating with the energy of throwing, catching, yelling, hitting, intoxicated from hard play and fresh cool air. I throw myself on the chesterfield in front of the TV. There is some news program on, guys in suits going blah blah blah about the threat of Arab-Israeli conflict. Some over-excited American politician responds to calmly pronounced questions from an interviewer, blah, blah . . . oh yes, there could be no doubt, there was only one thing that could happen now, this would lead straight to World War III.