Here is the official call for poets:

“Calling All Poets!

The Poetry Prowl is back for its second year and is looking for poets to read their work aloud! Hosted by the Red Deer College Poetry Society and the Red Deer Arts Council, the Poetry Prowl is a roving poetry festival. Both our performers and audience members tour through downtown Red Deer stopping at venues along the way to listen to our poets perform.

The Poetry Prowl welcomes writers of all levels of experience. If you would like to participate please email a portfolio of your poetry, no longer than five pages, to: e.ursuliak@live.ca. Please include your name and contact information with your submission. Portfolios will be used to group poets together for our venues, and will not be returned. We will also offer a table for poets to sell their books or CDs; self-published work welcome!

The event will be held in the afternoon on April 14th, 2012.

The deadline for portfolio submissions is March 31st.

For information contact Emily Ursuliak at: e.ursuliak@live.ca”

All the best!
-Emily Ursuliak

Special thanks to Elena Rousseau for the cover

Books are available from members for $5.

Hello Jock,

I found your name on the Red Deer Writers Ink website — very dynamic. I want to spread the word among intermediate writers (those with material to organize or rewrite) about my summer writing camps in the West Kootenays.

I’ve attached a flyer with more information. Thank you for your help,

Holley

PS: Years ago I read in Red Deer from my first book, Rapid Transits and Other Stories.

I don’t know Holley but am happy to spread the word – any word that might help writers. Click to see the poster below –

Rubinsky Writing Camp

Maeve erupted into her quarters, screeching, smashing, crashing through all that lay in her path—torn topsy-turvy, shattered and splintered—tossed and shredded, rent and gaping. She was Fury. She was Frenzy. She was Fatal. She sobbed and screamed and howled—a great outpouring of rage. Then, just as sudden as its onslaught, the storm inside her stopped; a frightening hush descended…the sound of Maeve plotting.

The gaze from her swollen eyes fell upon a non-descript palm-sized wooden casket. It lay partly hidden by the spilled contents of an overturned trunk. She stared at it for some time, numb; recognition crept in. She took it up, in disconnected wonderment, turning it this way and that, as she ran one finger along its well-worn edges.  How many other fingers had done the same?

She sniffed and wiped her snotty nose, then with her thumb, pushed the catch and flipped back the lid. There it was, nestled in the bottom, lightly resting. She lifted a tiny silken bag from the chest by a gossamer thin drawstring as fine as spider web and  let it dangle from her finger—twisting, untwisting,  with the sun, against the sun, deosil and tuathal

She gave it careful scrutiny. Good. There were no stains; she teased the string with small delicate movements. There was no need for hurry. That caused errors. She inhaled resolve.

Maeve exposed the fragile lid. Peering closely, the seal appeared patent. She held her breath, as she gingerly lifted the miniscule glass, holding it between forefinger and thumb. There was no residue on the outside. That was good too. The syrupy golden liquid flowed unspoiled, deceptive and languid. She exhaled cold calculation.

The small bottle may prove well worth the expense yet; the quality seemed to be as good as what had been promised. Simple, effective and deadly swift, it was the answer to her present difficulty. Now, the real question was which one? She paused, suspended in the still point as she tapped the glass lightly, ever so lightly, against her palm, rolling it back and forth, back and forth. Think. Her animal eyes glittered, red rimmed in the dark.

She smiled, a slow, death’s head smile of patient reward. Good things come in small packages; good things come to those who wait. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. Revenge is best served cold. Platitudes swirled in her head. A thin hysterical giggle rose in her throat. She stifled it, covering her mouth with her free hand.

“Both”. She said with soft dispassion. She tucked the tiny promise into its bag, and gently closed the lid of the miniature chest. It clicked shut with the smallest of sound that barely rippled the fabric of this world, or the next. Silence cloaked her, and she sat there awhile, in the dim grey hovering between dark and dawn, in the land of shadows where she was well known and welcome.  

Click here for the audio

At the Tuesday, November 22 meeting, Bill shared “Where Do The Ideas Come From.” The text follows as does an audio clip. Click on the red arrow to listen in.

Where ideas come from.

I was lying in bed Remembrance Day morning.  It was dark.  I was feeling a slight twinge telling me that maybe I should get up and go to the bathroom.  But, it was very warm in my bed.  Quite cozy…  Then an idea started pricking my brain—wouldn’t go away.  So, I got up, and by the time I had finished my toilet, I had conceived this poem.

TEN LONG YEARS

“Hey, you!”

                                                               “What?”

“You can go home now.”

                                                               “Why?”

“The war is over.”

                                                              “Who won?”

 “No one.  Everybody lost.”

                                                                                                     Bill Birse

                                                                           Remembrance Day 2011

Daniel Sturgis shared part of Chapter 18  from his novel with the club at our regular meeting of Tuesday, November 22. Click on his name below to listen to the reading.

Stay tuned for the written version.

Dan Sturgis – Ch. 18 Beachbuggy Safari

We’d like to get our chapbook for Christmas 2011 together the week of Dec. 4.
If you wish to contribute a piece of your writing, please get it to Jock by that time.
Please supply your piece as a .doc (not .docx) file.
Those of you using the latest edition of Microshaft Word will have to do the following:
1. Open your piece as per usual
2. Drop the File menu
3. Select Save As
4. In the Save As dialog box, click the arrow on the right of the Save as type field
5. Click on Word 97-2003
6. Click on Save
This will result in a copy of your work being saved with the .doc filename extension. Send this one to Jock.
Use any font and paragraph format you please, but we recommend Arial or Courier 12pt., 1.5 line spacing.
Top and bottom margins should be 1”.
The first , third, and any additional odd numbered pages of your work should have side margins of 1.25”  left and 1” right.
The second, fourth, and any additional even numbered pages should have side margins of 1”  left and 1.25” right.
[If you are having difficulty with the margin thing, we can do it for you. That’s one of the reasons we’re requesting the files in .doc format.]
The page numbering applies to your piece only. The first page is always page 1.
Pictures or artwork may be included but whether or not we can do them in color is yet to be resolved. Color usually means an unacceptable escalation in the printing price, but we may be able to beat it. If you have pictures or artwork in your piece, please indicate whether or not it is acceptable to render them in greyscale should we not be able to get the color thing within reason.
We will have the printing done commercially since the quantities allow us rates below what it would cost members to print the material themselves.
You may print your own stuff if you want to, but you’ll have to keep in touch with Jock regarding how many copies we are making.