Saturday, 30 September 2017

The Wall of War is almost ready for publication. It's an exciting time for this writer!

So, people ask, "What's next?"

I've been writing an historical fiction tentativley titled "Alexanders - The Decades"
Each book will contain ten years in the life of Drake Alexander's ancestors, beginning with his grandfather, Dominic, in Scotland in 1911.


                              Alexanders – The Decades

This excerpt is from the second section - 1912-1914. It tells the reader how Dominic finds a new friend.

(Copyright is held by the author)

Being in the cooler northern region of Great Britain, Scotland is one of the windiest countries in the world with higher than normal amounts of rainfall. Winter usually brings copious amounts of snow in the Highlands with lesser accumulation in the lower regions. The days are much shorter. This first day of February, a Thursday and the last day of Dominic’s work week is clear, a cool breeze chills from the southeast as he walks along Langlands Road. Bluish shadows from a gibbous moon accompanies him home. Pulling his parka tighter about his face, he hurries his step knowing Uncle likes to eat at six o’clock and he guesses it must be a half hour later than that. He’s usually home by then, now that the days are not as long but he and Tubs had to finish replacing the door in Danny Meek’s bungalow in Ibrox.

He’s tired, his shoulders are slouched. One gloved hand carries his still stiff tool belt. A well-used hammer Tubs gave him hangs from one of the side loops and bumps against his leg. The repetitive slap in the only noise except for the distant clanging of the Fairfield Shipyards which go all night. The other hand holds the front of his coat tight at the neck. A well-used canvas lunch bag is slung over one shoulder. He was up at 6 this morning and helping Duff in his shop. The security men who pick up the repairs come every Thursday at noon delivering the jewellery to be fixed and pick up the completed jobs. Dominic spent the morning polishing chains that Duff had repaired. There was a silver one he really liked and hoped to own one day. While thinking of how much he needs to put aside when he turns onto Drive Road that will take him by Elder Park, he encounters three boys roughly his age.

Two of them are pushing and shoving a smaller boy who is doing his best to hold his own pushing and shoving when he can. The larger of the aggressors gets in close enough to grab the smaller one by his jacket collar and shove him against the wrought iron fence that surrounds the park. His companion steps closer and hits the smaller boy in the stomach. When the injured youngster falls to the ground Dominic is close enough to hear them. They don’t know he is near.  Not liking what he sees, the fallen boy much smaller, he sets his tool belt down gently and creeps closer.

“We told you before Pestov, you stay in the Gorbals. You Russian scum need to stay in the tenements where you belong. We don’t want you ‘Pests” around…”

Tall boy is interrupted by a blow to his left ear that causes him to stagger and cartwheel his arms before careening into his helper knocking them both down, the bigger one on top.  Dominic steps up to them, his gloved fists in the fighter’s pose his father taught him, taught all his boys.  His left foot back for balance, both feet on their toes.

“Try someone your own size ya bullies.”

Dominic is a scary figure, only his silhouette is visible to the downed ruffians, the partial moon shines over his left shoulder exposing his upraised defensive fists.  The downed boy is surprised by the aggressive act of the stranger and sits up trying to catch his breath and watch. The two on the roadway are scrambling backwards. The bolder one shouts while rubbing his ear.

“What’s it to you…and ya shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

They’re standing now and may be street tough but they’re leery of this stranger that is not an adult. They strike their own poses, the shorter one a step behind and bobbing his head back and forth from Dominic and his companion not sure what to do.

“Ya shouldn’t be picking on people smaller than you and you’re obviously not brave enough to do it on your own, takes two of yas.”

Dominic starts to bob lightly like a trained boxer.

“Step up now you cowards and let’s finish this…or bugger off!”

Tall boy and Uncertain give each other a glance before deciding that buggering off is probably the best option, turn and scamper away behind one of the apartment buildings on the other side of the street. Dominic relaxes and turns to face a bedraggled figure sitting with legs flat, holding his stomach and taking short breaths. The head is uncapped and hanging down. Even in the low light, Dominic can see the jacket is light and tattered.  Gathering his tool belt he wonders at the boy’s silence.

“Ya could at least say thank you.”

The voice is deep for someone so young and heavily accented from a foreign language.

“I didn’t need any help.”

“That’s not what I saw.”

No response. He reaches down with his free hand.

“C’mon, I’ll give you a hand up.”

Hesitant at first, the younger fellow offers an uncovered hand, small and delicate like a girl’s.  Dominic is startled by the uncovered limb. Grasping the hand, Dominic helps him to stand.

“Gracious, don’t you have any mitts?”

Tucking his hands in his jacket side pockets belies the next statement.

“No, I don’t, but I don’t need any.”

Stepping back Dominic tries to see his face but the lowlight only casts shadows. He can see that it is wide, lots of stray hair. The chin is up. Dominic stands at least five or six inches taller.

“So, what was that all about? And do you really live in the Gorbals?”

“They just think that all Russians are like the Ivanov gang and all we want to do is steal everything. And yes I do live in the Gorbals and I do live in a tenement before you ask.”

Dominic heard about the squalid buildings that housed immigrants in crowded quarters, often four to five in one or two rooms, lured by work in the yards. Always a shortage of homes drove the rents upward. Sanitation is a problem. Many do not eat properly. He didn’t believe it at first. He knew his family was poor but they always had a roof that didn’t leak, clean beds and food.

“What are you doing here? And at night?”

“I…I just need to get away from all that noise and dirty smells and…”

Dominic senses discouragement in the voice, a lower tone. The pitch changes, bolder.

“It’s not your business.  I should be going, my brothers will be home later and I need to be there.”

Without any further comment, he sets off towards the other side of the park. Dominic can see the figure shaking from the cold and stares at his gloves. He has an older pair at home, not as new but just as warm. Removing his gloves, he chases after the boy.

“Here, take these.”

Surprised by the command, the boy stops and faces Dominic, seeing the gloves in the outstretched hand. He is affected by the offer.

“You’d give me your gloves?”

“Well it’s two or three miles to Gorbals and I have another pair.”

He can’t say no. He can hardly grasp the gloves properly from chilled fingers. He stares at Dominic while twisting them on.

“Why are you doing this? You don’t know me.”

“Not so long ago I didn’t always have mitts either and I know what it is like. Now I’m working and can buy my own.”

There’s a moment of silence.  Dominic puts his own hands in his coat pocket.

“What’s your name?”


It comes out in Russian, eeVAHN. Not I-van like Scots call him.

“Ivan Pestov and what’s yours?”

“Dominic Alexander, but most people call me Dom. You can if you like.”

“Why would I like, I’ll probably never see you again. I doubt you hang around the Gorbals and I’m not welcome here.”

“Sure ya are, ya can come home and have a bite with me and Uncle if ya like?”

Dominic is worried about his spontaneous suggestion not sure how Duff will react to an uninvited guest but he needn’t be. Surprised by the stranger’s generosity, Ivan waves him off and starts towards the Gorbals.

“Thanks for the gloves and for getting those jerks off my back.”

Watching until the retreating figure is in darkness, Dominic hitches his lunch bag straighter on his shoulder and heads home wondering what the surprise is that Duff said would be there because today is his birthday.

I hope you enjoyed this brief excerpt as much as I enjoyed imagining it. It will be a couple of years before this novel is completed but I'll post an excerpt here and there in hopes you will follow Dominic's development.

Thank you for visiting the Scribbler, please leave a comment below before you go.

Sunday, 17 September 2017

Guest Author Ritu Bhathal of Kent, England.

I stumbled upon Ritu's delightful short story, The Bag Lady, and asked her if she would be a guest on the Scribbler and share her story. Much to my delight, she said yes!

Ritu Bhathal was born in Birmingham in the mid-1970’s to migrant parents, hailing from Kenya but of Indian origin. This colorful background has been a constant source of inspiration to her. From childhood, she has always enjoyed reading. This love of books is mostly credited to her mother. The joy of reading spurred her on to become creative with her own writing, from fiction to poetry. Winning little writing competitions at school and locally gave her the encouragement to continue writing.

As a wife, mother, daughter, sister, and teacher, she has drawn on inspiration from many avenues to create the poems that she writes.

A qualified teacher, having studied at Kingston University, she now deals with classes of children as a sideline to her writing!

Ritu also writes a blog, a mixture of life and creativity, thoughts and opinions, which recently was awarded second place in the Best Overall Blog Category at the Annual Blogger’s Bash Awards.

Ritu is happily married and living in Kent with Hubby dearest and two children….and not to forget the furbaby, Sonu Singh.
She is currently working on some short stories, and a novel, to be published in the near future.

Discover more about Ritu, her social media contacts and her books by visiting her website

(Copyright is held by the author. used with permission) 
The Bag Lady

Photo from Pixabay

“Come on Penny, let’s just cross the road here. There you go, good girl, we can see the shop window so much clearer from here.” Penny looked up at her mother and glanced back to where they had been standing, outside the huge department store Willards.  It had become something of a family custom that whenever there was a big reveal of the new Christmas shop window display, Penny and her mother, Charlotte, would come and marvel at the inventiveness of the designers.

Just to the side of the window this time, though, there was a small pile of bags, carrier bags, reusable shopping bags, even an old handbag, and they were all stuffed to bursting. Sat among them was a person. An elderly lady.

“But mother, why is that lady sitting there?” It didn’t seem right to Penny to leave an old woman sitting outside, on such a cold day.

“Don’t worry about her, Penny. She’s just a bag lady. Nothing to concern yourself with. Just keep your eyes ahead, and stop staring, otherwise, she might think we’re about to give her something.”  Charlotte held her hand out to her daughter, a gold bracelet  on her wrist glinting in the light as she did so.

Accustomed to listening to whatever her mother said, Penny obediently continued in the direction her mother had indicated, but she couldn’t help taking one last glance back. As she did, the woman caught her eye, winked, and gave her a wave.

Penny started, and turned forward, following her mother as quickly as she could.


Milly smiled to herself.

Bag Lady.

She was used to that moniker. And not just because of her present situation.

Oh, many years ago, there were those that called her that, for a very different reason.


Fifty years ago, she had been a young, eager to learn shop assistant at Willards. She had started right at the bottom, running around, fulfilling the commands of the head sales ladies. She became an expert at deciphering their strange, short code to describe all manner of items, so a customer was not waiting too long to get what they desired.

She was soon given a chance to step up in the hierarchy and began to wrap the bought items when someone noticed her careful handling of merchandise, and how she folded scarves and clothing with such reverence.

It was during one of her wrapping sessions though, that her true skill was discovered.

Lady Palmerston had been choosing her Spring wardrobe and had accumulated a huge pile of beautiful clothes, which Milly had to wrap. As she did so, Milly found herself mentally matching various accessories to the myriad outfits scattered on her counter.

She looked over at Mrs Walker, the Head Sales Lady, who was deep in conversation with Lady Palmerston.  They were discussing jewellery. That was Mrs Walker’s area of expertise. Milly knew they would be a while so she slipped from her place of work to the Handbag counter, and started rifling through the stock there. Finding the items she required, she went back to her counter, and began to arrange the clothes, and placed the chosen bags by each outfit. “They look pretty good!” she thought, and after a quick glance back, to see if Mrs Walker was still occupied, she nipped over to the shoe counter.

Content with her choices of footwear, she made her way back to her counter, to complete the outfits, before actually doing her job of wrapping the clothing in the delicate tissue paper Willards was famous for.

But she stood stock still as she realised that there were people by the wrapping station. Not any old people, but Mrs Walker and Lady Palmerston. Good grief! There would be trouble now!

One of the requirements of her job was to have the customer’s goods ready to go before they came to her, and she hadn't even started! This didn’t bode well.

“But I insist, Mrs Walker! I wish to speak with her right away! The one who did,” and Lady Palmerston indicated towards the clothes, “this!”

“Very well, Lady Palmerston, I shall go and locate the girl right away. I am so sorry for causing you any inconvenience…” Mrs Walker was decidedly flustered and turned around to find that blasted young girl. Really! To leave her post with all these clothes left scattered atop her workstation! And handbags strewn all over the client’s purchases!

She caught sight of Milly, just as Milly thought she should do a quick u-turn and disappear to the store room.

“Millicent! Come here this instant!” Mrs Walker’s voice carried across the shop floor and reached Milly’s ears.

“What in the world is going on here, young lady?” Mrs Walker shrieked as Milly approached. Reddening, Milly searched her mind for an appropriate answer. “Well, I…”

“Please Mrs Walker, may I?” interrupted a bemused Lady Palmerston.

“Pardon? Oh, of course, Lady Palmerston. May I just say, I apologise profusely on behalf of Willards…” The Head Sales Lady flustered.

Lady Palmerston turned to look at Milly.

“Dear girl, did you do this?” She swept her arm in the direction of the pile of clothes on the wrapping desk.

“Yes Lady Palmerston, I’m sorry Lady Palmerston” Milly glanced down at her shoes. This was it, she was going to lose her job now. Why couldn’t she have just done what she was meant to?

“Sorry? But I love it!”

Milly looked up, slightly confused, as did Mrs Walker.

“You have matched these bags to my outfits perfectly! And if I’m not mistaken, you were carrying shoes when you came over here. I can only guess they were to complement the handbags. Mrs Walker, this girl has something of a talent!


It didn’t take long for the word of Lady Palmerston to spread.

Her acquaintances made a point of coming to the wrapping counter and requesting that Milly accompany them to accessorise them.

Soon, ladies from far and wide were asking for “The Bag Lady” to assist them.

The management at Willards soon realised they were onto a goldmine here. Women were choosing outfits, and with Milly’s careful selections, they were spending double the amount on bags, shoes and scarves.

Would it be a good idea to move her to Jewellery, where the merchandise held all the more value?


Many years went by, and Milly passed her knowledge and skills onto some of the younger, eager girls working on the shop front. Teaching them which colours complemented others, which materials suited partnership with others, there was soon a team of ‘Purse Girls’, headed by the original ‘Bag Lady’.

Even with all her successes, she had lived a meagre life. The wages she earned kept a roof over her head. She had never married, or had children, so devoted to her job, was she.

The time came for her to retire.

They gave her a wonderful send off. Old clients of hers, as well as new, came to wish her well. Even Mrs Williams was wheeled out of her own retirement to come and gloat about how she had ‘discovered’ Milly’s talent. She was presented with a very expensive black Chanel handbag, as a token from the store.

She thought of Lady Palmerston that day very fondly. The woman had given her the step she needed to leave wrapping, and make a name for herself.  It was sad to think that she was no longer with them, having passed away around ten years previously, but Lady Palmerston’s daughter had come to the store, on the eve of her funeral, and requested that Milly choose the shoes and bag that her mother would be buried with.

Milly recalled a girl with her on that day, Charlotte. Lady Palmerston’s granddaughter. She had looked keenly at the various glass-topped counters, marvelling at the sparkly items encased within.

A few years, they met again. Charlotte was getting married, and she came with her mother to choose some accessories for her trousseau. Milly found her a beautiful bracelet, with tiny diamonds studding the clasp, something that would set off most outfits on her delicate wrist.


As kind as life had been to her whilst in employment, things took a down turn in retirement. With not many savings, and no family to fall back on, Milly fell behind on her rent. Paying bills, and even buying food became a juggling act.

Sadly, she lost her home, and with nowhere to go, her belongings stuffed in the bags around her meagre home, she wandered the streets. She took pleasure in finding a spot near her old workplace around Christmas, to see the windows that always gave her such pleasure.

And today, seeing that little girl had been the icing on the cake. Penny was the spitting image of her great grandmother, Lady Penny Palmerston. She knew it was her. And the fact that her mother still wore the bracelet, after all these years… It didn’t matter if she didn’t recognise her anymore, the fact that Milly’s choices were still appreciated warmed her heart.

She hugged her handbag tightly to herself and smiled.


The headline read “The Real Bag Lady”.

It detailed the history of the well-known Millicent Cooper, who had started the trend for personal shoppers, fifty years previously. At the time she was paid a basic wage, and the happiness of her customers was more than enough of a bonus for her.

And the sad news that even though her example paved the way for many younger women to charge exorbitant amounts, doing, essentially, the same thing, she died, homeless, curled up outside Willards, the very store she had found fame in.

Clutching her Chanel bag.

Thank you Ritu for being our guest this week and for this story!

Saturday, 9 September 2017

Wall of War - coming soon! A teaser by A. Hudson

With the forthcoming publication of the newest Drake Alexander adventure - Wall of War - I want to introduce you to one of the characters - Etienne D'Astous - a baker and world class rock climber from Cocagne, New Brunswick. His friends call him Tin.

(copyright is held by the author)

Chapter 35                      Nov 8 9:27 p.m.                  Cocagne Bay, NB


The Cocagne River flows into a basin whose shores are dotted with brightly colored cottages and stately homes. Deep enough for a marina that harbours ten or twelve boats, it feeds a larger bay but is choked by two protruding tracts of high ground sixty-eight meters apart. Spanning the gap is an aging wooden bridge, its complexion of fading white paint peeling. The timbered roadway is slightly heaved at the concrete supports, evidence of the sagging weight.  Hardy wooden arches, ornamental in their symmetry, support the asphalted road. Its daily traffic passes directly in front of the Boulangerie Belle Baie, the Beautiful Bay Bakery.  The wood and stone building is positioned on the tip of the northern finger that juts into the river. Water surrounds it on three sides. The aroma of spices and baked goods emanate from the building’s every pore.


Etienne D’Astous is in the kitchen at the rear of the building. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up above his elbows. The forearms and hands, dusted with flour, are plunged into a wad of white dough centered on the large prep table in front of him. The smell of yeast fills the brightly lit area. His lean body is draped in a white cotton apron, dusted here and there with baking ingredients. His image is reflected in the glass that frames the rear of the building. As he kneads the bread, he watches Charlie Caissie idle his boat, a Sundancer called the Water Spider, towards the marina, every deck light aglow. When it cuts through his image in the glass, Etienne studies his own reflection as he pokes and folds, liking what he sees – a happy, busy man.

He concentrates on his task, knowing he has punished the sticky dough enough. Wiping his hands on an ever present damp cloth hanging from the side of the table, he pulls a chef’s knife from a slot in the back of the table where several others await their turn. The impressive blade is German in style, curved along its cutting length, and Etienne uses it for everything. Setting the knife on the table, he turns to gather a stack of baking tins on the counter behind him as his wife Celeste walks in.

She is Filipino, as tall as a twelve year old, short spiky hair and a look that always seems to sparkle. She wears faded jeans, a pink long sleeved cable knit sweater and tan LL Bean hikers.  Her roundish face is the color of coffee with a bit of milk. She is caustically charming and you can’t help but like her. The only thing un-feminine about her is her hands. While dainty, they are the callused and scarred appendages of a rock climber, much like her husband’s.

“I just did the bank deposit and we had a fantastic day.”

“That’s great, Celeste. The macapuno tarts your brother made were a big hit. Maybe he could try an extra sheet tonight, cut back on the pet-de-soeurs. What do you think?”

She laughs as she helps Etienne carry the thirty bread pans to the table, where they stack them on the right.

“I think that’s a silly name for a pastry, a Sister’s fart.”

“Well, so is Hello Dolly. I just cook them and sell them; I don’t name them.”

Cutting a sizable chunk off the large blob of dough, Etienne molds the perfect loaf, drops it in the pan and tucks it in at the corners. Celeste watches him manipulate the dough so skillfully. She knows that when Tin, as all his friends call him, is not climbing the face of some daunting and scary rock, he is happiest here in his kitchen. She breaks her fond gaze to look around to see where she can help.

“I’ll leave a note for Fernando, then. Can I help you clean up here? The dough will need to rise for a while. Jacques will be here by eleven thirty and he can put them in the oven. And remember, we have to get ready for our meeting on Wednesday with Mr. Van Roden.”

“Who’s he again?”

Stowing the soiled utensils, plates, bowls and odd cups in the dishwasher, she is about to reply when her cell phone vibrates on her hip. Drawing it from its holster, she leans back against the counter.

“Celeste speaking.”



Elijah has explained to Williston the latest developments, the list of things they need, and the information they require. Williston replaces the phone on his desk. To say he is concerned about the Piscontes would be a drastic understatement. He knows them well, likes them a lot. Leaning over his desk, tapping his pencil on his notepad, he thinks about how much they mean to his best friend. Determined to do everything he can, he sits up straight and quickly makes a list.

His first task will be to call the D’Astous in New Brunswick. Forgetting his notes, he pulls out the left drawer to retrieve a dog-eared directory he keeps there. As much as he loves computers, Payne is old fashioned about his contacts, not trusting modern security measures enough to keep them online. Finding the proper page, he reaches for the phone and thumbs in the number.

Before pushing send, he gets up from his chair to walk to the window, staring out at the black waters. The slightest of vibrations can be felt as the powerful engine pushes his ship for Antigua at sixteen knots. Stretching backwards to ease the sore muscles of his lower back, he remembers when he met Etienne. They were fourteen, testerone-driven and mischievous. Visiting Drake’s parents’ summer home for the first time, he met many of the players on Drake’s baseball team and Etienne was one of them.

The kid was doing dangerous stuff back then, climbing the old wooden bridge in the first place was tricky; showing off by walking the narrow beams on the top frightened them all. On a dare one time he dove off the top, the height of a four-story building, into a narrow channel. It still chills Williston when he thinks about it.

He was the first to go skydiving, coaxing everyone to go with him. Drake was one of the first to go. Surprisingly, Beth went too. Williston was the third – but he’d never gone since.

Williston had only ever met the man’s wife at their wedding. He had spoken to her on the phone several times for social reasons. She and Etienne had met working on one of the Carnival cruise ships, where he was the pastry chef and she was the head waitress, both looking for adventure and they both were drawn to rock walls. They’d been together almost ten years now.  He hits the connect button and hears the sound of her island accented voice.


“Celeste speaking.”

“It’s Williston Payne calling, Celeste. I know it’s late; I hope I haven’t caught you at an inconvenient time.”

Her voice is sincere and wears a light smile.

“No Williston, it’s never inconvenient to hear from you. Goodness, we don’t hear from you enough. I hope you’re calling to tell us you’re coming to Cocagne?”

“Well, not right away. I’m calling for Drake and the Piscontes. Teresa Pisconte is in trouble and we need help. We need to do some back country scrambling and trail blazing. There is a cave or caves to find and probably sheer walls to be conquered.”

Celeste puts her hand to her mouth when she hears Teresa’s
name. The girl had worked in their store when she was a teenager and summers when she was home from university. She had been one of the hardest working employees they had ever had, always pleasant to the customers, always serious in her opinions.

“What’s wrong with Teresa?”

”It troubles me to tell you this but she’s been abducted.”

“Oh no!”

“That’s the reason we have to act fast. So can you two or at least Tin get away? And if so, how quickly?”

Etienne’s brow forms a questioning look from the surprise in his wife’s voice, the disbelief in her eyes. He wipes his hands as he watches Celeste. She looks at him directly, gesturing to the phone.

“I’m going to let you speak to Tin.”

She extends the phone to her husband.

“It’s Williston. Teresa Pisconte has been abducted.”

 “Teresa? Our Teresa? “

Celeste just nods in response as Etienne takes the phone.

“Hey Williston, what’s going on?”

Williston relates what has been happening over the last several days, covering the most salient points. When he gets to the part about the dagger and strange document that accompanies it, explaining their existence as the root of the problem, Etienne questions him why they would need climbers.

“Well, that’s the part that’s vague. The document is written in Latin and I personally haven’t seen it, but a friend of Miguel’s, another priest who is fluent in that language, suggests that the document ends abruptly when explaining the whereabouts. I expect that the next phase of his operation will be to narrow that down. It was clear that there are caves and the man was a climber and that’s where Drake needs help.”

Thank you for stopping by and I hope you enjoyed this small tidbit of my novel. Please watch here for further progress as we get nearer to publication, tentativley set for the end of October.


If you have any comments or questions or even perhaps pre-order a copy, leave a comment below and your email address or send me an email in the "Follow by email" box in the top left corner.


Saturday, 2 September 2017

Returning Guest Roger Moore of Island View, NB.

The Scribbler is extremely pleased to have Professor Emeritus Roger Moore  as our guest this week. He is sharing his recent experience from being selected for the first one month KIRA residency as well as some selected poetry.  (Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)

Roger is an award-winning academic, poet, short story writer, novelist, film maker and visual artist. 
He has been featured on SBS before with a 4Q Interview and a delightful short story. If you missed it, please go here

And you can check out his links below.

2017 has been a busy and creatively productive year for me. On March 2, I was informed that I had been selected to participate in the first one-month KIRA residency that ran from June 1-28 in St. Andrews, New Brunswick. Three Kingsbrae International Residencies for Artists were planned for this inaugural year (2017), with five artists invited to each of the three residencies. In total, fifteen artists from various fields of expertise (including poetry, painting, basket-weaving, sculpting, paper-making, singing, rug-hooking and pan-piping) have experienced the Kingsbrae Residencies in June, July, and August of this year.


I had originally proposed two projects for my KIRA stay: the completion of Echoes of an Impromptu Metaphysics subtitled A Cancer Chronicle, and, should there be time, the revision of my first novel, Witch Doctor. The creative impetus I received from my acceptance into the KIRA residency allowed me to revise Echoes … and publish it, before I arrived in KIRA. The revision included a new title: A Cancer Chronicle. In addition, still enthused, I was able to complete and publish a third short story collection, after Systematic Deception and Bistro) called Nobody’s Child.

A Cancer Chronicle opens with the diagnosis of the disease and moves through the various stages that lead through treatment to recovery.  I am fortunate in so many ways. The disease was caught early and was curable with the appropriate treatment. I received tremendous support from everyone concerned during the ordeal. The friends I made at the Auberge / Hospice in Moncton encouraged me to talk about my experiences and shared their own with me. So many people suffer in silence, but the friendship that surrounded me encouraged me not only to talk and to write but also to share my experience in poetical form. Here is a poem from the Diagnosis sequence.


a lovely lady
read me
my death sentence:
my biopsy results.

She poured me
a poisoned chalice,
my personal
a cup from which
I must drink.

I sat there in silence,
sipping it in.

Darkness wrapped
its shawl
around my shoulders.

‘Step by step,’ she said,
‘on stepping stones.’

I opened my eyes,
I could no longer see
the far side of the stream.

            Days of extreme and often forced excitement alternated with days of boredom and sometimes very dark depression. Here’s a poem from a dark day.

And the greatest of these … 

I am a hollow man,

my heart and soul scooped out

by worry, wear, and care. 


I abandoned it long ago. 


In these changing times

it's a series of corks

bobbing their apples

in a party barrel. 


Love grows old and cold

and loses its charms

as we shiver in each other's arms.

For now, I'll dodder

my dodo way

towards extinction.

As I shuffle

from room to room

I’ll rest for a while

upon this chair.

My mother went this way.

My brothers and my father too;

I soon will follow,

just like you.


I was allowed home for the weekends and drove back to Island View on Friday nights for the two months that my treatment lasted. Here’s a happier poem, composed in the jacuzzi at home at a time when the medics were winning and the disease was disappearing from my body.


Warm and safe,
womb waters whirling,
drifting through time,
eyes closed, and space.

Amniotic, this liquid,
rocking me to the throb
of my mother’s heart.
I close my eyes.

The walls around me
open out to reveal
the sun by day,
the stars by night.

The full moon:
a golden circle
beaming down.

My mother’s face
above me

and me,

A different kind of rebirth also occurred at KIRA. I drove to St. Andrews on Friday, June 2, and there I started a new life. My writing schedule at KIRA often ran from 5:30 am, when the sun peeped into the east-facing room where I was staying, until midnight, with breaks for food, excursions, and artistic conversations. These 18 hours a day, writing and thinking, gave me an intense creative experience that it would be difficult to reproduce. My presence in the Red Room, on the Second Floor of KIRA, allowed me the luxury of sitting at my desk, looking out of the window towards Minister’s Island and Passamaquoddy Bay, and writing whenever I wanted to, day or night. Breakfast at 8 am and supper at six pm were provided. We lunched on our own. The freedom of this schedule accounts, in part, for my productivity.

Before coming to KIRA, we were asked how we intended to ‘engage with the community’. My engagement came through my dialog with my time and my place (Bakhtin), and I engaged with several mini-communities throughout my stay. Principal among them were (1) the community of my fellow artists; (2) Kingsbrae Gardens, people, statues, and flowers; (3) the Passamaquoddy region, including Jarea; and (4) the delightful town of St. Andrews-by-the-sea.

At KIRA, the early, light-filled starts to my days, my high work rate plus my new Bakhtinian dialog allowed me to write (June) and publish (17 July 2017) One Small Corner (subtitled A Kingsbrae Chronicle). This book, my third in 2017 (all available online at Amazon), consists of 101 pages and 78 poems, all written and / or revised at KIRA. The two titles, A Cancer Chronicle and A Kingsbrae Chronicle illustrate the yin and the yang, the light side (KIRA) and the dark side (cancer) of my creative life.

One Small Corner is both the title of the book and the title of the opening poem:

One Small Corner

And this is the good thing,
to find your one small corner
and to have your one small candle,
then to light it, and leave it burning
its sharp bright hole in the night.

 Around you, the walls you constructed; inside, the reduced space, the secret garden,
the Holy of Holies where roses grow
and no cold wind disturbs you.

 “Is it over here?” you ask: “Or over here?”

If you do not know, I cannot tell you.

But I will say this: turning a corner one day you will suddenly know
that you have found a perfection
that you will seek again, in vain,
for the rest of your life.

    One Small Corner holds multiple meanings for me. New Brunswick is my one small corner within Canada. Within New Brunswick, Fredericton fills the bill, as does my home in Island View. For the month of June, St. Andrews became my small corner, and Kingsbrae Gardens shared the intimacy of that small space. Within Kingsbrae itself, KIRA was a small corner, as was my room and, above all, the little nook in it where my desk nestled against the window and I was able to look out across the lawn and trees to the bay. Each one of us has these ‘small corners’ in our lives. Sometimes, we can take them apart and then put them back together and when we do they nest inside each other like a set of Russian Dolls.

Russian Dolls

“Plant a plant, deep its roots, rooted in fine potting soil in a pot,
firm the hands, the spot well-chosen,
in a flower bed, in a pattern,
in an empty space, in a growing garden
within a larger garden,
in an old estate
in a small town by the sea.”

“Russian doll puzzle: garden after garden,
with gardens within gardens.”

“Planted and replanted, unfolding flowers in a sunshine world,
in a state of grace with hope and craft
hand in hand
with faith and belief,
and everything planned
to take advantage
of this time and this space.”

“So simple those words,
so complex those ideas.”

            One of the key themes of both KIRA and the Kingsbrae Gardens is that of giving back. We receive and accept with open hands. We must also give thanks and give back our joy and happiness to the world around us. Here is my poem on Giving Back.

Giving Back

In the beginning was the wind,
and the wind created waves,
whitecaps on wild waters
with sunlight dancing its tiptoe hornpipe,
heel and toe,
landwards towards the headland
where the lighthouse grows
from rough and ready rock,
its light cast on water and returned
fourfold in the yellow moon path,
step after stepping stone,
golden from sea to gardens
with their marigold path
leading to house and home
and the banquet spread before us,
so solemn the altar,
this day of all days,
when we celebrate
our lost and loved ones
with bread cast, like light,
out upon the waters and tenfold,
our love returned.

The KIRA experience was exceptional and I benefitted greatly from it, both artistically and spiritually. I would encourage any and all New Brunswick artists, in whatever medium, to apply for a place next year. KIRA will allow them to produce, develop, and grow.

 Thank you Roger for this sharing your experience at KIRA and especially for the selection of poetry with the background and inspiration for each.

Roger's links are as follows;