Why We WriteBY ARLENE SMITH

AT OUR NOVEMBER meeting, we took a fewminutes at the beginning of our gathering towrite down words that describe the writing

experience. We wrote one word per slip of paper sowe could create a Word Cloud that represented whatwriting is all about.

A few words showed the shadow side of writing.

Those are the words we face on the days when wewake up thinking: What is the point? Why do I eventorture myself with this?

The answers to those hard questions come throughin the other words. Most of the writers chose thatrepresent the joyful, soul-feeding side of writing.

We write because it blows our minds, because itallows us to create, and because in some mystical waythe solitary work of writing connects us with theuniverse. That’s why.

This winter may you choose to let the bliss outshinethe shadow.

“Terror. Elusive. Hard Labour. ”

BylineVol 35:2 ISSN 1929-6193

Winter2017

Canadian Authors AssociationNational Capital Region

Our Winter SocialShake off the shivers at a warm gathering

of friends and fellow writers.

Saturday, December 9, 20172:00 to 5:00 p.m.

At the home of Arlene Smith, with new(mostly complete) kitchen

POT LUCK Bring finger foods and your wonderful

SEASONAL poems or short stories (shorter than 1000 words)

Share recent successes, view andpurchase works of fellow writers, in time

for gift-giving.Good cheer! Good friends! Good food!

RSVP and get location detailssomertonsmith@yahoo.com

“Bliss. Delight. Fun. Solace. Wonder.”

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With apologies to either Clement Clarke Moore, orHenry Livingston, Jr., both of whom claim to havewritten “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” in the 1800s. The

consensus went to Moore.

'Twas the week before Christmas and all round the house,were tiny reminders of one tiny mouse.

The cupboards, the counters, the stove were, in essence,all littered with droppings, evidence of his presence.

For what I considered my own private home,he'd taken to raiding and marking his own.

But since 'tis the season, it seemed only fair,that peace, joy and good will should be his to share.

So filled with the spirit I started to placesmall morsels of cookies here, there, ‘round the place.

Not plain ones nor humble, nor past best before,but yummy and royal iced. NOT from the store.

Day after day, in expanding good cheer,I left cookies more special. The best of the year.

My mind filled with fancies of wee Dad’s returningsto his little family, quit proud of his earnings.

Gingerbread, shortbread and lemon delight.Such pleasures he shared with his family each night.

So the week passed, and as Christmas drew near, I oncechanced upon him. It was really quite clear.

With waistline expanding and cheeks all apuff,this overindulgence was more than enough…

...To be quite unhealthy for his royal highness.My actions were killing him slowly, with kindness.

His blood sugar levels must be through the roof.His arteries clogging were obvious proof…

...I had to do something to call it a wrap.So Christmas Eve, kindly, I put out the trap.

IN THIS ISSUE

“THE CHRISTMAS MOUSE”By Sharyn Heagle

UPCOMING PROGRAMS

“TAKE THE FEAR OUT OF

FORMATTING”Webinar Information

YOU MAY NOT NEED AN AGENTBy Barbara Florio Graham

WHAT YOU MISSEDReview of our November MeetingBy Christine Beelen

2018 NATIONAL CAPITAL WRITING

CONTEST

“THE FLOWER SELLER OF AGRA”First Place 2017 NCWCBy Shiela Jane

“ANNE FROM TORONTO”Second Place 2017 NCWCBy Ruth Latta

“DISTANT CONNECTIONS”Honourable Mention 2017 NCWCBy Julio Heleno Gomes

The Christmas MouseA CHRISTMAS WHIMSY

BY SHARYN HEAGLE

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February 13, 2018THE EXAMINED LIFE: UnderstandingOurselves Through MemoirSPEAKER: Lee Ann Eckhardt Smith

Far beyond the celebrity “tell-all,” a well-writtenmemoir offers much to both the writer and thereaders. A memoir can transform the pain of thepast into clarity, and provide insight into an aspectof life, a time of life, or a certain place in time. LeeAnn will present options for themes and structuresand tips for how writers can use techniques tokeep the reader reading.

Bio: Lee Ann Eckhardt Smith’s workshop series for writersof family history and memoir, “Write It So They’ll Read It”has been running in Ottawa, Perth, and other locationsacross Ontario since 2007. She is the author of twoacclaimed non-fiction books, as well as numerous magazineand newspaper articles. Her website iswww.leeanneckhardtsmith.com.

March 13, 2018THE ARC OF DESIRE: Writing for theStageSPEAKER: Laurie Fyffe

What makes a play different from other forms ofwriting? How do you get the characters to tell yourstory? And how does the playwright craft dialogueto serve both characters and plot? It’s all aboutwants and desires.

BIO: Laurie Fyffe has a MA in Theatre/Dramaturgy fromthe University of Ottawa. She teaches script analysis andplaywriting and her theatre work has spanned writing,dramaturgy, acting, directing and arts administration.Laurie’s plays have been produced by the Tarragon andFactory Theatres, SummerWorks Festival, (Toronto),Theatre Kingston, Ottawa Fringe, and the Blyth Festival.She is Artistic Director of Evolution Theatre and from 2014to 2017 she was Managing Artistic Director of OttawaStoryTellers.

April 10, 2018FROM PRINT TO FILM: Every Writer'sDream

Dr. Ian Prattis will discuss the surprising mannerin which the opportunity to turn one of his booksinto a movie came to him.

BIO: Dr. Ian Prattis is Professor Emeritus at CarletonUniversity in Ottawa, Zen teacher, peace andenvironmental activist. He is an award winning author offifteen books. Recent awards include Gold for fiction at the2015 Florida Book Festival (Redemption), 2015 Quill Awardfrom Focus on Women Magazine (Trailing Sky Six Feathers)and Silver for Conservation from the 2014 Living NowLiterary Awards (Failsafe: Saving the Earth FromOurselves). His book Redemption is being made into amovie.

May 8, 2018National Capital Writing Contest Awards7:00 p.m.Ottawa Public Library, Main Branch

June 12, 2018SUMMER MEETINGDetails forthcoming

Share your copy of Byline

If you love writing hints, NCWC winning poetry andshort stories, information about Canadian Authors

both regional and National, and being involved with acommunity of writers, pass along your copies of

Byline to your friends and fellow writers.They'll LOVE it too!

To have a copy delivered to their Inbox, they cansubscribe through our website, or

contact the Byline editor.

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Upcoming MeetingsTHE SECOND TUESDAY OF THE MONTH

7:15 P.M.MCNABB COMMUNITY CENTRE, 180 PERCY STREET

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Win a Manuscript Evaluation: $1,800 Value!

Free to EnterWant an expert critique of your manuscript? Then this contest is for you. It's open to anyone with a

work of fiction or narrative non-fiction.And here's the great thing. If you win, you'll have up to a year to send me your manuscript. If it's

ready now, perfect. But if you need more time to complete it, that's fine too.

Prizes

Grand Prize: evaluation of a full manuscript: $1,800 valueSecond Prize: evaluation of the first 50 pages

Third Prize: evaluation of the first 25 pages

I'll choose the winners based on writing samples that suggest the writer’s work has a good chanceof succeeding in the publishing marketplace. My goal is to help you move forward in your writing

career: to land that agent and sign that book deal.The evaluation will be conducted in a discussion by phone or Skype: a 1.5-hour discussion for theGrand Prize winner; a half-hour discussion each for the Second Prize and Third Prize winners.

The evaluation will consist of my analysis of the manuscript’s strengths and weaknesses regardingstory structure, character development, dialogue, setting, style, and marketability.

Contest Rules

To enter, complete the online entry form and attach a writing sample (1,500 words maximum) fromyour work-in-progress or any previous work.

The deadline for entering is 12:00 midnight EST on December 15, 2017.The three winners will be notified on January 3, 2018 and their names will be posted on my website

and in my Newsletter for Writers.Sound good? Go for it! To find out more — and to enter — click here.

Barbara Kylebkyle@barbarakyle.com www.BarbaraKyle.com

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Take the Fear Out of FormattingHow to Successfully Prepare Your Ebook for PublishingWith Matthew BinWednesday, December 13, 20177:00 to 8:30 pm EST

Free for members: Register through the National Office by clicking on the registration button in theMembers Only section under Webinar Access.COST: $36 + HSTAffiliates: Get $10 off with a promotion code

Are you eager to publish an e-book but baffled on where to begin? Successfully publishing an e-bookstarts with formatting, which is nothing to be afraid of.

In this webinar, author and e-book consultant Matthew Bin will provide step-by-step instructions onhow to prepare a manuscript for e-book publication. You will learn how to create a professional-looking and correctly formatted e-book that is compatible with all major e-publishing platforms, usingonly Microsoft Word and free tools available to everyone.

Not a computer whiz? No worries. To get the most out of this practical webinar, participants shouldsimply be comfortable using an Internet browser (such as Microsoft Explorer, Google Chrome, orSafari) and be familiar with the basics of Microsoft Word.

Matthew is a published author and owner of Calamus Consulting, acommunications company that provides professional e-book services toauthors. Matthew has published over 50 titles on Amazon and other e-bookplatforms and has learned how to navigate the e-book publishing process easilyand efficiently.

Don’t miss out on our webinars!• Free to members• Available even if you have a calendar conflict

CAA Social Media Expertin Residence

• Members who sign up receive a weekly tip fromthe SME—an action they can take right away toimprove the way they use social media.• Participants can also submit questions to the

SME in Residence at the email addressSME@canadianauthors.org.• Each month, the SME will conduct a live Q&A

session where she will answer questionssubmitted by members.

Sentinel of the Damnedby Klothild de Baar(Book Excellence Award Finalist 2016)

An epic tale of an ancient Europeandynasty whose youngest member, amagnificent daughter, is suddenly andmysteriously reported missing in far-offCanada. A story harking back centuriesand told movingly by the family's eighty-five year-old nanny, as she traces eachstep of her lost charge, undaunted, to thevery bottom of a modern-day hell.

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You May Not Need an AgentBY BARBARA FLORIO GRAHAM

MOST AUTHORS DREAMabout having an agentwho will find a top

publisher, negotiate a terrificcontract, and provide guidancethrough a successful career.

Agents, unfortunately, can be asdifficult to find as publishers, andthe process of querying agents can

be time-consuming and frustrating.As with anyone you hire, if you think you need an

agent, check them out thoroughly. They shouldhave an excellent website detailing a solid trackrecord, belong to The Association of Authors'Representatives (which prohibits charging readingfees), and specialize in the genre of your book.

But an increasing number of authors are hiringpublishing consultants like me instead.

I identify the direction a book should take, helpdetermine if the idea is viable or not, and then guidethe author through the maze of publishing options.If the author comes to me early enough, I can helpbuild a platform and create a website beforeapproaching an agent or publisher. I also offerresources to self-publish.

My other strength draws on my expertise inmarketing. Many authors just want to see the bookpublished in some form, and don't realize thattaking an active part in marketing and promotion isthe only way the book is going to sell.

In the process of doing this over more than adecade, I became quite an expert on contracts.

Hiring a lawyer to negotiate a book contract canbe time-consuming and costly. I offer a lessexpensive alternative, as I know which clauses canbe modified and how to translate come of thecomplex legal language that can trap authors intobeing liable if the publisher is sued.

The first thing I tell authors is that every contractcan be negotiated. Accepting the first contractoffered is a common mistake, and something onlyan amateur would do.

That's what a good agent does as well. But I dothis for a one-time fee, not a percentage of your

Sometimes those I mentor return to me for mycomments on the contract offered. Others alreadyhave a publisher and don't understand some of theterms in the contract. That's why I charge an hourlyrate, because every situation is different.

Whether you're searching for an agent or apublishing consultant, there are a few things to keepin mind:

1. Avoid anyone who calls him or herself an agentunless they belong to The Association of Authors'Representatives. I have information about agentson the publishing resources page of my website.When you find an agent who seems to be a good fit,go to their website to see if they're accepting newauthors. Then check what books they've recentlyrepresented, as this will give you an idea about thegenres they've been successful with. How long hasthe agent been in business? Are there testimonialson the site?

2. Engage in a series of emails before you signanything. Ask specific questions, and understandhow much you will be billed for their expenses,which often include photocopying, delivery fees,and telephone calls. Will you pay for the taxi and themeal if the agent takes a publisher to lunch?

3. Agents earn a living by taking a percentage ofauthors' earnings. In may cases, this is 15%, butcheck the website to verify this, and also to see howthese terms are worded. Does the agent get apercentage of this book alone, or for all your workas long as you're signed with them? Do you shareearnings from anything related to this book as well,such as speaking fees, published excerpts, etc? Howabout your other work?

4. Perform the same due diligence before you hirea book consultant. How long has this person been inbusiness? Check out the books he or she haspublished, other publication credits, a solid websiteand a list of clients. Look for testimonials, and clickon the URL attached to the name of those postingpraise. Anybody can fake a glowing comment from"Jim in Ohio," but if the testimonial bearssomeone's full name and website URL, it's probablylegitimate.

continued on page 7

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Canadian Authors AssociationNational Capital Region

Branch

2017-18Executive and Coordinators

Please feel free to contact any of thefollowing with suggestions or concerns.

President Arlene SmithMembership Christine BeelenPrograms Position openRecording Secretary Phyllis BohonisTreasurer Frank HegyiBranch Historian Gill Foss

NCWC Sherrill WarkByline Editor Sharyn HeagleWebsite Arlene SmithCommunications Carol StephenWriting Circles West End Kit Flynn

Writers Helping Writers

You don't sign a contract with me, but rather begin theprocess of working together by sending me a check. Icharge what I call a "set-up fee" to cover my initial workon your book and our correspondence before I actuallybegin. After that I charge by the hour. New clients areasked to pay for three hours in advance.

Some consultants provide editing, some sub-contractwork to others, and others operate as project managers,"shepherding" your book from rough draft through printcopies that arrive on your doorstep or an ebook onAmazon. But you'll pay dearly for this, so be careful!

Be very wary of someone who claims to be a"consultant" but is actually selling pay-to-printpublishing services. The website will reveal this if youexamine it carefully.

I'm the type of consultant who will offer suggestionsabout content and style, but not handle actual editing. Ialso don't oversee any book production. My role is justto advise, provide resources, and answer questionsalong the way, whether you decide to publish the bookyourself or look for a publisher who won't charge you toproduce your book.

I continue to be amazed at how brazen publishers canbe. They ask authors to pay for all kinds of things thatshould be the responsibility of the company whosebusiness it is to produce and sell books. Sadly, someauthors are so hungry and naïve that they will agree tojust about anything.

So do you need an agent? Perhaps, or maybe you needa publishing consultant. At the very least, you probablyneed someone who knows the ropes to review yourcontract before you sign.

BIO: Barbara Florio Graham is a publishingconsultant and marketing strategist. The author ofthree books, Five Fast Steps to Better Writing (20thanniversary edition), Five Fast Steps to Low-CostPublicity, and the award-winning Mewsings/Musings,she served as Managing Editor for Prose to Go: Talesfrom a Private List.Her website, http://SimonTeakettle.com, contains agreat deal of free information, including resources forwriters and publishers, contract advice, and manypages of interesting facts about science, history, food,animals, culture and inventions.

AGENT

ontinued from page 6

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Historical Novels for Young AdultsNotes From Our November Meeting Featuring Ruth LattaBY CHRISTINE BEELEN

OTTAWA-BASED AUTHORRUTH Latta shared herinsights on writing

historical novels for the YoungAdult market at the November14th of the Canadian Authors’Association – National CapitalRegion. Ruth has an OntarioTeachers' Certificate, holds aB.A. (1970) and M.A., History(1973) from Queen's Universityand a B.A. in English 1993 fromthe University of Waterloo. Ruthtaught elementary school beforeheading off to work as a historyresearcher and project manager.

With more than a dozen bookspublished by Ottawa-area smallpresses, Ruth was able to provideour audience with a goodoverview of the requirements ofwriting good historically-accurate novels. One of theimportant points she made is to

remember “things were donedifferently then.” Make sure ofyour details. Several of herYoung Adult novels appeal to awider audience because of thetopics and details she makes sureare correct.

Ruth makes good use of theInternet, library and archivalmaterials to check not only thefacts of the individuals but alsothe environment in which theylived. She suggested that writersshould be aware of other storieson a similar vein. Readbiographies, histories, anythingthat would give you detail aboutthe same period in which you aresetting your story. You mightwant to visit the location if it iskey to telling your story. Arethere descendants? You mightwant to contact them if you arewriting about a real person. Inher stories, she tries to do more

showing than telling by usingfamily anecdotes.

While you want to make surethe history of the period comesthrough, you should avoid“information dumps” that canturn readers off. Providing aseparate history lesson slows thereading down and can create abump in the storyline. Shesuggests providing theinformation through the story ona need to know basis,dramatizing the real events, orcreating a knowledgeablecharacter who can discuss thehistorical events throughdialogue. You can also use an“Afterward” to outline what wasfact and what was fiction so youcan explain how you deviated orexpanded the truth in yourversion of events.

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NOW AVAILABLEFROM

PHYLLIS BOHONISThe Track

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You also need to pay attention toterminology, using words that areauthentic to the time period. In earlyCanadian history, for example, peoplewere Subjects of the Queen not Citizens ofCanada!

Ruth brought along several of her booksincluding one about to be released, titled“Grace and the Secret Vault” set in 1919,the story deals with the Winnipeg GeneralStrike. She used one of her previous booksshe had written with Joy Trott, a biographyof Grace MacInnis as the historicalbackground for a fictional story about ayoung girl helping her family. She alsogenerously gifted some copies of herprevious titles to members of the audience.

Since 1985, Ruth has taught courses increative writing and memoir writing inlocal schools, community centres, andlibraries. She also writes short fiction,poetry, reviews and articles for magazines.More information can be found on Ruth’swebsite: ruthlattabooks.blogspot.ca

HISTORICAL WRITING

ontinued from page 8 Book LaunchFather UnknownBy FRANÇOIS MAI

Thursday, November 306-8 p.m.

Books on Beechwood35 Beechwood Ave.

613-792-5030A family struggling to survivebefore, during, and after the

French revolution.

Now AvailableOur World Is Burning:My Views on MindfulEngagementBy Dr. Ian Prattis

Available at:http://ianprattis.com/OurWorldIsBurning.html

Our fragile future and analternative way of living

Guess what these numbers add up to!

31 = 11/1/17 + 2/3/18That’s right! The 31st Annual National Capital Writing Contest (NCWC)

Deadline is February 2, 2018

Sponsored by Canadian Authors Association–National Capital Region

$300 First Place • $200 Second Place • $100 Third Place

Poetry: Maximum 60 lines including title and blank lines, unpublished, in English. No Haiku.Short Story: Maximum 2,500 words, unpublished, in English.

Entry Fees: Poetry: $5 per single poem; Short Story: $15 per single story.

Open to all Canadian writers.Submissions may be sent via regular mail or submitted online.

https://canadianauthors.org/nationalcapitalregion/contests/

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The Flower Seller of AgraBY SHIELA JANE

MY NAME IS Anjuli. I sellflowers on the roadthat leads to the Taj

Mahal. In the morning, whenthere are fewer tourists, I sit inthe sand and look at that newwhite palace shining in the sun,and remember. I am an oldwoman now, and penniless, butonce I lived in the Court of Kings.

That was the Golden Age, atime when the Empire wasblessed beyond all othercountries of the world, when theline of the Mughal emperors wasstrong, and the people of Indiawere happy. Love made it so.

The prince Khurram – ShahJahan, as he was later known –was betrothed to Arjumandwhen she was just fourteen. Yetfor years, he had not seen her.Then one morning he chose towalk in the market square andchanced upon his bride to be,bargaining the price of silks likea common housewife. I was herservant. I was with her that dayand saw him looking at us as welaughed and talked with thevendors and the shoppers. Hefollowed us home and keptwatching from the garden. As Iremoved her veil, the breezecoming in through the windowsblew her long hair into her eyes,and she brushed her handthrough it. It was like a ravenunfolding its wings for flight. Isaw that Khurram could not takehis eyes off her.

That evening, he sent his manto bring her to him. The valetcame to me and I told Arjumandthat the prince desired herpresence and had sent her a

nightingale as a gift. She lookedat the bird in its golden cage andsaid, “Am I to be like this poorcreature?” Then she took it outof the cage and let it fly throughthe open window.

The valet went back withoutthe bird and without Arjumand.I trembled at the thought of theprince’s anger, feared for mylady’s life…and her servant’s aswell. Soldiers would be at thedoor at any moment, I expected.

But it was Jahan himself whocame. He stepped into thedrawing room that was so daintyand feminine, like Arjumandherself, and overwhelmed it withhis energy. He bowed to mymistress and said, “You releasedmy nightingale, yet I am thecaptive one.” Then he kissed herhand and knelt at her feet.

From that day, she wasdestined to be the jewel inJahan’s crown. He married herand called her Mumtaz Mahal.He was besotted with his newwife. Two other wives he hadalready, and children; they wereall but forgotten. Everything hedid now became an offering tothis new wife, this girl, whocommanded his life with nothingmore than a smile. The buildingof massive forts, changes to thecourt, even military conquests –everything he did was for her.

I lived with her at the RoyalCourt. We were much the sameage and as like as twin sisters infeature, although so different infact. It is a mysterious thing,beauty. How the same eyes, thesame mouth, the same curve offace and slightness of build can

translate into such uniqueaspects in two different women,how what is so plain in one canbe illuminated somehow intotrue loveliness in the other.Mumtaz was the perfect pearlcreated by a divine hand. I wassimply the reflection in themirror.

My duties were not onerous. Iwas her companion, herconfidante, and in some waysher protector. For life at courtwas not peaceful. There was furyamong the rest of the royalfamily at being deposed fromJahan’s affections sothoughtlessly.

As I quickly learned, politicalwives wield their power in subtleways – through quiet alliances,by currying the affection ofservants, and with maternalinfluence.

Mumtaz was shunned bymany, but her love for Jahankept her head high. When he wasat the palace, no one could touchher. But when he was away…ohthen, the blades were sharpenedmore openly. There was one inparticular who watched withneedles in her eyes - Nur, a wifeof Jahan’s father, Jahangir, andthe real power behind the throne.

“I fear her, Anjuli,” Mumtazsaid to me many times. “Sheknows that Jahan is strong andwill one day soon become King,and then her power will be gone.She will do anything to stop me

First PlaceShort Story

2017NCWC

continued on page 11

from replacing her as the chosenqueen.”

I soothed her, saying, “Mylady, you’re tired and imaginingthings. No one could wish youill.” But I knew as she did thatNur was dangerous.

Still, the love of Jahan and mymistress became stronger yearby year and they had manychildren together. He could notkeep away from her it and nosooner did Mumtaz bring forthone baby than its successor wason the way. As their family grew,so did Jahan’s power andaccomplishments in the battlefield. He began to be restless totake his father’s place as thesupreme ruler, and on manyoccasions, the voices of the twomen could be heard raised inanger over some disagreement.

One day when Mumtaz wasnearing the birth of yet anotherchild, she walked with me by thestone palace wall. We talked ofher hope that this latestconfinement would produce ason again, and of how Jahan waseven now impatient to return toher bed. We reached the steepstaircase carved into the wallleading to the garden andpaused to look down at the liliesand bougainvillea bloomingbelow.

“I will pick the best for you,” Isaid and ran down to gather theflowers.

Just as I reached the coolgrass, there was a cry fromabove, not a long scream, just asharp shriek like that of a fox runto ground. I turned to seeMumtaz tumbling down therough sandstone steps towardsme.

I must have fainted, becauseall I remember of the rest of thatnight is the sense of pain andgrief. For the baby was lost. Evennow, so many years later, Imourn for the precious life thatnever was. There were otherbabies that did not live, but it isthat one I dream of, it is that onethat I’m remembering when Iwake sometimes in the middle ofthe night with tears flowingdown my cheeks.

Jahan was beside himself. Notjust because of the miscarriage,but because Mumtaz clung tohim that night, weeping andrepeating over and over,“Khurram…she did it. Shepushed me, tried to kill me! Icannot go on like this.”

There was no real proof thatthe fall was caused by Nur’shand. But it was enough forJahan that Mumtaz said it to bethe truth. And when Jahangirangrily dismissed thesuggestion, the rift betweenfather and son became war.What happened then is now partof the history of the Empire.

Nur was cunning enough toknow that if she lost this battle,she would lose her very freedom.Under the guise of wifely advice,she marshaled the Mughalforces against Jahan in the mostferocious manner and thoughhis men fought bravely theywere vanquished.

It was only by the grace ofJahangir that Jahan and my ladywere spared the sword. Yet Nurwas not satisfied. She began anew and devastating campaign –a secret friendship with theirthird son, Aurangzeb, who wasnow a young man.

What devilish ideas she putinto his head, turning himagainst his own parents andolder brothers with promises ofwealth and power far beyond hisnatural claim. If only Jahan hadtaken more interest in hischildren’s progress. If onlyMumtaz had remained at homewith them instead ofaccompanying her belovedhusband on his travels. If only…

* * *The end of the love story came

with little warning. Jahan hadfinally become the Emperorfollowing the death of his fatherand had immediatelyimprisoned Nur. In 1631, he wasfighting a campaign in theDeccan Plateau and Mumtazwas with him, and with childagain. I was there too by herside. She was happier than shehad ever been now that hersworn enemy had beendeclawed. Or so she thought.

When the birthing painsbegan, I held Mumtaz’s handsand we prayed together. As wewere kneeling on the mat, awater girl came and touched myshoulder.

“A man is here,” shewhispered. “He looks like abeggar, but his speech is like anoble. And he came by horse. Heasks for an urgent audience withthe Queen about her son.”

I was shaking my head butMumtaz heard and said, “Whatis that? What son? Bring him!”

The water girl went away andcame back with a tall turbanedyoung man. He was clearlyexhausted and covered in thedust of travel. One sleeve wastorn and the arm underneath

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THE FLOWER SELLER OF AGRAcontinued from page 10

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was wrapped in a stained andtorn bandage.

He practically fell at my feet–at Mumtaz’s feet—and cried, “MyQueen, a thousand pardons fordisturbing your peace. But thereis great danger on the way. Myname is Nawaz. I am a guardianof the palace. I have word fromthe prison that your son,Aurangzeb, has been plottingwith Queen Nur against ShahJahan. They plan to take over thePeacock Throne and kill bothJahan and you, while you arehere, far away from the court.Aurangzeb sent this message tohis Horse Master but Iintercepted it.” He held out hishand and showed her a waslis, aparchment with the words incalligraphy faint but legible.

Mumtaz crumbled before myeyes. She would not havebelieved it of her own son, butthe words were there in the handof a court calligrapher, thedirectives to the Horse Master aproof she could not dismiss. Shewould have fallen with shock andthe pain of the babe about to beborn if Nawaz had not caught her.

We placed her on her bed and Isent Nawaz away. I could notstop crying at the thought ofwhat Nur had brought about, thebitterness that she had cultivatedso long and so carefully inAurangzeb. So artfully she wouldhave suggested Jahan’sfavoritism towards his older sonsand the supposed injustices doneto Nur herself. So subtly, shemust have dropped veiled hintsof Mumtaz’s infidelities and herbelief that he, Aurangzeb, wasthe true heir to the throne.

“It will not end until deathitself ends it,” I said.

Mumtaz knew it was the truth.She had intelligence, if I may bepermitted to say that myself.Intelligence and a will thatmatched that of her archenemy,Queen Nur. In that long nightwhile she laboured to give life toher child, she also gave birth to aplan.

She held my hands and saidover and over. “It is because ofme that Nur has done this,because of her hatred andjealousy. She can stop Aurangzebbut she won’t do it until I amdead. That is the only thing thatwill cool her anger.

“Anjuli, you can see that, can’tyou? You understand. If I were todie tonight, the country would gointo mourning. Jahan would haltthe campaign and return to thepalace. Aurangzeb and Nur couldget away with assassinating himon the battlefield, but not whilehe is surrounded by a wall ofsupporters and loyal subjects.Their plot would be found outand they themselves would beput to death. You must help me,Anjuli, tonight. For Jahan’s sake,you must do as I ask.”

The rest you know through thehistory books. Mumtaz Mahaldid die that night…inchildbirth…at least that is whatthe court scribes wrote. Thereare…were…only a few peoplewho knew the truth. Most havegone to the holy place by now.

The doctor who prepared herbody, the trusted servants whocovered her face in the burialshroud, the one who opened thegate for me when I left in theearly hours of morning, I sworethem all to secrecy. Jahanhimself never knew. His grief isthere for the world to see in thewhite tomb that is his finestachievement.

Now, so many years later,Jahan himself is gone.Aurangzeb is Emperor. And I? Isit here in the sand sellingflowers and look upon the TajMahal. In the moonlight, it glowswith the sheen of a pearl.

Mumtaz had intelligence andstrong will, as I have said. But inthe end, she did not have thecourage.

No! Just this once, let mespeak as myself, as the Queen Ionce was. I did not have courage.Try to understand when I say, Iloved my little Anjuli. She wasmy dearest friend. I did not wantto do what I did. Yet, when thetime came to make that finalsacrifice, I was afraid. I could notlet go of life. Instead I exchangedone life for another. She wasterrified, but I told her she wouldlive forever in the world beyondthis one. It was her duty to obey.We wept together even as I heldthe soft woolen blanket over herface.

So that night, my little servantgirl – the reflection of the jewel inthe mirror – became the perfectpearl. She is there still in thetomb Jahan built for me, thatmemorial to eternal love.

And now…my name is Anjuli. Iam a flower seller. But once, Ilived in the Court of Kings.BIO: Shiela Jane was born in Mumbai,India and lived there for many yearsbefore moving to Canada. She has adegree in political science and diplomain journalism and also studied creativewriting. Her poetry and short storieshave been published in a variety ofmagazines and anthologies and herfirst novel, The Saltwater Ghost, wasreleased in 2013. In addition to fictionwriting, she has worked as a freelancejournalist, communications writer,policy specialist and college instructor

THE FLOWER SELLER OF AGRAcontinued from page 11

Anne from TorontoBy Ruth Latta

You came to us from Toronto.You wore a red suit and matching lipstickon a mouth too mobilefor a Mona Lisa smile.

In 1959,when your high bootsfirst scaled our snowbanksyou must have been all of twenty-four.

On winter mornings,in that refrigerator of a school busI played a movie in my headwith kings and queens of Englandswishing their ermine robesor clanking their armour -images you created in thin air.

I yearned to be you,full of spirit, self-esteem.

Teachers from "away"never stayed long.Far too soon,you caught the Ontario Northlandback to Toronto and your fiance.

Anne, I know nowthat those china poodles I gave youas a farewell gift were awful,but they were the only thing in the storethat remotely suited your glamour.

I think now of your cigarettesstained with cupid's bowsand shake my head.In those days,we fools thought smoking wassophisticated.

Wherever you are,you probably still wearyour wide red smile.

POETRY

BIO: Ruth Latta's new book is Graceand the Secret Vault (Ottawa, Baico,2017) For more information about

her writing visithttp://ruthlatta.blogspot.ca andhttp://ruthlattabooks.blogspot.ca

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BYLINE Magazine

Call for Submissions

Byline is a quarterly publicationof the National Capital RegionBranch of the CanadianAuthors Association.

Articles on the process of writing,writing tips, interviews, literaryevents and memberachievements welcome.

Deadlines:

Fall Issue: August 15Winter Issue: November 15Spring Issue: February 15Summer Issue: May 15Send submissions to Byline

Distant ConnectionsBY JULIO HELENO GOMES

2017 NCWC

HonourableMention

Short StoryTHE WOODEN DOOR creaks open and the room

is shrouded in gloom but for dusty streaksbreaking through the slats of the shutters. A

tang of liniment and sweat hangs in the air. A smallbed is jammed at the far wall, a pierced Jesuslooking down. Under a tattered quilt lies my dyinggrandmother.

“Come in. Don’t make too much noise,” my auntcommands, ushering us into the musty room.

My father, never at ease in situations thatrequire displays of affection, steps in uncertainly.My mother shepherds my siblings as if they’reabout to view a freak show exhibit, which it couldbe with our Avó, a shrunken figure stretchedformlessly under the covers, grey hair sprayedacross a stained pillow, a bird-like hand resting ona frayed edge of the quilt,. She seemed as near todeath as life.

We gather round the low bed, my father staringat the mother he hasn’t seen in years.My mother’shands rest on the shoulders of Sara, who looks onin discomfort, and Carlitos, who glances curiouslyaround the spartan room, reflexively sticking athumb in his mouth though he long outgrew thehabit. I lurk behind my mother as my aunt shufflesalong the gap between the bed and the plaster wall,reaching to open the shutters over the bed.

“Ela não se sentindo bem,” she informs us,unnecessarily, in Portuguese, that her motherhasn’t been feeling well. “Mãe,” she grunts, leaningin to shake her by the shoulder. “Mãe!”

My mother scowls at my unheeding father, thenmoves forward and gently takes the bony handclutching the quilt and strokes it.

“Natividade,” she whispers, running a hand overmy grandmother’s shadowed face.

She finally turns to us, eyes shining behindfluttering lids. She trembles and a dry cough racksher body. Her fingers snatch at my mother’s wrist.

“Está tudo aqui,” Avó sputters between coughs,wearily looking about. “Eu sabia.”

Yes, she knew we would come, all of us. Whatelse could we do when the unusual phone callcame, saying Mother’s been sick for a while now,very sick, and this time the end is surely near, sheis being summoned to her Saviour. Such wordswhen relayed to we the children in far-off Canadarang oddly. Avó never struck me as the religioustype despite the Jesus statue over the bed or aname that evoked Christmas cheer and the love ofthe Virgin Mary. Our visits to the old country Iremembered as awkward encounters withNatividade, though my mother would tell us thatour departing would result in a barrage of lament.“Oh, me,” Avó would weep to my father, inbitterness and recrimination, “I’ll never see you or

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these precious children again. They’ll forget aboutme just as you have forgotten about us.” Funny,such emotion from a woman who gave affection aseasily as she handed out coins for the grandkids tobuy candy. Which is to say, not much.

So the trip back home, undertaken in haste thistime, looked likely to settle into a grim countdownto last rites for the old lady.

“What is the matter with her?” Sara said with asour turn of her mouth after we were shooed awayfrom the cramped room so father could spendquiet time with his mother, who we wereinformed by my aunt may not make it another day.

“It’s her heart, dear,” my mother saidsoothingly, taking Carlitos by the hand.

“What heart problem? She’s probably gotpneumonia,” I said. “Or is it bronchitis?Emphysema? Sounds like no one knows.”

“Antonio, she have the problems with ’er heart.For many years now,” my mother replied, irked bysomething more than the skepticism ofunsympathetic teenagers.

“How come she’s not in the hospital?” my sisterpersisted.

“Doctors do nothing,” my mother replied, herhalting English faltering. “Too much antibioticos.She have the chest problem now, she be oldseventy years and not young woman. Be nice toyour Avó.”

Sara and I exchanged knowing glances. We’dheard this before and knew what it meant. A vigilfor the three weeks we were booked to be here,trooping in every day to pay our respects to theold woman, now a bundle of brittle bones lying inthe grim room at the back reserved for theunwanted and the unwell, where her ownhusband had been banished years ago whencancer started to eat away his life.

The gaggle of cousins next door offered a breakfrom the tedium. The boys and I would trudge upto the sandy soccer field and boot a ragged ballaround or we’d race from the school building backto our house, the winner promised a swig from thebottles of Wiser’s De Luxe my father had broughtto share with his brother. Invariably I would winbut would decline the prize. I preferred sumol, theorange fruit drink, so the cousins would gleefullyhelp themselves to the whiskey bottle.

My siblings cavorted with the girls, dashingthrough the crumbling barn and hay shed,chasing chicks and alarmed hens around thestraw-covered courtyard or pulling tabbies outfrom under the crooked stools where they hadbeen curled up, brushing their backs in carelessstrokes. Then my aunt would emerge from themain house, drying her rough hands on the ever-present apron (she had a dozen of them and theywere every shade of black), and bark at one of herdaughters to go and check on Avó, who in turnwould grumble and direct another sibling to go, aroutine which concluded with the youngesttrampling hesitantly into the old house to makesure grandmother was still in this world.

At least once on the trip my father would getitchy feet and rent an exotic car and in his shilly-shally shifting would send us hurtling alongtwisting, oak-fringed roads, stopping at sacredsprings, untended shrines and obscure chapels somy mother could kneel reverently before dimaltars, sighing Ave Marias and Our Fathers,beseeching Jesus, as well as the apostles and allthe saints, to bless poor Natividade and releaseher from her earthly suffering.

“Tozé,” my mother said one evening as shecarried platters of barbecued chicken and roastedpotatoes to the dinner table, using my pet name.“I promise your Avó I make caldo verde for her. Itbe ’er favourite. You take to her some? Your tiasaid this be good time she eat.”

I rolled my eyes. Knowing a protest would bepointless I took the bowl and trudged next door. Inudged my way through the high metal gates intothe silent courtyard and entered the old house,past the soot-blackened old kitchen, and into thesick room.

“Avó, caldo verde. É para você,” I said as Ientered, presenting the bowl as if a peace offering.

She was sitting up and looked at me, unmoving,like a wax figure. I sighed, took the cloth andtucked it under her chin, stirred the potato puréeand shredded cabbage soup and began feedingher small portions. After a half-dozen spoonfuls,she shook her head and said, “Não quero mais.”That was enough.

I put the spoon down, took the cloth and dabbedher lips, then lifted a cup of water from which she

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sipped before slowly shifting back into the pillows,still crumpled and stained.

Well, I’ve done my good grandson deed, Ithought. I grabbed the bowl, collected the spoonand turned without a word or backward glance.

“Antonio José,” I heard.It came as a hacking croak but it was a definite

address. On the few occasions she spoke directlyto me, she was deliberate in using the names thathad been entered in the parish registry, the onlyone, besides my aunt, who persisted with thatformality.

“Did I ever tell you,” she said in a low but steadyvoice, “about me and your grandfather?”

I didn’t know what she meant since I knew sovery little of their life. “Não,” I said with no interest.

She turned her head to indicate a cane chairbehind the door. I put the bowl and spoon on thebedside table, went to the chair, carried it up tothe bed and sat, my hands folded in my lap,waiting. I watched the dust motes dance as thefaint sunlight flickered through the shutters.

She wasn’t from these parts, you understand.She grew up a ways away in a fishing village eastof the capital (which I think explains the singsongenunciation in her syllables). Her father was umpescador, her mother a fishmonger’s wife. Thebounty of the sea was all they knew, both the fishfrom the deep and from the rocky waters past theharbour, the waters that glided up the beach, thebeach of the softest sand, where up would go amagnificent hotel, to stand like a palace over thebay.

It was here as a young woman, still almost achild, she broke from the tradition of her familyand went to work as a maid, changing bedsheets,dusting and sweeping rooms occupied by foreignnobles and the Americans who became rich fromthat great war. But she still had chores eachmorning at the dock helping her mother sort thecatch her father had taken into his dory. It was asturdy twenty-footer that would go beyond thehorizon and the safety of the coast, in every kindof weather, bringing back baskets filled withhaddock, hake, tuna and occasionally — oh, whata treat! — octopus or red lobster.

She had two older brothers and they had theirown fine barco, but it could not compare with

father’s. One morning she went to meet herfather’s boat and along with Senhor Rodrigo therewas someone else on board. A young man with athin curl of a moustache like the movie star, notValentino or Gable but William Powell, and hiseyes would sparkle when he told a story, whichtended to be amusing though sometimes it wascrude, told in no hurry as he tapped tobacco froma small pouch and into the white paper, pausing toroll it and run his tongue along the edge beforeputting it between his lips and striking a match.

He was José, come from the land of the greatpine forests, looking to make a mark in the City ofLight, at the mouth of the mighty river, as thosesad songs tell us, from whence great adventurersset out on their voyages of discovery all thoseyears ago, bidding adeus to stone-faced mothersand fearful brides. Of ocean fishing José knewvery little and clearly it was not suited to histemperament or ambition. It was only because ofthe unsurpassed beauty of Captain Antonio’sdaughter that he endured the early morningsailings, the bitter winds, and the calluses andsore muscles the heavy oars and seaweed-soakednets produced. I will walk through fire for you, heonce said — that and many other sweet wordswhen he came by the modest house to share in themeal of sardinhas her mother would grill in theafternoon along with her special cornmeal bread,drinking the vinho verde brought by SenhorRodrigo.

Natividade, the only daughter and so it must beher father’s favourite child and her mother’sconstant companion, deserved better than theadoration of un vagabundo from the north whowas so lacking in talent he had to sign on for themuscle-straining, soul-sapping monotony oftrolling the waves for profit, as her mother wouldcomment while they sat by the open fire knittingthe caps, shawls and sweaters to sell at themonthly fair. Better to stay at that castle on thebeach and clean the chamber pots of those whoare so rich you are like the furniture to them,though one to whom they might leave theoccasional réis as thanks for a job well done, sheadvised quietly, for her mother was a woman ofgreat piety and only raised her voice whencompeting at the fish market.

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Life on the deep waters is, é verdade, humdrumand hard work. You must have a keen eye to thedanger that can come like the wolf from distantclouds and the gathering breeze. So it was oneNovember morning as the boat was out beyondthe cape that a storm arose before the sun hadproperly kissed the cliffs. An old hand on thesesometimes impetuous seas, her father was stillcaught out by the suddenness of the storm. Hisbrute strength and guile was not enough againstthe fury of that mad wind, the waves it inspired,and the freezing rain. They struggled like braveOdysseus to turn for home but the boat wasswamped, the boom of the sail broken like a drybranch, the oars plucked from their hands. A swellof clashing waves turned them sideways andsmashed the boat on the rocks. Father and SenhorRodrigo were taken by the merciless water.

José ended up on a large outcropping, a wickerfishing basket held tightly to his chest, shivering incold and fear, one arm broken and his skinscraped from bootless foot to head. He was foundat dusk by her brothers, the only thing that wassaved from that storm. And when a respectableperiod of mourning had passed he vowed never tostep off solid ground and that he was done withthis village and the meagre life of fishing. Whatfuture did a heartbroken Natividade have but toaccept his offer of marriage and leave her world

behind for a future that if it would not be bettercould not be worse?

“Do you understand?” she asked me weakly.“Yes,” I said gravelly and we looked at each

other, saying nothing but much passing betweenus.

It would transpire that tragedy would not be athing in their past. Their first children were twinboys, such a unique event it was hailed as ablessing. They were christened Antonio and José.They died in infancy, of scarlet fever, when a sickNatividade was breast feeding.

The mantle was passed on to me, my motherwould explain years later, the first of all thegrandchildren and named in this fashion so myfather might get out from under the shadow thathung over his father and the two boys and twogirls that followed, a gift to his mother thatseemed never to have been accepted. But I nowknow that, like the ghost of her long lost father,that too has at last been laid to rest.

BIO: A long-time resident of Thunder Bay,Ontario, Julio has been a practising journalist formore than 25 years. His interests are reading,writing, movies, music, theatre and sports. Juliocan be contacted at julio.writer@tbaytel.net

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Father, Unknownby Francois Mai

Marcel Juin is on his deathbed surrounded by hiswife and three adult children. Though aware of hisillegitimacy they do not know he harbours anothersecret.Set in the neighbouring towns of Vimy and Arras,the novel portrays the dramatic psychological,medical, religious and political conflicts of the eraand the dire effects on the lives of the characters.Marcel outwardly lives a conventional andprosperous existence but endures painful innerconflicts that arise from not knowing his paternalorigins.The narrative portrays his various, andoften frustrating attempts to cope with this.http://austinmacauley.com/ book/father-unknown

JUST RELEASEDOur World Is Burning: My Views on MindfulEngagementby Dr. Ian Prattis

This book examines our fragile future and offersan alternative way of living based on MindfulEngagement.In sixteen essays Ian Prattis offers examples ofhow to respond to the serious social, economic,environmental and personal challenges of theTwenty-First century. He advocates mindfulnesspractice to cultivate awareness as an ethicalframework to guide actions, to create steadinessand equanimity, and to replenish body, mind andspirit. This book offers a lightning bolt that willsinge incredulity and cynicism.http://ianprattis.com/OurWorldIsBurning.html

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Veronica’s PapersBY A. COLIN WRIGHTGerald Clayton, suffering from amnesia,receives a package of papers fromVeronica, a former clinical hypnotist.She tells him they accomplishedhis fantasy of gathering together, on theship Marguerite, his past loves with thetwo of them present, but in disguise.In hopes of discovering his own past.Gerald invites the passengers to share ina mystery by guessing what, or whom,they all have in common.Available:http://www.coldcoffeepress.com