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Writing contest

Picking winner proved hardby Roxanne Hooper

rhooper@mrtimes.com

Judges were so impressed by the diversity, qual-ity, and imagery used in each short story entry, that it took days of back-and-forth deliberation to pick just three winners.

And ultimately, a fourth was picked to receive an honourable mention, in the first of what is expected to become an annual short story contest hosted jointly by The TIMES and Golden Ears Writers.

The contest was promoted through this community newspaper, and entries were made online with very few criteria. It had to be 500 or fewer words of fic-tion incorporating the noun “crane.”

Entries were submitted from throughout the Lower Mainland, with the concentration – as hoped – from writers in Maple Ridge and Pitt Meadows, explained organizer Katherine Wagner, founder of the Golden Ears Writers.

Wagner was one of five local writers who blind judged the entries, meaning none of the judges knew the author’s identities before awarding the top rank-ings.

“The funniest part for me was mak-ing sure I avoided hearing any of the entries beforehand,” said Wagner.

“I attend several writing critique groups and at each meeting I asked if anyone had brought a crane contest entry. Several times, I had to either leave early or go to another room, so I wouldn’t hear an entry. There was a lot of interest in the contest.”

The winners were announced Sunday, during the launch of contest founder and Maple Ridge author Annette LeBox’s new book Circle of Cranes.

“The appeal of stories always depends, to some extent, on the subjective tastes of the reader. Technical merit is only one aspect of good writ-ing, the art is what appeals to our hearts,” Wagner said, noting she was joined on the panel by LeBox,

as well as Vicki McLeod, Ronda Payne, and Andrea Walker.

Therefore, it was no sur-prise that after reviewing the entries independently and ranking their top five picks, the judge’s verdict was still not clear.

Ultimately, the first and second choices were unani-mous, but judges were forced to use a point system to pick between the third and honourable mention candidates.

The top honour went to Haney writer Jodie Matthews, for her story Anniversary.

“I was impressed with the diversity of the entries and the imagination and effort put in by the writers,” Wagner said, describing the winner, Anniversary, as a well-crafted, nuanced, and haunt-

ing story. “My top choices left me wanting to

read more, and in the end, we (judges) teamed up to come to a difficult deci-sion,” Walker said.

“It was an incredibly hard process. So many of the entries were good… Anniversary brought out a unique level of emotion. It revealed as it told and while the evolution of the story wasn’t a complete surprise, it was an enjoyable one,” Payne added.

And LeBox commended the winner, saying the piece was “sparingly written but laced with imagery that evokes a mood of grief but also resignation.”

The 44-year-old first-place author was tickled with the win, explaining her inspiration.

“I’ve wanted to write a piece about grief for some time. Anniversary was inspired by the memorial plaques on the benches along the local dikes. Every name has a story and a circle of people who are left behind to deal with the loss,” Matthews said.

continued on page 2…

Jodie Matthews

…continued from page 1“I am drawn to characters who suffer quietly. When I saw the ad for the contest, I thought migrating

cranes would serve as a nice visual in a story that unites two grieving strangers.”This was definitely not her first writing contest, the scribe noting she was bitten by the proverbial bug

as a youngster.“I took an autograph book to school in fourth grade and asked my teacher to sign it. He wrote, ‘You will

be a famous author one day.’ It was an unexpected compliment that meant a lot to me. I bought a journal and wrote regularly after that. I won a few short story contests in high school, and a college professor, Stan Shaffer, was instrumental in getting my first poem published. He was a kind, supportive mentor,” she recounted.

Did she enter with the expectation of winning? No.“I’m always surprised to win anything when it comes to writing. There is a lot of competition and

I keep thinking of ways I could have improved a piece long after I’ve submitted it for consideration,” Matthews said.

She describes herself as a slow, meticulous writer. So the rewards for her come sooner when she writes short stories, this being one example.

“I’ve done longer works of fiction and scripts, as well. I especially love writing dialogue – whittling it down to as few words as possible while still getting my message across,” Matthews said.

She spends evenings reading, everything from literary fiction, biographies, short story collections, books about writing, and internet blogs.

As for writing, Matthews said that is her sole career, and tackles her craft whenever she has the house to herself.

“I turn off the telephone and drink tons of tea. Some days I’m sure I’ll wear out the delete key on my computer, but a good day of writing reminds me why I keep at it,” Matthews told The TIMES.

“I write, always thankful that I have a supportive spouse with a steady pay cheque.”Asked what her ultimate goal, as a writer, would be, Matthews said: “Like a lot of writers, I’d like to be

able to switch off my inner critic, read one of my finished pieces, say ‘This isn’t bad,’ and believe it.”She elaborated: “I feel self-expression is important. Whether it’s done with words, art, photography,

music, drama, or dance, we are fortunate to live in a community that nurtures and promotes the arts. I’ve lived in a lot of places through the years, always eager to keep moving, but I feel settled here.”

Grateful to LeBox for conceiving of the contest, Wagner said: “It’s been a wonderful opportunity to con-nect with writers in the community and raise the group’s profile.”Each of the winners has been invited to read their works at the writers group lobby night at The ACT on May 15. For more information, email Wagner at educationwatch@gmail.com.

Maple Ridge author Annette LeBox came up with the idea of a short story contest when planning the release of her newest book Circle of Cranes. She then approached The TIMES and Katherine Wagner of the Golden Ears Writers with the concept. The idea took off from there, and organizers are now hoping to make the contest an annual event.

Contest gives aspiring writers profile

Crane storiesWinners of The TIMES and Golden Ears Writers contest:• Jodie Matthews of Maple Ridge won first place for Anniversary;• Rebecca Franklyn of Whonnock earned second for Plight of a Crane;• Frank Talaber placed third for The Majestic Crane;• Karen Black of Maple Ridge won honourable menion for Pluck in the Polder.All entries will be available for viewing online at www.mrtimes.com

Writing contest

by Jodie Matthew

Gravel cracked under her shoes as she followed the forested path to the water’s edge. She found the bench unoccupied and noted the new names carved into its wood before she took her seat and folded her hands on her lap.

He was already standing on the northern bank, watching the stream flow between them when she arrived. His hat was in his hand. His coat was draped over his arm. In a moment of self-consciousness, he rubbed the stubble on his chin before meeting her gaze.

A small smile graced her lips. For the first time in a year, she wasn’t ashamed to feel it there. It came like a gift on these anniversaries when he was there to appreciate its significance.

He nodded, acknowledging the gesture before looking skyward as he always did once they made their silent introductions.

The highway traffic’s hum filtered through the trees. Its murmur was a steady reminder that people were going places without them, but she could not think of a better place to be despite the thin trail of steam her breath left in October’s early morning air.

Time passed quietly as they searched for cranes migrating through the flyway along the stream. A pair appeared from behind the treetops, their strong wings beating the grey, uncompromising sky as they des-cended side by side toward the water.

From her seat, she watched him close his eyes and she knew he was there, caught in their shared mem-ory of a child—her child—and their first meeting six years earlier.

She rested her hand on the bench. As the tips of the cranes’ feathers grazed the water’s surface, she was sure she felt a small hand slip into hers. She squeezed it, desperate to keep the tiny, restless fingers safe in her grasp, but they slipped away as the child’s name trembled across her lips.

Across the water, he opened his eyes, vainly searching for her daughter’s shape in the past’s midday shadows. She knew he felt the brake pedal hard beneath his foot and the steering wheel within his grip as his knuckles whitened. She grieved as helplessness darkened his expression.

The memory always ended with the sound of screeching tires on pavement but on this, their sixth anni-versary, the deep, rolling rattle from one crane to another spared them that final blow. Their shoulders lifted with gratitude that offered a quiet hope for small mercies in the year ahead.

As the birds ascended to join the outer edges of their incoming flock, she ran her fingers across her daughter’s name on the bench’s memorial plaque before bundling her coat around her and waving good-bye. He donned his hat and tipped it in return.

They looked upward with a renewed consciousness of heaven and its treasures as they walked down separate paths toward the long, lonely business of living.

– Jodie Matthews is a Haney resident

Anniversary

Writing contest

by Kathleen Spiess

Poweful! That’s what I am. There is no other breed that I would prefer to be. I know who I am, and I am proud of who I am. My majesty surpasses that of many, many others, and I avoid the others as I instinctively know I am superior to them. I sup-pose they in turn avoid me, as they too realize their inferiority. No fault of their own, of course, simply a fault of their birth. Power! I exhale it each time I breathe.

I come from a strong gene pool. I come from those who have traveled many, many miles in search of the perfect place to call home. If one cannot migrate, one must roost, and if one must roost, one must dominate. From such dominating fowl I have come. From fearlessness, to maj-esty – that is my heritage.

It does me good to sit here and watch as others pass overhead. Others, but not THE one yet. Somehow, I know that I will know Her when I see the breadth of her span. When I see the nesting comfort She can offer to those who will be ‘ours’. (Such a lovely sound, “ours”.)

My perch here in the reeds offers good viewing, and I know somewhere inside of me that when She flies over, She will see me for who I am. The Powerful One! Yes, that is me. I am special, I am strong, I am The Crane. I am The King and I wait for my Queen. It is time for me to caress her elegant neck with my amorous beak, and to have the opportunity to demonstrate my foraging skills to find the necessities to build our home.

Others wonder what I am watching for in my mate. Elegance. Simply put, elegance. Of course I’ll exam-ine her legs to see if they have that minimal spindliness I find so attractive, and of course the lay of the feathers on the gentle curvature of her neck matter a great deal, and I’ll listen for her call to evaluate her pitch, but most of all it is her elegance which will tell me she is my Queen.

I have waited many years to select my Queen. Who knows, perhaps my wait may not even end with this season. Others think just ‘anyone’ will do, but I know this is not true. My mate must be special, she must be the Queen destined to complete me. We most certainly have a destiny to be fulfilled – we will find each other, and together our line will continue. Now leave me to watch in peace.

– Kathleen Spiess is a Maple Ridge resident

Majesty

Writing contest

by Karen Black

Carley strode along the trail, absorbed in her thoughts. A magnificent mountain bul-wark bordered the sunny bog that her trail meandered through. Heedless of the stun-ning vista, Carley had just enough presence of mind to ensure she didn’t stray off the dike path into the tall grass or mire. Her head was full of yesterday’s conversation.

“Becka’s one of the brightest kids in my class, oh my, yes. But her story, the subject matter is . . .hmm . . . inappropriate? For eleven year olds? Sorry, I um, don’t think we can include it as it is.”

Carley admitted that Becka’s teacher did have a point, despite her annoying waffling. After all, teachers were more attuned to what was appropriate for the average eleven year old than Carley was. She used to read parenting magazines for useful advice or inspiration. They always came down to the same contrived ‘You always know your child best, you can choose what’s best for her.’ What a bunch of baloney. Nobody gets a dose of magical knowledge the moment they become a parent.

“Whoops!” Her step just missed an impressive pile of dried bear scat. “Maybe I should pay a bit more attention.”

The morning sun had started to pull the earthy smells out of the bog. It promised another warm early June day. Carley slowed, took a deep breath and reviewed the familiar outline of the protective mountain peaks. A frequent visitor to this little piece of paradise, she hoped it would do its usual mind-clearing magic for her today.

Becka’s class was compiling stories and artwork for a keepsake of their final year in elementary school. Perceptive and precocious, Becky had crafted a moving portrait of a gay teenaged girl’s struggles with peers and parents. The language leaned towards the crude and Carley herself was a bit nonplussed. But by the maturity and thoughtfulness even more than the content.

“I know Mom, I don’t talk like that, but the characters in my story do! It’s my story and I’m telling it my way – please, you gotta back me up on this,” Becka had pleaded with pre-adolescent drama.

Carley was proud her daughter could write the story so convincingly. That she had such empathy. Carley had always taught Becka to respect school guidelines but now those lessons were in conflict with fostering her creativity.

A sudden violence of charging bird - wings flapping, scarlet forehead over menacing beak - startled Carley back from her musings. She quickly backed away from the agitated crane, appalled that she may have disturbed a nesting site.

“Take it easy, lady, no harm intended! I’m a mama too!”

Carley gazed at the protective bird as it composed itself and stalked off.

“I’m a mama, too,” she repeated thoughtfully.

Carley smiled, turned on her heel and started marching back to her car. She’d have a meeting with Becka’s teacher today. They would have a discussion about what is inappropriate.

– Karen Black is a Maple Ridge resident

Pluck in the Pitt Polder

Writing contest

by Julia Cooke

The swamp grass is damp and viscous, swallowing up any unwary creature that ven-tured though it.

The subtle wind swished between the thick strands, causing a slight disturbance to grace the otherwise calm pond. This of course could not last in the busy spring air, as the rushes were teeming with uninterrupted life. The young tadpoles were swishing their shrinking tails back and forth, too quick for even the sharp eye of the great bird in their midst.

The Crane, so massive to the underlings of this flourishing ecosystem, was only just out of infancy itself. The tiny female was only one year old, and had just left her parents behind.

Preening her pristine feather, she stalked the fish that were the natives of the swamp.

Unlike her slightly more experienced counterpart, she was seldom catching her prize. Capturing the sneaky and suspicious fishes were proving to be more difficult than the youngling had believed. She stood straight in a fairly shallow part of the fresh water, quickly glancing at even the slightest ripple. As her fruitless search had lasted longer than even the Crane was aware, the small unwary fish came as a great surprise.

She jerked her head forward, catching the fish in her tapered beak before the tiny creature could realize the danger. Although she was pleased with herself, the miniscule morsel that the fish presented only wet-ted her appetite.

The crane ruffled her feathers in irritation, much to the amusement of her silent companion.

Unbeknownst to the female crane; a fine male specimen stood a few hundred meters back, watching her every move with an increasing amount of interest. He was older by only a few weeks, but had caught on to his parent’s techniques with an ease untapped by his siblings.

He started towards the slight female gingerly, in the hopes of finally meeting his life mate. It was fairly late in the season, and their uncertainty of how to proceed had prevented both of them from settling down.

Evidently, there was not many of their kind to choose from currently, but that is not the only thing that drew him towards her. Her actions appeared both endearing and comical to the male bird.

He moved slowly through the water, prudently aware that she would be startled. She turned around, and caught a glimpse of her admirer. He called out to her, the sound of his voice perfuming the air around the bird.

She shook her head to his inquiry, and glided away from him with an admirable amount of grace given her situation. She dug in her heels to the soft rocky carpet under the pond, and quickly took flight.

He wouldn’t be winning her favor that quickly.

– Julia Cooke is a Maple Ridge resident

The Cranes of the Countryside

Writing contest

by Joe Robinsmith

The boy reached the clearing he had found the day before while exploring after all his chores had been caught up. White lady slipper lilies covered the open area still undisturbed, with the sun shining through the surrounding treetops, shining on the flowers. The beauty was breathtaking and he stood there staring. Living on a dusty farm at the base of the mountain, pretty things were seeing the striped candy sticks in the gen-eral store on their monthly visits to town. Not since he was five and the family had been leaving great grandmother’s house in the big city had he seen any flowers

The temptation was too much for the boy to resist, he just had to see them closer. Not wanting to damage the flowers which reminded him of his great grandmother Eloise, he walked around the edge of the glade, seeking a way in. He found a small break on the side where the sun was entering, as if the flowers were trying to avoid the sun. Awkwardly stepping in and around the flowers, which he could now see were not as dense a field as it had looked from further away, the boy eased his way towards the center of the glow-ing flowers. Reaching the center, he was surprised to find a large granite stone lit by the sunbeam shining through the trees that seemed to resemble a small bench. Eyes dancing with anticipation, he stepped forward and crouched to set his rear down on the stone.

“Screeeeech, bzzzzzzzzzzz,” in his face, a flapping of wings and loud noise caused him to fall to the side, batting at his own face and landing on his remaining hand and knees beside the stone. Looking around, he couldn’t see any sign of flying insects, “darned wasps” he muttered to him-self. Shaking his head as he got back to his feet, he looked around again. Seeing nothing around, he shook his head and prepared to sit again. This time, there was more screeching and it seemed even larger wings flapping in his face. Not having made it to a crouch, he didn’t fall down this time, but his hand definitely felt something flying away from his face as he swatted around.

There! Something white rose out of the lilies flying fast towards his face. He stopped his down-ward motion and lunged with hand grasping to catch this unknown assailant. With the extra spring in his lunge from already being crouched, he flew through the air, hands closing together around the flyer, the boy landed hard. “Oooofff!” he exhaled sharply. “Gotcha now!” he whis-pered excitedly. Palms cupped, he could feel little feet and wings inside. Raising his hands up to his right eye, he peered inside and with a start, threw the creature inside to the air, “aaaaaaaaah-hhhhhhhhh!!!!” he shrieked. “eeeeee!” the little creature flew up into the air, hovered above his head with a small scream. “Wha…wha….what are you?” the boy stammered. The hovering white creature got closer to his face and he could finally see that it looked like a miniature lady all in white, with pearly wings fluttering behind her. To top that off, what had sounded like buzz-ing, could now be made out as words, “I’m a Lily Fairy. We protect the Flower Ring around the Sandhill Crane King’s throne.”

– Joe Robinsmith is a Maple Ridge resident

The Sandhill Crane King

Writing contest

by Jackie Medaris

Little Sandy was a crane who wanted to find someone to play with. While walking around the marsh one day, he spotted a friendly looking duck-ling. He ran up excitedly and introduced himself.

“Hi, I’m Sandy. Do you want to play?”

“Sure! I’m Wade!”

A short legged brown bird suddenly landed between them. “Shoo, go away. Stay away from my son.”

“I just wanted to play,” Sandy said.

“Go play with your own kind,” she squawked, then turned around and guided Wade in the oppos-ite direction.

Sandy slowly moped away. What did she mean?

“Why so glum, squirt?” Sandy looked up to see a tall grey bird standing over him.

“I want to play with that bird over there, but his mom told me to go play with my own kind, and I don’t understand what she means,” Sandy blurted out.

The big bird looked over at the ducks. “Well, those are ducks, you’re a crane, and I’m a heron. So when she said to play with your own kind she meant another crane. I will play with you if you’d like.”

“I want to play with someone my own size. Why can’t I play with Wade, he’s small like me?”

“I really don’t know why.”

“Do you think it is okay for a duck and a crane to play together?”

“I think all the creatures of the marsh should be able to play together.”

“Yeah, me too!” Sandy chirped and turned to run back to the ducks.

Sandy ran up to Wade as quietly as he could and tried to hide behind a reed. “Hey Wade, it’s me Sandy. Do you want to play hide and seek? “

“Okay, we can play over there.” Wade pointed at a large patch of nearby reeds. “Mommy doesn’t want me to wander too far.”

They both ran over to their new play area. Sandy with his longer legs got there first, turning around just in time to see a hawk swooping down towards Wade, talons ready to lash out.

“Wade look out!” Sandy yelled so loud that it echoed through the marsh catching the mother duck’s attention.

Both Sandy and Mommy duck raced to save Wade. Sandy got there first and shoved Wade into some brush, out of the hawk’s grasp.

The mother duck was so happy that her son was okay that she forgot that Sandy was a crane. “Thank-you for saving my son!” she said while squeezing Wade tightly.

“Can I play with Sandy now?” Wade pleaded.

“Yes, but stay close and don’t wander off,” said the grateful mother duck.

“Come on Sandy, we can play with Puddles and Webber.”

And the new friends ran off to play as two of a kind.

– Jackie Medaris is a Maple Ridge resident

Two of a Kind

Writing contest

by Heidi Kelly

Your awkward, lanky body translates into something more gracefully beautiful then one could expect. I can’t help myself but look in awe when I see you fly by. You flap those long wings in a rhythmic motion leaving little time for me to watch you.

When you are not passing high in the sky, I point you out every chance I get because you hide in plain sight. How patiently still you stand, becoming virtually unnoticed by any-one not really looking.

I sometimes sit quietly, patiently watching the world around me as you do. There is a sim-plistic beauty in what you do. The longer you watch something exciting may happen. A fish may swim by or maybe a frog. They are patient too, so don’t give up too soon.

You are so peaceful to watch, yet your aim is to peacefully dine on the fish and frogs lulled into a false security. Yes I have noticed your spear like bill, perfect for the hunting you do. It’s as sharp as the keen patients you have.

Oh I can’t forget your willowy legs that could be passed off as stick like branches placed at waters edge so precisely. You are so tricky and crafty. You almost fooled me into believing that you have noth-ing better to do then to stand around all day letting me watch you.

You are keen, you are beautiful and I feel a deep satisfaction in watching you as you live your birds’

life. You create a peacefulness in my life as I ponder yours, but I am not to sure the frogs, fish and other delectable creatures would feel the same way as I do.

– Heidi Kelly is a Maple Ridge resident

Cranes

Writing contest

by Frank Talaber

Madness merely depends on which end of the knife blade you’re staring at. Or so said my mother, before we lost her on the first day of our holidays.

I was eight then so I never got to really hug her, stare into her large tender eyes and tell her, “Mom, Where’s the beef?”

At twelve I sit in a duck blind with my dad, wondering if, when I begin puberty, will it really make me want to do crazy things, like kiss boys, like I’d seen on TV, and let them put their tongue in your mouth. Or even uglier, let them win at card games.

My dad told me mom was pretty good at cards. She’d always win at strip poker. I wanted to be like her and had no intentions of losing my sirloin strips, or any kind of meat, to a boy, man, dog or overstuffed armchair.

Why are all armchairs overstuffed? I think maybe when people sat on the first arm-chairs they all replied, “Oh! This makes my arms look so fat.” I reckon that someone got the brilliant idea of overstuffing them and made a fortune selling to old ladies. “Mrs. Penderson you look darn good in that overstuffed armchair and your arms, I might say, look so thin.”

“Oh, you’re such a sweetie. I’ll take it.”The rest is history.“Dad, if the ducks are blind, why are we hiding?”“No silly girl,” Dad said, “It’s to make us blind to the ducks.”Wouldn’t it make more sense to put one of those fake decoys on our heads, walk around with white

canes and a card reading, ‘No legally blind humans here with guns’.I suppose ducks probably can’t read anyways.My dad tensed as a flock approached. I cringed thinking of the hours I’d spend plucking feather after

feather, holding lifeless necks, all the way to the car.Scrambling to get dead or dying fowl as they ceased their allotted lifespan in this eternity, hearts faint-

ly beating as blood ran into cold earth. Their one shot, their one go at making it in this duckling reality. Well, except to be my peppered-with-buckshot-duck-soup. Why did mom have to leave and make me the golden retriever?

I craned my neck skyward; these weren’t the usual honks. Regal sweeping wings buttered the sky. Great Sandhill cranes floated down amid the mallards and teals, like angels protecting the flock.

Dad lifted his gun.“NO.”Mom loved cranes. She’d taken up jogging the day before she disappeared and to this day we still

don’t know where she is. I remember the tee-shirt she wore that day, ‘Majestic Crane Ltd. We lift every-thing. Big or small.’

Dad said it didn’t help her, she’d already gone from 36DD to 42 long.I ran from the blind waving my arms wildly like some mad possessed person winning a pair of

Vancouver Canuck playoff tickets.“Be free! Be free!”Like I knew my mom was, somewhere.Dad never did take me duck hunting again.

– Frank Talaber is a Chilliwack resident

The Majestic Crane

Writing contest

by Dina Kerr

Insane CraneWith twiggy legs that won’t quitYou got my temper litMy biggest gold fish is hanging limply out of your beakHow can you expect me not to freakYou are majestic, beautiful, tall, elegant, arrogant, maybe even wiseBut do you see the fire in my eyes?I could wring your foot-long neckIf I could get close enough with a netBecause your lunch is my petCreated the same color as the end of a rainy dayGraceful wide wingspan, the envy of all the other flying creationsNot starving in this land of plentyWhy did you have to eat my best fish?

– Dina Kerr is a Webster’s Corners resident

Insane Crane

Writing contest

by Carrie Rogozinski

The water rushing up on shore flowed over her bare toes. Julie shivered at the icy tendrils caressing her feet. Beads of sweat trickled down her back as the hot sun beat down, but the ocean water was still held by winter’s cold clutches. She stepped back, further up the beach, away from the oncoming waves and settled onto a hump of sand.

Her backpack glittered as it caught the light, the unicorn featured upon its front rearing up in greeting. Julie patted the image absently before digging into the interior and bringing forth her supplies. As she opened her notebook to the page holding the taped diagrams, the words of her teacher filled her ears:

“It’s believed that the crane is very lucky and by folding a thousand of them you would get a wish granted.”

She pulled out an envelope, thick with paper, and withdrew a single sheet. The bright red paper with gold flecks crackled in the gentle wind. She took care not to wrinkle the delicate material as she made the first fold. Slow and deliberate, she followed the instructions. Finally, there stood a perfectly balanced crane upon her hand.

She closed her eyes and willed her wish into the tiny crane. Opening them again, Julie considered the innocuous bit of folded red fluttering in the breeze as her thoughts drifted back to the conversation between her parents that morning. They thought she had already gone to school, not knowing she’d paused to visit with her sister, still bed-ridden due to illness.

“What do we do?” The strain was apparent in her mother’s voice. Julie could just see her through the door to the kitchen; her body slumped against the counter, her face hidden by a curtain of lush brown hair.

“The doctors say to make her as comfortable as possible. We could take her to the hospital but they can’t do more than we can at home.” Her father came into view and walked over to her mother, gathering her up in his arms. “She’s been through so much, she should at least be in her own bed when-“

The sound of her mother’s heartbreaking sobs filled Julie’s ears, drowning out the hum of the crashing surf. Her previously sun-kissed cheek now felt cold as the wind pushed the tears flowing down into rag-ged paths.

Her heart heavy with grief, Julie dumped the sheets of paper she’d brought along and watched as the wind tossed them and their empty promises about like dying leaves in autumn. Recognizing the crane and its magic was a myth, she crushed it and watched it fall to the sand. She turned and walked towards home. She needed to be there to say good-bye.

Behind her, the mangled red crane skittered along the gritty white sand as it danced with the wind before lifting up, its wings spread wide and flying towards the sun, defiantly carrying Julie’s wish tight in its heart.

– Carrie Rogozinski is a Coquitlam resident

The Wish

Writing contest

by Wendy Barber

At last the letter came. It felt like I had waited all my life, well in reality I had. The letter from the government was a non-identifying letter, as they call it, meaning that the letter acknowledged my adoption but did not give any names, places or clues to who I am.

My search began twenty five years previous when I approached the Children’s Aid Society. However I did not search in earnest until my adoptive father passed away. My adoptive mother gave me secret papers she was no longer interested she didn’t care. Now the search progressed to a determined mission I was armed with a name and I felt free to search for my heritage.

As an adoptee I made it my personal quest to find my true heritage and create my own identity and this search occupied more than half of my life. I did not know to what I could compare my lack of identity the loneliness is impossible to describe. I had a hole in my heart and I must find a way to heal it. The government treats us adoptees in a shameful and degrading manner they take our birth certificate and all history from us lock it in sealed files and turn us into social orphans. At one point in my life I had a number and no name on my government docu-ments. Some philosophers have said that life is only a perception, not a reality. Most of my life I perceived myself as an orphan, a ship lost at sea. However an adversity such as this can sometimes motivate us to find our reality.

My determination paid of, I found my birth family. I missed meeting my mother as she had died at age thirty seven in a house fire in Nanimo. My first meeting with family was with her younger brother John, talk about a life changing moment, my Uncle John said to me,”There is no mistaking who your mother is”. That is the first time in my life that anyone has indicated to me that I looked like someone else. That moment in time is frozen in my mind it seems like yesterday. I knew instantly that this was my true fam-ily, I never fit into my adoptive family it was like trying to fit a round peg into a square hole. I found a sister in Toronto; she has four children is a nurse and a wonderful person. I met my birth mother’s oldest sister Lorraine, who I was named after at birth.

It is not so much that my life changed with this experience it’s that I have changed. I was able to exam-ine who I was and enjoy my journey from birth to the present. I no longer felt like a number now I had a name a family and a history. I raised my four daughters alone and created and operated a successful busi-ness. However, I was only surviving in the moment because I could not look back I was unable to look forward. Harry Truman said, “I tried never to forget who I was and where I came from and where I was going back to”. Quotes such as this had no meaning to me because I didn’t know who I was.

During my search I reach way down inside myself and there I found a strength I never knew I pos-sessed. This strength enabled me to realize myself, to know who I am. Since finding my birth family I feel strong and focused. We are born alone and we will die alone; just moments in time. I think it is the space in between when we live our genuine life that really matters.

– Wendy Barber is a Maple Ridge resident

About Adoption

Writing contest

by Terry McCaffrey

Class – Aves; Order - Gruiformes; Genus – Grus.

Wikipedia thus lists these ever so graceful, long-legged, long necked, high-flying birds we call Cranes.

Elegance has given them a special, a symbolic place in many cultures. Ancient Mecca’s three chief goddesses were referred to as the “Three Cranes.” Aristotle lauded their ability to traverse great distances and even today, cranes remain a popular subject in Japanese art and in their origami.

Our race has not been kind to many wild creatures and this includes cranes.

Of today’s fifteen species, the Whooping Crane came closest to extinction. By 1954, only a few pairs survived. These wintered in coastal Texas. Their summer home and breeding ground was “somewhere up North.” In that year, a Canadian pilot, flying low over a marshy area in remote Wood Buffalo National Park spotted two adults and a youngster. With conservation the Whooping Crane is slowly recovering.

Our crane, which visits us in the Lower Mainland of British Columbia belongs to the Sandhill sub-spe-cies. Most migrate between Southern Alaska and California’s Central Valley.

Recently, from my house in Maple Ridge, I saw half a dozen Sandhills circling lazily in a blue sky. I have seen small groups at Pitt Lake and elsewhere but my best meeting by far was on a March day when cycling on the Alouette dike. In a grassy field, close to the water were several dozen birds. I saw them at some distance – approaching them slowly and stopping when the storks and I figured we were a safe

distance apart. At this, their rest stop some stretched and shook their long necks. Some preened. Some dozed. Others walked with that pompous step reminiscent of stately mesdames from another era.

I withdrew quietly to let them rest.

All too soon they would leave us and climb high in the sky again to resume their journey south.

– Terry McCaffrey is a Maple Ridge resident

A Celebration of Cranes

Writing contest

Haiku by Svetla Taneva

Fire like red feathers.Flying exotic flowers.Nature’s firecrackers.

– Svetla Taneva is a Pitt Meadows resident

Cranes

Writing contest

by Sarah Martin

She lay on the cold, snow covered ground unconscious. Her brown hair is tousled and she has scratches on her face and arms. It’s a foggy, quiet winter night in the for-est. The woman, Julia, is awakened by the sound of nearby crows cawing.

Startled, she jolts into a sitting position and looks around. She’s confused and doesn’t know why she’s there. The woman doesn’t remember how she entered the forest or what she was doing hours before; minutes, even. All she is aware of at that moment is the numbing in her feet and hands.

A crow caws again and Julia looks in the direction of the irritating sound. They are standing innocently by a black fence, nibbling at the ground. Another crow swoops down from the leaf-less trees and joins the rest. She receives a nice view of the night sky as she watches it flap its wings. The black sky is littered with clouds and here and there, she can see dark sky speckled with stars. The air feels damp and wet, as if the earth has just been watered by a soothing rain.

The crow that just appeared suddenly looks in her direction, startling her. She gazes at the crow and it stares back into her brown eyes. The woman gets an unsettling feeling of death and violence in the pit of her stomach. She doesn’t know why this is, but her intuition tells her it has something to do with the reason for her being alone in the shadowy forest.

Tearing her eyes away from the crow, she slowly tries to stand up using a nearby tree for support. Quickly, she can feel the blood rushing back to her feet.

Julia stands in one spot for a moment with wobbly legs, trying to process her next move. Does she wan-der through the forest looking for a way out and risk hypothermia? If she doesn’t have it already. This seems like the only solution.

In the distance, she can hear cars on the highway, so she knows she’s not far from civilization. Sighing, she pushes forward and tromps through the icy snow. Now, she looks up at the sky and see’s only fog.

Walking for a minute, she looks up again, only to see a light from a house in the distance. Grinning, Julia is happy she has found shelter, but still wary that she doesn’t know where she is or who’s house that is.

Unsure of how long, she walks further, until she appears in the clearing of the house. It’s a log cabin, with smoke tunneling out of the chimney. She can’t wait to curl up by the fire. She wonders if the people inside are friendly and will help her.

Stepping onto the porch, she notices that the front door is ajar. She calls out, hesitantly, “Hello?” and taps on the door. “Anyone home?”

There is a rustling inside and she waits for the person to greet her, unaware of what she is about to face.She is startled when a large man appears. He is extremely tall, at least 6’3 and dark-haired, with start-

ling hazel eyes. He scares her immediately - not just because of his intimidating looks, but the fact that he’s smiling at her, almost as if he knows her.

“There you are,” he says. Then he frowns and unexpectedly grabs her by the arm and yanks her into the house. She is so jolted that she falls, and lands on the floor on her side. Who is he? She wonders. He has a vial of something in his hands, and looking into the dining room, she sees a table with an assortment of needles and knives. Her imagination takes over and she gasps in horror.

He approaches her with a daunting demeanour and kicks her in the stomach while she’s down. The wind is knocked out of her and she begins to scamper away, but he grabs hold of the collar of her shirt and heaves her to her feet.

He pulls her close to him so they are almost nose to nose, and she can smell alcohol on his breath. She trembles in fear as he smirks and says, “I wondered where you’d gone to.”

And then she remembers.

– Sarah Martin is a Pitt Meadows resident

Cranes

Writing contest

by Samantha Walters

I silently walked closer to the bank of the gently moving river, eyes concentrated on my objective. Oh so quietly I leaned closer and closer. Then I stilled, my object of con-centration was disrupted by something and straightened to attention like a soldier in front of a superior. I took the moment to enjoy the light breeze and the warm glow of spring and new life. With my camera in hand I started forward again completely relaxed but quiet as the crane dipped its head down for a long drink once again.

I discreetly took my pictures, being careful not to disturb the cranes everyday ritual of fishing

for its food. As it once again straightened out I thought that it was the end of the day for the crane and I would get to watch it take off in a flurry of black and white feathers. But for some reason the crane dipped down again and continued to hunt, taking up two small fish possibly to take them to feed its chicks when there was a rustling in the bushes across from me, and I saw the flash of a camera and a glimpse of a wing tip as the crane flew away and I missed my chance to take a picture of the majestic animal flying away. The crane flew away without the fish it would take home to its babies because someone was being incon-siderate and didn’t turn off the flash setting on their camera.

– Samantha Walters is a Maple Ridge resident“This is my contest entry… Hopefully people like it seeing as I am a teenager and this is one of my first contest entries as a writer.”

Camera, Crane

Writing contest

by Rik Watson

The gusty breeze ruffles his downy feathers, coloured like the sands of time. His eyes reflect the stars, the turnings of the heavens. His gaze scans the horizon. Standing guard, the Cosmic Crane watches the Flock. He stands sentry on stilted leg, holding ‘loft with other foot a piece of earth, a rock. The rock, this piece of terra firma, is solid in his clasp, a direct connection with this world. Through the millennia, he has held his grip, but fears that soon the time will come that he will drop his guard. Sleep will over-come him, and the rock shall fall, jolting him back to wakefulness, hopefully not too late. There are many dangers to the Flock. For now, he holds this piece of earth. Watching the stars, he understands that everything is in change. Nothing stands still.

A small splash near the swampy shoreline instantly has his attention. Starlight rip-ples from a newt, or frog, most likely, denizens that share these fens. Cosmic Crane ponders on the inter-connectedness of all the creatures, feeding each other. Life continues with every generation.

A movement in another direction, at the edge of the woods, catches his eye. A wily coyote. The coyote’s eyes, too, reflect the light from the stars, as the Crane espies the eyes of others in the pack, scouting out along the shoreline, searching for their dinner. The wetlands not only nourish, but keep safe the Flock. Yet, a far greater peril than the carnivores threatens the cranes. For millen-nia, the Guardian has not been able to sleep, because of the Machine.

The rock feels heavy in his grasp and he snaps awake, heart beating fast. The sound of an engine drones off in the distance. In the past few centuries, the Machine has been clawing away at the whole world in an ever-increasing rate. City lights drown out Celestial Light. Urban sprawl crawls over nesting grounds. More and more flocks have no home to return to after their long-distance travels.

Comic Crane’s thoughts soar in flight, thinking about migrations with the Flock, wings beating in time to the Universal Rhyme. His thoughts turn to the Joys of the Dance and his stardust blood courses stronger in his veins. Partners trilling in double-time… triple-time! The Dance! The Mating! The Joys of Life and Living! He keeps a firm grip on the rock.

The sound of a distant machine rips through the tranquil marshland. How much longer can he guard the Flock? With each passing year, countless flocks have had nowhere to fly to, except the Great Beyond. The remaining flocks are decimated and isolated. The many parts of the Machine seem to be everywhere at once, while the Crane can only hold onto what he has. He knows that everything has a beginning and an ending. The rock he holds tells him that. Everything changes. His time, too, will come; it will be his turn to pass on to the Great Beyond.

For now, he holds the rock.

– Rik Watson is a Maple Ridge resident

The Guardian

Writing contest

by Richelle McAuley

There you are!

So still. Lonely. Patient. You stand, on thin stick legs, at the edge of the water. Waiting. Silent. Still. What are you thinking as you stand so still, just watching, and waiting.

There you go! Those wings, so long and graceful. Lift off, then you’re gone.

What shall I name you? Something elegant, sophisticated, but other worldly. Why does Gandolf come to mind? Are you magical? Possibly. Mesmerizing, for sure. I can’t keep my eyes off you.

Where are you today? I drive by the usual spot but you aren’t there.

Who is this I see this day? Surely not Gandolf. That’s not his spot. You are just as silent, still and lonely. Gazing out, watching, waiting. Not a movement. The wind slightly flut-ters your feathers. I shall call you Kristoff. I don’t know why. Why do cranes make me think of old world characters?

The daily drive is not the same this week. The hawk is on his usual lamp post. The llamas are lying about on the grass. The coyote is again loping across the fields. The ducks are floating in roadside waters. But where is the magical crane?

Days go by. Finally! The world is right again. The magic is back. Gandolf!

There, silent, still, watching and waiting.

– Richelle McAuley is a Maple Ridge resident

Gandolf

Writing contest

by Rebecca Franklyn

Palisha reached up and tugged on her mother’s sleeve, “Mummy what’s that?” Her small arm outstretched, pointing at a peculiar bird, standing in the middle of the marsh.

It stood on one elongated leg with the other half-bent under it’s whitish-grey belly. The bird twisted it’s neck, and Palisha’s mother could see the florescent red head. “I’m not sure honey,” she said, surveying the rest of the flock. Their long black beaks pecked away at what she thought were small insects and grain. Her instincts told her it was not a Heron.

They moved closer. Being high on the dykes, they could watch the birds quietly without dis-rupting them.

Palisha soon grew restless and began pulling at her mother. She wanted to get closer. Her dark hair tossed about her face as she crouched down. Her pink wellies were cov-ered in mud from the puddles she’d been jumping in. She picked up a stick and carefully scratched at the gravel imitating the birds.

Palisha eyed the birds out of the corner of her eyes. They had very long necks, she tried to makes hers longer, but couldn’t. Instead, she looked up, “Mummy, where do they go?”

“What, dear?”

“Where do they go when it gets cold?” said Palisha. She was determined to know.

“I think they migrate, Lisha.” Palisha’s mother crouched down level with her child. She gently brushed the stray hairs from Palisha’s face.

“M-i-g-r-a-t-e,” Palisha said sounding-out every letter. “Is that where Daddy went?” Her eyebrows and

nose crinkled slightly in an effort to understand.

Her mother stood up and was silent for a while. She pulled her black toque further down her neck; it had become chilly. When she’d straightened her navy jacket she knew there was nothing left to do, but answer her daughter. “No, Lisha they don’t go where your father went.”

Palisha turned her head back to the beautiful birds. She stood transfixed as one of them started to run and then took off flying, higher and higher. Her gaze followed it.

Her mother watched too, thinking. She let out a low sigh, as the bird stretched out it’s lengthy neck, and flapped it’s massive wings. Palisha’s mother tried hard to remember where she’d seen the bird before. It didn’t take long, she’d seen it on the Japanese vase her husband had given her, on their first wedding anniversary. That was before the Iraq war, he would never come back, and he had never met his beautiful daughter. Her thoughts were interrupted as a man and his spaniel went by.

“Beautiful aren’t they?” His voice was cheerful and his dog panted happily.

Palisha nodded.

“Um…what kind of birds are they?” Palisha’s mother asked. At least, she could find that out for her daughter.

“Cranes… and I think the last before winter,” he said. He smiled and then hurried after his dog.

“Come Lisha. It’s getting cold,” said her mother and took Palisha’s hand.

– Rebecca Franklyn is a Whonnock resident

Plight of a Crane

Writing contest

by Pamela Burns

Under a yellow, orange burnt sunset the small boy watched the two cranes with their regal vermilion crowns, dancing, wings splayed out, hopping and whooping. Their long twig-like legs elevating, as though in suspended animation, while they skipped and hopped over the frosty, frozen lake. “How can people shoot these beautiful animals?” mused the boy.

The small boy had been told by his father that if you see two cranes dancing together it means that they are mates and will stay together for life. The boy decided to name the dancing birds, Romeo and Juliet after the Shakespearean star-crossed lovers. A story he had been told by his mother.

Just then the boy heard a loud gun shot in the distance! He jumped up in alarm and dashed toward the frozen lake shouting urgently: “Romeo, Juliet, fly away…shooo, shooo. You’re in danger!!” The boy ran onto the frozen pond and began to madly slip and slide over the ice, tripping and stumbling as he tried to make his way over to the two love birds.

Another foreboding shot rang out, so loud that both the boy and the birds froze! The dark echo of the gunfire was still in the air. The boy was face to face with Romeo and Juliet, their wings were down and there was no dancing as they stared at the boy in what appeared to be surprise and bemusement.

“I’m here to save you!” whispered the boy. Suddenly he heard a cracking sound behind him and saw two men in dark jacket and hats, holding cocked shotguns. They were standing on the edge of the iced water.

“Out of the way boy!” said the taller man in a matter-of-fact tone. The boy and the cranes were silent. “Are you deaf lad!” said the other. The boy slowly moved backward toward the cranes, while carefully watching the two men. “I will die here if I have to” exclaimed the boy in a determined voice. The men looked at each other. Without warning the taller man ran toward the boy and threw him under his strong arm. Flailing and screaming, the boy shouted to be released, but the hunter seemed unmoved by the boy’s protestations or struggles and held onto him tight.

Another shot rang! And then silence.

There was smoke over the lake, rising slowly, a strong smell of sulpher and a dark heaviness that was almost visible to the naked eye. As the misty swirls lifted, there could be seen two birds, one laying motionless on the ice with the other’s long elegant neck entwined around the neck of the dead bird.

Romeo and Juliet took their last embrace and audience cried in shame.

– Pamela Burns is a Maple Ridge resident

Dancing Cranes

Writing contest

by Nathan Wade

Every year at around the same timeTheir captivating honk is a signFlowing with nature in perfect rhymeThat these migratory birds have returned

The males and females are for the most part alikeThe female darts her eyes around her nesting place very much likeA human mother looking out for her to-be-born tykeWho one day will grow up to repeat this pattern of life

The whooping crane can walk with prideThis bird’s long legs give it a regal strideWith its long neck and wide wingspan alongsideIt impresses us as it prepares to take flight

– Nathan Wade is a Maple Ridge resident

Cranes

by Nadeen Horwood

From 1941 to 2010 there was a captive raising programs under way,

To replenish the endangered whooping cranes with programs to save the day.

Their job was to save the whooping cranes that only numbered twenty-two,

Their home was to be in central Florida with one coming from the Calgary Zoo.

In 2001 an ultra light air craft taught the small flock to migrate to Florida State,

They all hoped their captive raising programs worked before it was too late.

With hard work and records the flock grew to five hundred and seventy-four,

In a ten year window they hoped with luck and hard work there will be many more.

You can help by donating money, one hundred, fifty, twenty, pennies or even a dime,

So let’s help the wildlife officials save the endangered whooping cranes one day at a time.

– Nadeen Horwood lives in Surrey, but is a former resident

Writing contest

Whooping Cranes

by Melanie Kilsby

A crane a day is what I see. A crane a day is what I need.

Just outside the city, just shy of the busy noise. I walked along the dirt path which coiled and turned beside the calm river. The sun kissed my cheek. The fresh air tickled my nose with the blooming smell of spring just around the corner.

The weight of the day seemed heavy on my shoulders. Though the sun was still beam-ing its beautiful rays. I heard the sound of wind rushing though the leaves. “Woosh, Woosh, Woosh,Woosh”. That was not an ordinary sound of wind?

A majestic figure glided just so. Almost sailing as if she were a boat lightly hovering the roar-ing waves of the sea. Her sea is the air and she is managing just fine. All of a sudden this was the spot she would lay down her anchor. With a slightly louder Woosh, and an awe-struck land-ing, she opened her wings. Her sleek curved neck stretched just enough to enhance her iconic image. She is a crane.

Majestic and seemingly peaceful. A beautiful moment. One not often seen enough. She floated so calmly and almost stood, as if, elegant royalty. Time seemed lost as I was captured by her beauty.

Then just like that, she lifted, and was gone.

The sound of the dirt and pebbles crunched as I walked on. I felt as though I went through history just gazing upon such a breathe-taking animal. Still mesmerized, I realized the weight slightly lifted off my shoulders. To know and enjoy such a beautiful creature, I couldn’t help but think on its Creator.

Then, a thought...

A crane a day is all I see. A crane a day is what I need!

– Melanie Kilsby is a Maple Ridge resident

Writing contest

A Crane

Writing contest

by Marcy Evans

She loved the dike with all its variety. Cranes, eagles and herons, along with the people on the path, created an agreeable ambiance. Even the texture of the pilings and their reflections on the water competed for space with her wildlife shots. She never tired of the dike.

It would be easy to lure her out of the safety of the house. He began to construct details, constantly looking for flaws, quickly revising and re-examining. This is doable, he thought. He laughed inwardly at how easily this was coming together. Some details still needed to be taken care of, like his alibi, but overall it was shaping up nicely. His ego inflated as it bathed in this yet to be accomplishment.

Some people would just divorce. He had lots of input from guys who told him about losing so much that they had worked for, even their pensions. After all that, they then had to support this b----. You’re never free of them. It’s not really divorce, just another kind of hell. It was bad enough to live with this never-satisfied woman, always nagging and belittling, though to up the ante and go through a divorce wasn’t what he wanted. He needed peace.

Odd, how, when they were younger, everything seemed simpler. He could still remember when they were happy together. Maybe if they had children, maybe, maybe this, maybe that. They had thought that each was the centre of the other’s world. That was youth. You observed your parents in the hole that they had dug for themselves, and arrogantly believed that they hadn’t succeeded because of some innate lack. You knew it would be different for you. You knew it, until it was too late. Life had a way of wearing you down. Still, his intellect needled him. Was there a path back to better times? He recalled their first year together. His anger was dissipating. He would ask her if they could talk, or find a counsellor or a medi-ator. He was a reasonable man, and he felt he could face challenges as they presented themselves.

As he turned back toward the beginning of the path, he noticed the crane. It was an omen. Any day was a winner when you sighted a Sandhill Crane.

If you saw him you would think “there goes a confident and purposeful man”. In his mind he was think-ing “it’s always good to have a backup plan”.

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– Marcy Evans is a Port Coquitlam resident

A Reasonable Man

Writing contest

by Marcy Evans

Marisa avoided the dike for a long time after he left. There were too many mem-ories to eat away at her comfort zone. Breaking up wasn’t the end of the world, but in unguarded moments it was seriously painful. The framed photo he had taken when she had tried to get a little closer to the crane, was now face down at the bottom of her drawer, under a swimsuit. She couldn’t throw it away, and she didn’t want to keep seeing it.

She strode confidently along the broad path, camera in hand, marvelling at scenes she never grew tired of: the seasons, the cranes and eagles, the pilings, and all the fresh bright greens that assaulted her senses after a rain. After a rain, yes, that was it. She stepped around some horse dung. Even the sight of that made her feel alive. There was nothing that couldn’t be accomplished in this moment. Her head pivoted in search of inspiration. The light drained from her face. S--t! He was on the path, too, and he was too polite not to say hello. Nothing was ever simple. There he stood, his hand laced into the hand of a tall Nordic princess. Ilse was blonde, slim and had a smile that should have been on the cover of a pro-fessional magazine for dentists. Marisa braced herself. He had moved on, and here she was, unaccompan-ied, and facing him with this goddess from Valhalla. If only life didn’t spring these things on one without warning. What a crock! If she had been forewarned she certainly wouldn’t be standing here, now.

“Marisa, he said, how are you? You look wonderful. I’ve been thinking that we should get together and catch up. I’ve been out of town for a few months on assignment. I’ve just gotten back”.

The smooth cadence of his voice was a pleasure to hear and her confidence reasserted itself. I can love you and not have you, she thought, or maybe, a different kind of love, maybe sisterly.

Ilse smiled benignly: a lovely enhancement of his right side. At some point they had stopped holding hands.

“Ilse is down from the Kelowna office for a seminar and I’m showing her some of the sights. Could we get together for dinner one night this week? Ilse and I are working late at the office after her seminar, and she goes home on Tuesday. Any night but Monday works for me”.

“My number hasn’t changed, Travis. Call me later when I’ve had a chance to check my calendar.”

After Travis and Ilse moved on, Marisa realized that she still felt good about herself. The picture of her and the crane would go back on the dresser..

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– Marcy Evans is a Port Coquitlam resident

Marisa