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A hearty feast of free readings, lectures, presentations, workshops and showcases celebrating our culture, community and the wild blue yonder.
 Where inquiring minds gather.
Okanagan Institute
at Hanna's Lounge
Click here for schedule
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Arts Council of the Central Okanagan is a resource centre and advocate for the arts in Kelowna and Central Okanagan. Find us at:
8-1304 Ellis Street
Kelowna BC V1Y 1Z8
Phone: 250.861.4123
Fax: 250.861.4155
Email: Click here
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Literary Arts
On the Fringe and Wanting in Patricia A.Donahue
He spotted him up ahead; arm extended, thumb jutted out - a blue jacket snapping in the wind. The day's schedule was a tight one - no time to stop. His fledgling company was getting calls now, was on a roll. And so he would've drove on except for the racing glimpse of the boy's face, a sliced cameo through the lower windshield. Braking hard, he brought the pick-up to a screeching halt.
"Where you goin'?" he asked the hitcher who'd fast-paced it up, and jumped in.
"To a job," the boy blurted, catching his breath.
"Yeah. And where's that?"
"BillyBoy's Take-Out. A couple of miles down; the junction of highway 3," the boy replied, his tone leveled sullen.
"Not too happy about it, eh?"
"No. But I'm forced to work Š by my dad."
Then what he said next was jolting.
"I used meth Š just the once. Honest! And they caught me. The ol'man kicked me out. Said, 'go keep yerself'. Job don't pay enough even for a room," the boy mumbled, down-in-the-mouth, his fingers twigged the frayed jacket's broken zipper. Hand on the wheel; the man stroked his chin with the other. Finally, he broke the silence.
"D'you know how to use a hammer?" he asked.
"Yeah," his passenger replied, brow knit.
"You wanna come work for me?"
"Where?"
"I run this construction company. We're busy. Come tomorrow morning; office is a mile the other side of where I picked you up," he said, and handed him a card. Grasping it, the boy examined the print. He looked up at the driver with eyes rounded, astonished. Then, he peered at the embossed card, again. "Lionel?"
"Yeah. That's me."
A sudden animation overtook the boy; his head turned to look out the window, then swiveled back to gaze at Lionel and, as swiftly, dropped to the print on the card. "Wow! You really mean that?" he queried, his voice agog. "I mean Š well, I never done construction as a job before."
"Never mind. I'll show you, if you pull yourself outta bed early. Doors open at six-thirty," Lionel said as he brought the truck to a skidded stop at the fast-fry.
"I'll be there, all right!" he said, shoving the door open. "My name's Casey!"
Lionel nodded, and sped off.
Sure enough, next morning Casey showed up. It was six-fifteen when Lionel looked out and saw the teen's hustle-stride and his nervous, foot-to-foot, stepping at the threshold.
"You're early," Lionel greeted him, pulling the door ajar. "Come on in. Take a seat."
At the end of the intense workday, after the others had gone, Casey again stood at the door, shifting foot-to-foot.
"Ah. I just wanna say," he faltered, and held up a bandaged finger. "Ah Š well, despite this here accident, I wanna thank ya man for takin' me on. It was really great. Really!" His freckled face shone. "Tore my pants too, here at the butt," he thumbed toward his hip. "But no matter. My mom'll sew it up. And she'll be happy for me, too."
"So, you wanna stick it out with us?"
"Sure, I do," Casey leaped to reply as if any delay might change Lionel's assessment.
"You can keep those steel-toed boots I lent you," Lionel pushed on. "Half-life kicked outta them already. Finish 'em off. But get yourself back here tomorrow, eh? Six-thirty."
With the gifted boots slung from his shoulder, Casey's runners seemed not to touch ground the whole two miles to town. And for the teen, it was a summer he wouldn't forget - one of those marker times carried in memory into adulthood. A break, a turn-a-bout, that found him working amongst skilled men and starting to feel like a man himself - flexing his muscles, literally.
And it was a couple of weeks later, while grabbing a coffee-to-go, that Lionel caught sight of someone lurking about his vehicle parked outside. It was a ragamuffin of a boy who'd rounded the heavy-steel bumper and was rubbing grime from the truck's signage. Exiting, Lionel saw the matted hair, streaked face and filthy torn clothes. The foul smell of the unwashed rode along. Without hesitation, the youth stammered. "Are you the guy who hires on kids who used drugs?"
Lionel pulled up short. He set his cup carefully on the roof and with chin on a loose fist, perused the young stranger. The boy's expression was a replicate of what he'd observed on Casey; a blend of anxious pleading, hope and a struggle to retain dignity; a wrestling to hold on to his pride.
"How old are you?" Lionel asked.
"Be fourteen next week. Birthday next Friday."
"And you said somethin' about using drugs?" Lionel pressed.
"Don't want to - stopped - yes, I have. And wantin' to stay stopped!" Came the prompt answer in a tone notched earnest.
With not a word, Lionel grasped his coffee, turned to peer down the street, then, to the distant horizon, a line of jagged treetops of British Columbia forest cutting a blue sky. After a few moments, he swiveled back to the boy, for indeed, he was a mere boy, who'd remained riveted to the spot, stock-still. Lionel took a deep breath and eyeballed the waif, then, issued out these measured words.
"D'you know how to use a hammer?"
(Based on a true story of a youngish man with a gigantic heart for the disadvantaged.)
We invite submissions from writers.
» The story or poem should not be over 2000 words and must be your own original work. All submissions must be word processed and emailed to us at our email address.
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» Please also include a short biography and if possible a small photo of yourself.
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