Here it is… the announcement I’ve been waiting to make public since my story in grade four at Southwood School in Steinbach made it onto the classroom bulletin board.
Bigger me, bigger bulletin board.
Cheers, respectively, to teacher Miss Hildebrand and publisher Matt Joudrey.
“Pinching Zwieback” is a themed fictional account of the lives and characters in a place on the Canadian prairies called Hartplatz. It features the Zehen family and many others whose comings and goings represent events both real and imagined under the Prussian blue sky. Among them: Hart & Justy, Schmietum Jake, Pete Vogel, and Matt Zehen, whose journey is observed from childhood to later in life. Characters that really schmack!
More info as we get closer to the spring 2023 launch. Watch this space and my Facebook and Twitter pages. (LinkedIn too.)
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Whenever our family got together, it was inevitable that we would sit and tell stories. We would gather in my grandparents’ adjoining kitchen and living room, tjinja on the floor to make room on the couches and chairs for our elders. Here at the heart of their warm and crowded house, no one would be out of earshot. Yarns were unravelled and our feelings rose and fell. It was as if we were on a ship and the prairie around us was a rolling ocean – in all that sprawling snowy sea, my grandparents’ house was the safest harbour. And yet the stories often reminded us of the many dangers that exist in what seemed such a placid and familiar world.
At Christmas, Grandma always told the final story. That was our tradition. It was about my great-aunt Rosa when she was a child in Russia.
Enunciating with care in her precise English, Grandma Zehen told the story. Her narration was theatrical and thrilling, but still heartfelt and purely told. She would fill in detail and sentiment, adding dialogue to suit. But most engaging of all, she always told the story as if it was ours. This may not have been strictly so; it may have been cultural lore as much as family history. I never felt that it mattered – I just remember waiting for the story every Christmastime.
Lights were dimmed, candles lit. Out came the platters of Christmas cookies from the warmth of Grandma’s oven. Baked fresh this evening, we had been smelling them since the stories began, all of us waiting for them to arrive. I will never forget the candy taste of the pink icing, the buttery aroma with just a hint of vanilla. I can still see the warm glint of the crystal sugar in the candlelight. Best of all, dee tjinja got first pick from the overflowing trays!
Grandma began her special story once everyone had their cookies and we chewed as quietly as we could to listen.
#
Not too far from Odessa, on the shores of the Black Sea, there was once a place called Molotschna Colony – ‘Milk River’, you know, as Englanders say it. My mother’s sister, my Taunte Rosa, attended grade school in one of the villages there. By Soviet dictate, the lessons were taught in Russian. The teacher, however, was brought in from Germany for the school year. Naturally, she was fluent in Hoch Deutsch – the language the Molotschna Mennonites spoke in church. She spoke Russian too, but best of all, thisLehrerin was also able to get by in her Mennonite students’ native Plautdietsch. Obah, for the tjinja, of course, Plautdietsch was like the difference between day-old rye bread and fresh raisin toast with butter!
After Russia’s Godless Revolution, another state dictate forbade all religions. It was illegal to come together in any kind of gathering, especially for groups with obvious proclivities towards worship. Why even our little get-together today would have been banned under these new laws! Ambitious and diligent, the government officials were particularly strict in overseeing the local Mennonites in everything they did: at work, at home, and in Taunte Rosa’s school.
But there were still some aspects of Christendom that refused to fade in Russia. In a practical sense, this referred to the calendar and the arrangement of holidays, most of which were based on old religious traditions too deeply ingrained in society to go away overnight. Christmas ceased to exist, but a single day of rest near the end of December was permitted in Taunte’s village. Despite this, officially, even the simplest Yuletide symbols were banned.
Can you imagine? We have not experienced oppression like this in Canada, but let me tell you, it was a profound stimulant to Christmas joy back then! There is a kind of enthusiasm for celebrations that only forbidding them can produce. Ha! Bibles came out of secret hiding places. Clandestine late-night services were held in barns and haylofts and carols were sung in whispered voices. Even the auf’jefollna cast aside their backsliding ways and rediscovered their fervour!
Now, kids, I’m sorry for all the big words and grown-up talk! What Grandma is saying to you is that Christmas was taken away. And not just Christmas, but Easter too and even going to Sunday School. It was a mixed-up time, joh? But you little ones shouldn’t worry – the next part of the story is really for you, most of all!
So, now…little Rosa was very excited and too young then to grasp the full extent of the ban. She felt that taking away Christmas was like a game the adults played – the government on one side, trying to catch you; the parents and kids on the other side, trying to be clever and feeling the dangerous exhilaration of outsmarting the apparatchiks and their stuffy No-Christmas rules.
Christmas baking was one of many pieces in this complex game. Most Mennonite families still made Christmas cookies and other festive treats, but these traditions were known to the officials and were part of the ban. Christmas cookies were kept secret and were hidden.
A few days before Christmas Day one year, Rosa joined the game. That day, her mother had baked a batch of these secret Christmas cookies, and young Rosa couldn’t stop herself. She took one of the best, one with pink icing and red and green sugar crystals on top – and snuck away. She wrapped it in oiled paper, then in a folded piece of cardboard and secured it snugly with a thin ribbon she had saved from her birthday. Her coat had an inside pocket and she placed it there, near her heart. This was her Christmas gift for her teacher, Fraulein Rosenfeld. Rosa was so fond of her pretty teacher, you see, and was always broken-hearted in the springtime when Fraulein packed her trunk and left on the train.
Imagine the winter sky, children, as big there and just as blue as it is here. Think of Taunte Rosa as she hummed ‘Stille Nacht’ ever so softly while she walked to the schoolhouse, her boots squeaking in rhythm on the hard-packed snow path. Rosa, you see, felt guilty for not telling her mother about the gift. But, you know just how she felt, joh? She wanted to give this gift so badly and feared if she had asked, the answer would be no.
After lunch at school that day, while the other children dressed to go out and play, Rosa walked shyly to Fraulein’s desk and placed the ribboned gift in front of her. Fraulein tilted her head, not used to gifts from children in her class. Desperately saving for passage to strange, distant destinations like Canada, America, and Mexico, the families of Molotschna had little left over. And, of course, no one in any of the Russian Mennonite Colonies gave gifts for Christmas.
“What’s this?” the teacher asked.
Rosa stood at the edge of the desk, her heavy parka over her arm. At first, she was terrified, sensing that her teacher was angry and that she had done something wrong. “A present, Lehrerin,” was her meek answer.
Fraulein answered with a hum and a slight frown. She was a prim woman, thin and neat and somewhat severe. Her eyebrows raised and her eyes flicked up to see if anyone else was in the room. It was empty; all the children were already on the playground. She picked up the light bundle and unwrapped it with long piano fingers, laying the shiny ribbon on the varnished desktop. She undid the folded oil-paper and looked down at the small Christmas cookie.
“Well, well,” she said, before taking a deep breath and sitting upright in her chair. “How nice, Rosa. But, tell me please: did your mother give you this, for me?” She left her steady gaze on the child but took care not to stare too hard.
Rosa looked down, her cheeks flushing. “Nay, Lehrerin. It was me,” she confessed.
“Nicht Mutti?” replied the teacher in more formal High German; her tone firmer, a hint of accusation lingering.
“Nein, Fraulein. Mother doesn’t know.”
Fraulein Rosenfeld nodded curtly. She rose and walked swiftly to the doorway, her heels like hammer blows on the oiled wood floor. Looking down the hall and then closing the door, she paused there, her hands clenching as she gathered her thoughts. Rosa waited, feeling ever smaller next to the tall desk. The door locked with a sharp snap.
“Nah joh,” Fraulein Rosenfeld began. When she turned back to Rosa she was smiling. “This is so nice.”
Rosasquirmed, basking in the moment.
“It’s just so nice!” Fraulein repeated. “Can we have it now, Rosa?”
The little girl studied her teacher’s face. Then, eyes shining, she said, “Joh!”
Fraulein Rosenfeld looked through the window to the playground. Then she returned to the desk and broke the cookie into smaller bits. She ate some of it, passing a small piece to Rosa.
They ate together, chewing busily like church mice, with the teacher standing between little Rosa and the door. Fraulein fretted from door to window and to the large white-faced clock on the wall behind her, above the lined blackboard, keeping watch all the while.
Soon the cookie was gone. The teacher took the wrapper and folded it over and over until it was a small square. She pushed it deep into her pocket, together with the curly ribbon. She moistened her fingertip and dabbed at the few remaining crumbs. Holding one finger upright in front of her pursed lips, she took Rosa’slittle hands and squeezed them gently, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead in the silent classroom.
“Our secret, joh?” Fraulein said in a whisper.
Rosa nodded, elated to have a secret with Fraulein – an honour she did not fully grasp. But perhaps it was just what the Fraulein had been lacking in cold and distant Molotschna.
Page 232, “Building on the Past”, Raduga Publications, Rudy P. Friesen
You see, Fraulein Rosenfeld was much revered by the officials who ran the school. They saw her presence as a special concession to the Mennonites. On the other hand, the local teachers felt it was a slight to them and they treated her with cool disdain. For Fraulein, from a remote dairy farm in southern Germany, this teaching position was Godsent. It combined her gift for language and her love of children. To her, some minor social distance was a small price to pay. But ask any oma or opa whose children have since begun their own lives and families, and they will tell you, it’s easier to feel lonely at Christmas than at any other time of the year.
Fraulein gazed with fondness at the tiny girl, she saw the brightness in her eyes and touched her braided blonde hair.
Just then, the first of Rosa’s red-cheeked classmates huffed into the cloakroom stomping snow off their boots and unwinding scarfs, their yarn-strung mittens wet and dangling. They looked at the two at the front of the classroom. Rosa’s friend Tina called out that they missed her for the game of fox and geese they had played, running in the fresh snow. Before Rosa could reply, the bell rang and the children returned to their seats.
Now tjinja, you might ask, how dangerous was that one innocent küak? Surely no great peril could come from something so small? But all it would have taken was for the wrong official to find out about the cookie – why what would have happened to them then? Those Russians, obliged by strict orders to find them, might have detained Rosa’s family. Maybe they would have been sent to a distant work camp or suffered some secret cruelty in Moscow, too horrible to name. Who knows?
And all because of a Christmas cookie.
#
Grandma folded her hands in her lap. The house fell still and silent until Grandpa prayed, his voice solemn and thick with emotion. When he finished, after, “Amen,” we sang, giving thanks for our deliverance, rattling the windows, billowing our hearts; “Praise God from whom all blessings flow…”
At last, late on Tjrist’owend, I would lie in my bed and retell myself Great-Aunt Rosa’s story. Fraulein Rosenfeld was like a relative we saw just once a year – a loyal and trusted member of our family there in the tiny house behind the bakery on Barkman Avenue. With this visitor, never distant though she came from far away and long ago, our Christmas was complete.
Reprints and re-blogs are welcome. A version of this fiction appeared on Red Fez Christmas, 2016.
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Update: My prickly story about the conflation of business, big church and politics appears on SickLit Magazine today, May 15.
This is a reprint of the story which first appeared on another of my favourite literary journals, Literally Stories.
This is what SickLit Senior Editor Nicole Ford Thomas had to say about it:
“I really like “The Business of Saving Souls,” as it seems at first like a warm and fuzzy church parable about doing good, but down deep, it’s a lesson about standing up to corruption–all corruption–and fighting to take care of each other.”
SickLit recently ran a reprint of another of my stories, “The Rothmans Job”, which first appeared on the vibrant Canadian literature site, CommuterLit. I have a total of seven stories on CommuterLit and another five on Literally Stories. Thanks to the editors of all of these exceptional online literary journals!
I hope you enjoy the pieces and welcome your comments.
Special thanks to the editors at SickLit. They are awesome sauce. (Or, “hosanna!” as they’d read responsively at the NTCCF.)
Allfornow – Mitch
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Update: 4.11.17 – Hi, from a sunny day in April, beside the lake,
Janice and I have been travelling and have both been down with a cold lately. My blog activity has been limited, though I have been able to keep up with daily writing. Today I heard from editor and literary paragon, Charlie Fish, that another of my stories has been accepted for his award-winning site, Fiction on the Web.
Feedspot has named FotW a TOP 20 short story site on the internet!
Here’s what Charlie says about FICTION on the WEB: “It is a labour of love. Every single story on here is hand-picked and carefully edited by me. I don’t have a staff, and I don’t make any money. I do this because I want to give authors a chance to get their work out there, and I love sharing great stories with the world.
FICTION on the WEB has been online since 1996, which makes it the oldest short stories website on the Internet.”
MICAH JAMES WAS shorter than average and had an interesting kind of face. His eyes were recessed and penetrating and his complexion had the weathered texture and ruddy colour of a mountain climber or a big game hunter. He was neither. Micah James was a quiet, middle-aged family man – an engineer working for the City of Halifax in Canada.
The Jameses were leaving together soon on a long-awaited trip to London. His wife, Marion, had planned the trip from the packing process through tipping and all conceivable forms of disaster planning.
[SNIP]
“Ok, I’m on it! Walk will do me good.” Micah said, giving Marion an assuring glance and summoning up some energy for the trip. It was fine – the kind of little blip he had been secretly hoping for.
[SNIP]
Twisting in his crouch, Micah was eyeball to kneecap with a pair of creased black pants, gold piping on the sides. His eyes followed the stripes up to a white satin tunic and topping that, a dapper red fez. Then the voice again, but softer, “Are you alright, mate?”
[SNIP]
He waited in line at the reception desk, listening to an instrumental version of a Bob Dylan song. It was piping out of a speaker in the tile ceiling above him and he laid his head back to peer at it. Thinking of his own rapid descent into hell, he picked detritus from his oily beard; bits of styrofoam and other rancid urban spod. His thinning hair hung in limp disarray and the belt of the raincoat had come loose and was dragging on the ground behind him like an obedient, filthy snake.
[SNIP]
See it on FotW on May 19: an ever-worsening yarn that plays out on the streets of central London.
Other stories that have appeared on Fiction on the Web:
Jan. 23, 2017. In Hartplatz, rural Canada, a neighbourhood scandal brews when young Sarah reports that her grandmother’s engagement ring has gone missing.
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SickLitMagazine has advised that they will be publishing a reprint of “The Rothmans Job” which first appeared (see below) on CommuterLit.com.
The story will run in late March or early April.
allfornow – Mitch
January 30, 2017 UPDATE
TODAY, this twisted Canadian yarn, born in absurd truth and transported on the wings of a fictional 1991 prairie storm, is published by CommuterLit – a Toronto based online purveyor of morning short stories, lox and bagels. (And they are all out of lox and bagels.)
PLEASE NOTE: “The future of Macrina depends on whether we can establish a base of monetary support and grow our editorial and administrative team. Until then, our website will remain active, so you can read and share what we have already published.”
—The Associate Editors of Macrina Magazine
As the above indicates, it’s been a tough spring for this exceptional publication. If you can help out in any way, please contact Editor-in-Chief Micah Enns Dyck. https://www.facebook.com/MacrinaMagazine
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Where did you hear about the I Used to be an Animal Lover anthology? What does the title mean to you?
I stumbled across D.A. Cairns’ anthology call on the internet and submitted my story “The Margin of the River”almost immediately, followed soon after by “I Am Otter.” I was intrigued by the anthology’s title, especially since it was a reprise of a book of his by the same name.
Three fun facts—in the writerly domain, related to the animal kingdom, or otherwise—about you?
1—When our kids were young, we owned (were owned by?) a gentle, runt-of-the-litter beagle the girls named “Knuckles.” One frigid Canadian winter, frustrated by Knuckles’ frequent requests for out-in-out, I rigged a backyard doghouse made of hay bales. The shelter was warmed by a 40-watt bulb coated with stove black. All systems were go until we received a late-night wake-up: It was Knuckles howling in joyous excitement as her hated winter exile went up in leaping, orange flames. A design flaw, or Knuckles the arsonist beagle? 2—I have built and lived in two geodesic domes, one at a water-access-only boreal forest location. 3—a favourite quote, “Forgive the weak for they are always fighting.” —Layne Coleman, from “Tony Nappo Ruined My Life” in “Carter V Cooper Short Fiction Anthology: Book Ten by Joyce Carol Oates”
Where can I buy your work and what’s the one piece that I ABSOLUTELY must read?
My forthcoming collection of short stories is probably the best I can offer. “Pinching Zwieback” (At Bay Press) will be out October 24, 2023, and news of the launch, readings, and so on will be announced on my social media links. (Ask for it at your library or local bookshop—and remember, it’s a small world.)https://atbaypress.com/books/creator/mitchell-toews
Bio
Mitchell Toews lives and writes lakeside in Manitoba. His work appears in print and online, in places near and far. He is working on a novel. A collection of short stories focused on a Russian Mennonite community in Western Canada, “Pinching Zwieback” will be launched in the fall of 2023 by Winnipeg’s At Bay Press. You may follow Mitch on the trails or out on the water or ice, or more conveniently at Mitchellaneous.com and https://www.facebook.com/mitch.toews/
“I come to fiction from the storyteller’s places: the campfire, the backseat on a long drive, the bar stool.” —MJT
Nettie a university philosophy student was spending the summer at home on her parent’s farm in Warman Saskatchewan in 1976 when she discovered that not only her family but others in the area were being approached by a provincial crown corporation to sell their farms to Eldorado Nuclear so they could build a uranium refinery in the area.
Nettie researched and discovered that uranium could be used to build nuclear weapons. Nettie was a Mennonite who believed in pacifism and so the thought of selling land to a company that might make weapons was unsettling to…
I was born in Steinbach, Manitoba and spent more than fifty years there, in a variety of roles. I’ve also lived in Victoria and Winnipeg, and in Chilliwack from 2007-2016. We’ve lived in the Whiteshell for the last seven years. My forthcoming collection of short stories, “Pinching Zwieback: Made-up Stories From the Darp” is drawn in part from my lived experiences in Steinbach. I also share local legends, and (with permission) the experiences of others. It’s fiction but the writing has its underpinnings in memoir and history.
Since 1955, the nature of the town has changed. Or so I’m told. When I try to reconcile the Steinbach I knew so well with the Steinbach that seems to be emerging now, I feel confused and see many conflicting signals about the true nature of the place. It’s complicated.
Steinbach was a remarkably homogenous place of between 3,000 and about 10,000 residents during my tenure. It was—especially in my childhood—a community in which I had deep roots and numerous connections. I was known to or related to almost everyone in town. I have many memories, fond and less so, that give me a broad base from which to examine my hometown. The Steinbach of today is demographically different than that old two-traffic-light prairie outpost where a locked door was as rare as a clegywoman.
Recent articles and op-eds suggest that “this is not your Grandfather’s Steinbach” and yet, I am skeptical. Partly because of what my gut tells me and partly because there’s a certain PR ring to the tone. (I should know, having spent a few years on the Chamber of Commerce, pounding the table with my out-sized Loewen Windows fist.) Certainly, there is still a strong Mennonite presence in “the Stein,” but has that cohort given up its control and sway? Has Steinbach managed to keep the good and discard the bad and the outdated? Good question. The city’s well-deserved and continued reputation for its people’s generosity, its shifting demographics and growing diversity, and a seemingly more vocal progressive sector, even among Mennonites, appear to suggest that the place is changing in a positive fashion.
The fact is, Jan and I no longer live in Steinbach and although we have plenty of family and friends in town and we are “home” quite often (funerals and family gatherings) we can’t really offer a current opinion. I have vivid memories of my 50+ years as a Steinbacher, but, “What’s it REALLY like now?” I ask myself. My recent reading of the book “Shelterbelts” by Jonathan Dyck (Conundrum Press) asks many questions that don’t sound too different from the ones I pose in my book, even though my stories are set mostly in the 50s, 60s, and 70s while “Shelterbelts” is more contemporary.
As I said, “it’s complicated.”
How to determine what the town’s true identity is now? Here’s the list I came up with. It’s a kind of “follow the money” equation. I reason that by identifying who holds the real power in the community, I can find the clearest indicator of how, how much, since when, and why Steinbach has changed, and in what ways. Are “the quiet in the land” really quiet in Steinbach?
Banking & Finance. Which Steinbachers (or outsiders?) run the show? Who holds the purse strings? Who owns what? Who’s in the corner office? What’s the make-up and demographic profile of the most powerful C-suite officers?
Industry & Commerce. What sectors drive the local economy? Who are the players? What is their background? Who are the employers and who are the employees?
Education. Who builds the schools? Who controls the curriculum? Who hires the teachers? Who are the teachers?
Local and Provincial governance. Who are the politicians and what is their political base? From where do they draw finances needed to run in elections? Who influences their policies? What are their social connections, affiliations, and stated beliefs and values?
Media. What are the major sources of local news and information? Who owns these outlets? What are their political affiliations? Who are the influencers?
Clergy and Religion. What are the demographics of church membership? Which of the above categories are populated by which churches? Are there interlocking directorates? Does one church, or perhaps a few churches, dominate the gross membership? Who controls the levers of power or are the pivotal positions in the overall Steinbach power structure shared equally among the church-going populations? Are secular residents represented fairly in the power structure? Are imported theological movements usurping the influence once held by historically familiar churches? (Congregations like the Kleine Gemeinde so eloquently described by Steinbach ex-pat Ralph Friesen in his memoir, “Dad, God, and Me” (Friesen Press))
Populism vs. Progressiveism. Is there a way to plot sensibility? What public activities, events, movements, clubs, social groups, and other tell-tales exist that we can use to gauge public opinion? What/who are the loudest voices? Are non-dominant or historically marginalized groups equally represented? (And is anyone tracking it?)
And LAST, what do the artists say? Any society that ignores its poets, does so at its peril. Artists tend to support the underdog, to speak out for equality, to express themselves in a manner that challenges—or properly acknowledges—power brokers. Sometimes with sharp observations, in other cases with subtlety that may be equally profound. What has changed since the art of past commentators put a pin on the graph at various times? How fundamentally different, for instance, are the fictional depictions of “The Shunning” (1980, Friesen), “A Year of Lesser” (1996, Bergen), “A Complicated Kindness” (2004, Toews), “Once Removed” (2020, Unger), and “Shelterbelts” (2022, Dyck)? What is the arc of Steinbach’s essence, in fiction?
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After Janice and I sold our manufacturing business in 1996, I ended up (after being a very bad office manager for some very good lawyers) working for a series of conservative Mennonite wood manufacturing companies as “that creative guy.” My role was to do the unseemly work of marketing and advertising. Come up with some shit. You know… imagineer. (Aiyyyeee! That word is like giving an AMC Gremlin to the head designer at Ferrari.)
Before I go on, let’s check the relative humidity here. As a “creative guy,” I’m somewhere on a scale. I am not likely to be named Artistic Director for Exile magazine; not likely to die my hair blue (both of them); not likely to get in a scrap with David Cronenberg because my ideas are, “too out there, Toews!” At the same time, my ideas were more than enough “out there” to send the sucking-up-to-the-boss running dog types scooting like scalded greyhounds for the dark corners of the break room, where they would loudly rattle their dog-collars and profess to be regular folks incapable of such wild ideas.
Anyway, today I find myself somewhere between my old scramble for existence (marketing and advertising) and my new scramble for existence (literary fiction). And no, dog-collar people, the two are NOT the same.
I am working diligently to complete my manuscript and set my collection of short stories loose on the world. There is a hurry-up-and-wait aspect to this and during the in-between times, I get restless. Something that occurred to me in a slightly Cronenbergian moment was a set of icons that offered a graphical depiction of the themes present in my made-up stories. I used my prodigious Paint.net skills to render a 4X4 grid of images.
The result is the orderly graphic collage that headlines this post. The effect appeals to my Andy Warhol gene and I like how the iconography drops hints like a visual Johnny Appleseed. I have not spent time getting the size and hue and style at a harmonic pitch, but it’s good enough for a concept. It imagineers. (Ugh.)
And that’s where I find myself—wallowing like a hungry Menno in the nether region between artistic expression and INTEGRATED MARKETING. My old prof at York (the Pepsi-Challenge guy, Alan Middleton) would be pleased but I’m pretty sure my publisher will heave a big sigh.
Anyway, that’s my sitch. I am (just barely) smart enough to listen to my publisher and ignore my fond memories of Prof. Emeritus Middleton’s old lessons (“Put lye in the Coke…” JUST KIDDING!)
But you know that inside my busy little blue head, there is a steeplechase going on with wild ideas running around like crazed dogs.
Bookmarks
Mousepads
Coasters
Product placement in Mennonite movies
T-shirts
Posters of dangling kittens wearing the T-shirts (it can’t be ALL about dogs!)
Fridge magnets of Menno Simons wearing one of the T-shirts (it can’t be ALL about David Cronenberg!)
So, be ready to buy the book. First 100 purchasers get a free TRAVEL MUG.*
___
*Also just kidding. Shipping extra.
My collection of short stories, “Pinching Zwieback” (At Bay Press) will launch in FALL 2023.
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A story of mine, “The Sewing Machine,” appears in the current edition of Rivanna Review. Speaking as a longtime subscriber to literary journals, I can say that RR is one of my favourites. The Editor in Chief and Publisher Robert Boucheron is an intelligent and thoughtful person—just the kind required to start up a lit journal in Charlottesville, VA after a long and distinguished career in architecture.
I am not an architect, nor do I know many of them—George Costanza of Seinfeld fame does not count—but for 16 years, they often held my fate in their hands. I owned a small manufacturing company and we did work on large commercial buildings. I found project architects to be direct, firm, and of the no-bullshit variety. Traits not uncommon in the building trade, but a regular characteristic for architects whose measure of approval is finite to two decimal points. You meet the spec or you don’t…
“The Sewing Machine” is a character study involving a man and a woman in 1931 Winnipeg who resemble my Toews Grandparents in many respects. Robert has commented that the type of writing he often finds favour with is what he calls “organic” storytelling. By this, I think he means stories that are “of the people, by the people, and for the people” to paraphrase some of Robert’s Virginia cohorts from the past.
These “organic stories” come from “the truth behind the fiction” as another friend, At Bay Press publisher, editor and author, Matt Joudrey has said. Matt’s acute observation connects to what friend and reader Edward Krahn sometimes compares to the Richard Ford school of gritty characters and circumstances. (So, I’m a purveyor of Menno Grit?)
Here are some more defining characteristics from an experienced writer-editor:
“A unique writers voice is what attracts me at first. Popular, stylistic, poetry/prose rarely captures my attention. Sometimes writing is over-learned in classes, or representative of the teacher’s or studied subject’s body of work. I like the rawness of the pureuntarnished colloquial voice in the reading. Having something to say is essential to me. I’m not impressed with a great volume of rarely used words thrown together to impress the reader with the vast knowledge of the writer on command of English, tricks of writing, ancient history, or the places they’ve travelled.”
—An excerpt from an interview by writer, editor, publisher Judith Lawrence in, “Six Questions For…”
My forthcoming collection of short stories is a qualifier for these definitions. In “Pinching Zwieback: Made-up stories from the Darp” (At Bay Press) I’ll present a series of 20 stories. The pieces range from the opener, an 1873 story that takes place literally in the Bazavluk River in what is now Ukraine to a present-day ball game at Nat Bailey Stadium in Vancouver. In between, there are tales from Hartplatz, MB (a place that bears a resemblance, some might say, to a Darp with the initials Steinbach). A fictional clan called the Zehen family often takes centre stage, along with a hard-nosed friend, Lenny Gerbrandt, and the earnest and determined Jantseider Diedrich Deutsch.
While “The Sewing Machine” does not appear in “Pinching Zwieback” it is similar to many of the stories in the collection. To grab a subscription to Robert Boucheron’s entertaining and eclectic print periodical (fiction, non-fiction, reviews and poetry), Rivanna Review, visit the journal’s site at https://rivannareview.com/ While there, you can also learn how to connect to Robert’s monthly television broadcast.
Just tell him Art Vandelay sent you!
Issue 1: “Sweet Caporal” by Mitchell Toews
Issue 3: “Hundred Miles an Hour” by Mitchell Toews
Issue 6: “The Sewing Machine” by Mitchell Toews
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“What I thought the most while reading this one for the first time was: ‘This must have taken so long to write!’ Every sentence is packed with detail and not a word is spared. A highly skilled piece of writing with a lot to say about the way we live and how we treat one another. Can’t believe such a short piece of writing left me with such memorable characters and so much to think about!” — Raven Contest Judge Leo X Robertson
Part of my writing routine is to enter literary contests. It’s an imperfect venue but offers some advantages in the immense ocean of strung-together words that English-speaking creative writing is today, in the internet age. Plus, there are unique benefits to prizes, like… well, prizes!
Before I began publically calling myself a writer (and changed my signature from Mitch to Mitchell because it sounded sooo much more writerly) I had a hot streak going. I entered every “Send us a 100-word essay on what makes our spindrift calibrators the best in the market and win a free JUICER!” contest: that kind of thing. My pinnacle was winning a new Animal wristwatch when my piece about losing my last Animal watch in Jessica Lake took top honours.
Another unique benefit of story contests is the vanity aspect. Self-confidence, joh? Just like getting your essay pinned up on the bulletin board by Miss Hildebrand in Grade Four (see my C-V for details), I find an undeniable allure in “grabbing some podium.” (A phrase which sounds like something you’d get thrown out of a strip bar for doing.)
Anyway, as the universe’s lone marketing advocate for Mitchell J. Toews, Writer and Animal Watch Loser, I hereby announce that the aforementioned writer, MJT, has grabbed some PULP podium. (Again, I admit there’s something off about that would-be idiom. I’ll workshop it with the gang down at Animal.)
The podium—corvid podium, no less—is as follows:
The PULP Literature 2023 Raven Short Story Contest
Catriona Sandilands with ‘Revolutions’ WINNER Alison Stevenson with ‘Foam’ 1st RUNNER UP Mitchell Toews with ‘All Our Swains Commend Her’ 2nd RUNNER UP Kevin Sandefur with ‘Marty’ Honourable Mention
Still here? You must be procrastinating about something. (I am one who knows.) Well, to enable your delay tactics, here is a list of my Greatest Hits from the literary contest and prize bandstand:
“So Are They All”— short story, Second Place in the Adult Fiction category of the Write on the LakeContest, (Ca) 2016 ISSN: 1710-1239
“Fall from Grace”— short story, Honourable Mention in The Writers’ Workshop of AshevilleMemoirs Contest, (US) 2016
“The Phage Match” —short story,Finalist in Broken Pencil’s (Ca) annual Deathmatch Contest, 2016
“Cave on a Cul-de-sac” — short story, Winner in The Hayward Fault Line—Doorknobs & Bodypaint Issue 93 Triannual Themed Flash Contest, (US) 2018
“I am Otter” — short story, CommuterLit (Ca), Runner-up in for Flash Fiction Feature, 2018
“Sweet Caporal at Dawn” — short story, nominated by Blank Spaces for a PUSHCART PRIZE, 2019
“Piece of My Heart” — a 750-word or less flash fiction was named “Editors’ Choice” in the 2020 Bumblebee Flash Fiction Contest from Pulp Literature Press (Ca)
“The Margin of the River” — short story, nominated by Blank Spaces for a PUSHCART PRIZE, 2020
“Fetch” — short story, one of 11 finalists in a national field of over 800 entries: The Writers’ Union of Canada’s Short Prose Competition for Emerging Writers, (Ca), 2021
“Sweet Caporal” has been nominated by Rivanna Review, Charlottesville, Va. for a PUSHCART PRIZE, 2021
“The Rabid,” finalist in the 2022 PULP Literature Bumblebee Flash Fiction Contest, (Ca)
The 2022 J. F. Powers Prize for Short Fiction (US). This open competition drew over 400 submissions from around the world from writers in all stages of career development. “The Spring Kid,” was one of 28 longlist finalists and later advanced to the shortlist.
“The Mighty Hartski”: 2022 longlist for the Humber Literary Review/Creative Nonfiction Collective Society (CNFC) Canada-wide CNF contest
“Winter in the Sandilands” was named to the longlist for the 2022 PULP Literature Hummingbird Flash Fiction Contest, (Ca) Mitchell’s story, “Luck!” was on the shortlist in this same contest.
Several of these award-winners (highlighted in the list above) will be part of the forthcoming 2023 short story collection from At Bay Press,“Pinching Zwieback: Made-up stories from the Darp”
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