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Tim Wynne-Jones, who read a segment from The Uninvited about a ailing mother with designs on her doctor's emerald necklace, very cooperatively put his unadorned hands on the poppy-coloured on-stage couch. Of his hands, Wynne-Jones said, "I always felt they were sort of small."

* * *

Tim Wynne-Jones has 3 books out this year:

Pounce De Leon. Markham: Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 2008.
Rex Zero, the Great Pretender. Toronto: Groundwood Books, 2009.
The Uninvited. Cambridge: Candlewick Press, 2009.

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Ariel Gordon is the Winnipeg-based author of two recent small press chapbooks and has had poetry published in fine lit mags such as Carousel, PRISM International and Prairie Fire.

Her first collection of poetry, Hump, is forthcoming from Ontario's Palimpsest Press in spring 2010.

When not being bookish, Ariel likes tromping through the woods taking macro photographs of mushrooms.

And so it went... I made my way to Polo Park expecting to be early enough to browse the bargain book section before the event was to begin. But when I got there (at 6:45) Robert J Sawyer was already up front talking about the process of adapting his book to tv. When I inquired I was told that the time was bumped to 6:30 as opposed to the 7:30 start time in the program (I guess Charlene was onto something when she said check the website because things can change).

But anyway, I was there, and the show hadn't started yet.

BUT...the place was packed! The only chairs left were at the very back and when I finally wormed my way through the crowd to an empty seat and sat down I found I could only see the top third of the screen. This was just not going to work, so when the show finally started, after hearing Sawyer yap on and on about how good the acting was and how satisfied he was and about how much money he was making, and on and on, I, along with the gentleman next to me, decided to stand up so we could see the screen better. This was okay, but not the most comfortable way to spend an hour, but hey, there are commercial breaks, right? I can sit down then.

WRONG. There were commercial breaks, but before the first one even arrived who should come in even later than myself and find and sit in the seat that I had been sitting in? Why Christian Bok of course, along with his ragtag gang of two.

So there I was, standing at the back, leaning against a wall of military history books, right behind Christian Bok and company. FOR AN HOUR.

Was it worth it?

I kept telling myself that there was always the option of cutting out early, maybe even heading to the mainstage where there are chairs and cheese and Margaret Sweatman, but I. could. not. seem. to. pull. myself. away.

It caught me, it pulled me in. The premise is this: everyone in the world blacks out at the exact same time for the exact same length of time, 2 minutes 17 seconds. During that time, each person has a vision of their life exactly six months into the future.

Crazy, right? That couldn't happen. But I guess that's why they call it speculative fiction. Anyway, it's one of those serial dramas, like Lost, which means you have to keep watching every week or you won't know what's going on. But you'll want to know what's going on so you will watch because it's interesting and mysterious. They got me. Now I have to try to find someway to watch it next week to see what happens. And then, I'll have to find someway to watch it the week after that, and the week after that. This is not good. Especially since I don't have any tv stations. But, with things the way they are these days, I can probably find it online which would be just dandy.

There are also some pseudo-interesting philosophical undertones to the story: questions of whether or not us knowing the future can allow us to change the future, and things like that.

It was all pretty good, but I kind of wish I hadn't gone, because now I have to keep watching and if I don't, I'll forever be left wondering why it was that Harold (from Harold and Kumar) didn't have a vision...a FlashForward of his future.

Sawyer was extremely happy with how it turned out and it seemed Christian Bok and friends were as well, when at the end they started chanting, "Sawyer, Sawyer, Sawyer."

Thankfully, no one else joined in.

****

Brandon James Bertram is an English/Creative Writing student at the University of Winnipeg. He reads, writes, rides bikes, and drinks coffee.

Usually I like the festival’s Poetry Night. It’s my favorite. They have poetry and that stuff I’m going to try and make it one post without mentioning. Poetry night has always been like a little slice of heaven for me, until now.

It all started out normal enough, heck, I’d say better than normal; my wife was going to be joining me for this one. Going out isn’t something we get to do very often. We have two small children at home so getting out is a real treat. We were both pretty excited. She wore a blue skirt and I wore a brown slacks. She looked beautiful and I wouldn’t detract.

We arrived at quarter to 8 and slipped past the door people. I use the words “slipped past” due to the fact my wife never paid. That’s right. She actively engaged in the theft of poetry. I tried to stop her, but she’s really pretty and she makes me feel better about myself, so what can you do? Me, I aid and abed.

After committing our requisite crime for the evening, we went to celebrate with a drink at the bar. Thievery makes you thirsty. We filled up on red wine and cubed things, and headed to our seats. The lights dimmed and the show was on.

Some people read some poetry.

Then there was intermission.

We went back to the bar and had more wine. My wife found out where to get the stuff in the baskets that had the green bits in it and we lent Ariel a camera. Pretty normal night. Pretty nice night. Until the second set. As the house lights dimmed I caught my first glimpse of him, David O’Meara; the man who would seduce my wife.

Yup. That’s right. David O’Meara seduced my wife. Right there. Last night. In front of everyone. I swear they all heard her gasp. I did. It was right after the last line in the boat accident poem.

Ya, that’s right, he seduces women with boat accident poems. He’s that good.

Anyway, I tried to comfort myself with little lies. You know like, “She hates poets.” “She hates boats.” “You’re good looking Jay, really, you are.” Nothing worked, I knew she was his.

I was so distraught. I barely understood a word Christian Bok said. And really, looking around, I fear I wasn’t the only one.

As soon as the lights came on I did the only thing a man can do in this situation, I grabbed my wife’s arm and ran. I had to get her away from O’Meara’s wonderful web of words, but she was too far gone. She quickly swung our course towards the McNally Robinson table and snapped up the nearest copy of any book with the name O’Meara printed on the cover.

I lowered my head and paid.

While the book girls giggled, we spent the next 20 minutes waiting for an autograph.

I spent the next 20 minutes hoping there’d be cheese left on the way out.

Damn.

Almost.

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Jason Diaz is a Winnipeg-based writer and stay at home dad. His poetry and prose has been published in dark leisure magazine. Last year he joined the Thin Air collective and has been awaiting the festival’s arrival ever since. He has still only been interviewed by The Uniter once, and is sadly no longer licensed to drive forklift.