Podcast: The Cumberland Tales, plus, my latest work.

PODCAST: courtesy of Cortes Community Radio

Spreading The Cumberland Tales

by Roy L Hales | May 2, 2018 | Cortes WAVs

Originally Published on the ECOreport A local novel is getting traction in stores from Courtenay to Campbell River. The author describes his work ”a collection of stories, some real, some fiction, all filled with nostalgia of recent (1960’s).” I recently had an opportunity to ask Frank Wayne what is behind The Cumberland Tales. Creating The Cumberland Tales “The Cumberland tales came into being from one singular image really and that was Sam Yik. I remember my mother sunning out to buy a head of lettuce from Sam Yik, who was from Chinatown - the Cumberland Chinatown, and used to trumple around the town selling vegetables. My mom ran into the street, paid Sam Yik a few coins and then came back with this beautiful head of lettuce. Then he’d trumple off to the next house,” says Wayne. “From that singular image, I started thinking about my growing up days in Cumberland and I just started expanding on it until I had a collection of stories… There is an element of magic realism in the novel. However as I grew up, through my personal experience the feel of the town is what I wanted to get across. As adults, we all look back back on our childhood … and all of those magical memories are powerful.” “The whole marble season in the school ground days, when I was a kid growing up in Cumberland, was great time. When school days were finished, the whole school yard would erupt with all of these kids bringing in all of their marbles and there would be games going all over the place …...Check it out: https://cortesradio.ca/spreading-the-cumberland-tales/

I am happy to announce that I have been given an 'Award of Excellence' for my Creative Writing by the Poetry Institute of Canada.

Here is my newest poem which will be forthcoming in my latest novel, "Mother's Keep."

DEER HUNT

He thinks he hears falls,
or cries,
or signs,
of what is.

A buck comes from the north.
The sign becomes a flicker,
a blink in time,
and he,
blind hidden,
waits still,
indeed,
has already waited,
so cannot not believe his luck.

And the buck, borne of creation,
strikes down the trail.
Overtaken by an eagle-feathered fir arrow,
with jar and a hurt,
it breaks into his skin,
sets into his bone,
and gently lowers him.

But instinct drives him to flee,
and he knows his way,
knows the hunter,
knows the course to run.


The blood and broken bits
trail ebbing brawn.
It flows like wind seed,
wind seed, wind seed,
till all the last petals are gone,
so his strength reaches
its final resting place.

I have eaten the forest, whole.
I am content, yet will I
fulfill my trek, and
seek the hunter.