The water was always dark to me. I would stand on the shoreline, bundled in the coarse wool sweater Grandma had bought me at the Granville Island market, watching my father watch the sea. He never knew I was there. Not unless I spoke. And sometimes even still he wouldn’t
Slugs. Slimy, revolting, gag-inducing, leaf-and-fruit-munching, plant-murdering slugs! I had arrived at my garden plot early that morning—with the sun only just cresting the tops of the houses to find that a small army of the bulbous black mollusks were advancing through my territory, leaving glistening slime trails crisscrossing the dark
It wasn’t the shag carpets or the original stove that dripped black grease onto the linoleum. Nor was it the fifty-year-old sliding windows that housed leggy spiders creating webs between the panes and those giant furry black houseflies that hatched out of the walls every spring. It was the view!
Run your hands through the thick, silken whole of it Once Twice Divide into three equal sections Right over middle, left over middle Repeat Fold one strand in half Braid in end Braid in loop Pull remaining strands through Divide into three Keep braiding Hold finished work pinched between your
Wear a mask The air is poison Choke on the ashes of Californian dreams on the ghosts of Okanagan homes As sick yellow skies melt into stifling nights we wake from sweating nightmares with Lytton on our lips Wear a mask Your breath is poison Cross the street away from
toddlers with their faces blurred out or covered by cowboy hat will the mother keep this up until the kid is a man using the initial for his name a short story collection about L. # She’s crushed by the faucet. The charring of the hand. The flooring peeling up
when you’re waiting for your check to go through – come on over to my house I have a prayer – I am working with a stutter come over, take an echo bath: share with me come over – make it undone make it lush – make it future make
It’s quiet. The hollow shake of a thermos. Air resting, suspended, lukewarm. My skull is full of mothballs. My limbs, stone. My glands secreting in secret. Whisky dribbling. Sink half full of muck. She’s thinking of me, I can feel it in a pit knotting in my gut. She’s wearing white and she hates it.
This publication is the result of collaboration between students and faculty of the School of University Arts & Sciences and the School of the Arts at Selkirk College. Submissions are published online throughout the year and selected works are compiled into a print magazine once per year.
We trust you will enjoy!
2 days ago
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