On September 11th, 1973, Chile was violently introduced to a dictatorship that would last for about 17 years…click to read more.
Mrs. Baker had never before thought of silence nor detected the subtle melodies that emanate from it. She’d never noticed its whisper and burble, its tranquil rush and swell, nor been able to feel the texture and fluidity of the millions of motes of sound that compose it. She’d never perceived how it sweeps and surges and folds in upon itself, like a murmuration of starlings, now undulating and collapsing, now twisting and exploding. Yet it was only here, at this advanced moment of life, that she could see silence for what it was: the swirling undercurrent of existence, as audible and beautiful as a symphony, yet with a secret sound all its own, varied and infinite. The hum of life itself. Never again could she return to her former indifference. Never again would she feel the pull of diversion. Each moment had become infinitely interesting. She couldn’t help but smile at the irony she would not live to enjoy this. …
What if lions could speak? Click to see…
Well I bought me my first little homestead
But I thought it looked a bit barren
I figured it needed some sprucing up
A whole lot of lovin’ and carin’….click to see more!
Like what you see? Click to see more!
~1~ Cottonwood Whispers March, first buds of the cottonwood appear. Sandspit Beach at Kokanee Creek: iolite blue glacier-fed lake and sixty feet of sandy ribbon-like shores. I walk the line between icy liquid and tiny crystals. Two dogs, at first friendly, pick a fight. One of the men yells to break up the canines vying for status. Now, the bitch barks at him. “Bad dog!” The leash goes on. “Somebody’s going home early!” The magic light of dusk fades. A figure with a tripod packs up his gear. Passing almost too close to me, an elderly couple walks in supportive unison. As I look into them, one seems both ailing and determined to be here. In an instant, all—except the dogs, ducks and early midges—seem to stand still like sculptural Giacommetti groupings. Frozen, in life. Away from the icy water’s edge, a woman stands with a plastic bucket, harvesting. From afar, I can see that something deep, dark, and old stains her fingers and nails: a thin, waxy, crumbling layer, the true colour of dried …
Interested in participating in a night of poetry, prose, and good company at The Dam Inn? Click here to learn more…
Choose the day wisely. Don’t tell them on Sunday because of church. Monday’s no good because they’ll be mulling over the sermon from God’s Day. Tuesday, Dad has prayer circle. Wednesday, Mom has bible study…click to read more
Here at the Black Bear Review, not only do we believe that everyone has a story to tell, but we also believe that the finest form of story-telling is through our art….click here to read more (Written by Samantha Smith)
Before I had a say in the matter, my weekends were dedicated to being with her. The quaint apartment became my part-time home. As years past, our adoration for one another grew stronger…Click to read more.
(Written by Shelby Rosen)