Alice lugs her duffle bag up the stairs of the bus and bumps down the aisle until she gets to the back row of seats. Hers is the first stop on the route, and it’s pre-dawn. Her eyes adjust to the sharp interior lights. The freshly applied antiseptic cleaner is not fully covering the smell of body odour and
This conversation features writers from the Stone’s Throw conference at Selkirk College, a collaboration between Canadian and American writers. In this recording, Mackenzie Draper, Kyle Bascom, Myra Scott, and Maki Thiersch share excerpts of their work and discuss their approaches to writing, exploring themes like identity, relationships, humour, and vulnerability.
My name is Caddy Conwell, and I’m an evil henchman. Well… I wouldn’t exactly say I’m evil myself, just a henchman. The “evil” part comes from the people I work for. You see, I’ve accidentally gotten myself involved with this large group of powerful people collectively called The Villain Council. Ridiculous name, I know. Each
The warmth of blood beneath her cold lapel, regressed like the distant rumble of a boxcar. Tempest thundered through cracks in the wall, like the blood of tattered men against the haze of an iron sky. Through the wooden carousel, the howl of sunrise tore at her woven heart as she cried out to him
I saw them first on the old Kingsbridge Road that leads to Huntsmouth manor. An unpaved path pitted with stones and heavily furrowed gulleys from hard rain, the road was ill maintained. It was said among the village people that in the ‘70s secret government experiments went on in the manor, strange studies on the
sunlight in the graveyard carries your left lung away in an orange watering can sandals crunching on the gravel you never wanted to see another beautiful day but the earth won’t stop for wounded bodies especially yours especially you in dawn blood light this isn’t the resurrection you dreamed of
As we sit poolside, warm Sun on our toes Mama feeling her Fentanyl patch I’m blessed for another day Thank you I spoke Your dying has Taught me everything
I walked into a shadow. I found my mother there. Age is no longer a factor. Though memory leaves a feeling of 98.5 years. But what do shadows, dreams, and what fairies in the dust have in common? She’s no longer suffering from macular degeneration. I can still see her as a 78-year-old son now.
I conceal my craft beneath the shell of an armadillo, snug in its embrace, nestled near its warmth, as insects buzz under the midday sun, where stories collide with struggles, and words fester like unresolved thoughts, distant from the critics’ needle pen hearts. Their relentless demands, cold cash, and hollow praise layered thick with honey
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