~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 …
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)
Somewhere in our hopeful hearts we believe the hero should get the girl, bravery should win, and the hardest worker should get rich. Then, we read a tragic little tale like Cormac McCarthy’s ‘All the Pretty Horses’…Click to Read more.
(Written by Ella Soleil Parcels)
My cat was the baddest cat on the block. She was not afraid to use her nine lives…Click to read more. (Written by Riley Polovnikoff).
Going into this interview with Tom, I knew I would learn a lot, but I never could have predicted how enlightening and entertaining my time with Tom would really be…Click to read more. (An interview by Sam Smith)
It’s a crazy thing, really. A miracle that any of us survive.
The first words I uttered to my newborn son were, “Good Dog”… Click to read more (Written by Allison Alder)
I was born in 1963, snuggled between the voluptuousness of Marilyn Monroe and the androgyny of Twiggy…Click to read more. Written by Christine Deynaka
It had been several days since I had eaten and my hands had began to shake with a malnourished tick…Click to read more. Written by Flood
The directions were methodical: Drive down one street, turn at another, then another, then go down a dirt lane, park my car just so. Then I was to enter a gate, traverse a yard, and find a mysterious red door…
Written by Stephenie Hendricks
I put on my green fatigues and lace up my army boots to take my post. I am on the graveyard shift in the command post tent; I take up my earned leadership position. As I check the time, I read to myself 0200 hours…
Written by Kurt Luchia
Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg is on the table. You pack it. The books go in boxes. Clothes in duffels. Two boxes. Two duffels. A dog. A cat. Totality of belongings. You put it all into the ‘86 Ford and say goodbye to the place you moved to, to become a writer…
(Written by Beth Oldham)
For a long time, I rejected my culture and everything that connected me to it. This might have been my way of repressing painful memories of what it was like to grow up in a hurting country or just what society had taught me, that assimilation and survival of the fittest are analogous…