On the outskirts of the tiny village of Nakusp, in South Central British Columbia, sat an old barn with a gambrel roof. Once, it had been red but the paint had worn off and now the dry, weathered wood was ripe to be remade into chic furniture and sold to the seasonal visitors who
Part One: Arrival Birdy trailed a teabag through lukewarm water. Her granddaughter Missy, recently back from nursing school, held up a large cell phone: on it, a skeleton of a human, its joints lit up like jellyfish. “Osteoarthritis,” Missy said solemnly. “Damage in the place where two bones come together.” Birdy looked out the window
The judge Jam smeared and restless, the judge banged his gavel. “Order! Order in the court!” The agitated spectators filling the pews on either side of the aisle fell quiet. A few more bangs of the gavel because the judge liked the sharp noise. Time to bring out the accused. The courtroom was brilliant white.
Shadows of deep crimson enveloped the landscape, like a blanket of thin fog. All was mostly visible, but the only thing that one could truly see was the neon and faint aura of a single lonely building. A sign flickered just off of the russet-coloured road on which he stood, which simply read “DINER” in
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
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
A young woman stood over a freshly painted yellow crib, carefully adjusting some stuffed toys…Click to read more.
(Written by Rhianna Rimmer)
I drive in silence. My fingers itch to press the car stereo on, craving something to pay attention to and occupy my time…Click to read more (Written by Sarah Wensink)
When I became fatherless at twelve years old due to Daddy’s intoxicated joyride that led to his wrapped around a telephone pole death, my fate became clear. I would grow up as Honey Paterson, absentee of father-daughter dances, punchline of prostitute and stripper jokes, and likely future gold-digger with an unshakeable daddy complex…Click to read more. (Written by Danielle LaRocque)
February is my least favourite month. Everything about it is wrong. It is the runt of the calendar’s litter…Click to read more.
Written by: Christine Deynaka
“I wish this rain would end.” He said it aloud. The rain accelerated the invasion of night. It came by pulse, thumping like a great and terrible heartbeat…
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