Category: Writing
Ghost by Katie Stolte
It started innocently enough. Everyone stopped calling, My cubicle was filled with a stranger’s things, And someone new was tucked in my bed. I didn’t understand. So I melted into the background. I watched as the love of my life moved on, My mother and father wilted and died. I humoured it. I tried to
The Language of Pain by Katie Stolte
Pain is a funny language / and when you’re in it it is all you speak / and when you’re not / you forget it was once your native tongue / it’s a language no one wants to be fluent in / but many are / it makes your orbit small / and some feel
Life in Colours by Shanna Wilson
I used to live as the wild things did, the trees and the spirits that roamed the woods day and night. Let us not forget the time when the life force was felt between every wall, inside every colour. I did not wait for daybreak to go exploring, any time and everywhere was my place,
Excerpts from “A Life of Adventure” by John Love
Afterword by Ingrid Love The 30’s – Edinburgh, Scotland My adventures started even before I knew where I lived. According to Mum, as a child, I would tend to wander away from the avenue in which we lived and end up on one of the avenues that ran parallel to ours. In those days, mail
If You Ask Rosie by Stevie Poling
If you asked Rosie, she would have said it was the perfect weather. When you get up in the morning, walk outside, and when exhale you can see your breath, then you look past your breath to the world beyond, and everything is still. The grass is just slightly crispy from freezing overnight. You can
A Forest Walk by Deb Wandler
I was invited on a forest walk, a slow, mindful walk, pausing to look, really look, at the canopies of pines, cedars and aspen, down at the low-lying milkweed, leaves turned yellow, the variety of mushrooms growing in waves on the ground beneath it all. I sat on the forest floor, eyes closed, breathing in
My Father’s Ferryman by Claire Halleran
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 notice me. He had sold
My Garden Fortress by Kathleen Dyck
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 earth. How many of them
