“The plate just bent and bent,” she is saying. “I told them. The Slave Craton’s the oldest rock on the planet. It doesn’t move. It was never going to move. Something else had to.”
From an upcoming collection of stories inspired by the paintings of Alex Colville.
Raj has his laptop open, and he types as Kathy leans towards him, whispering intensely. She catches a glimpse of herself in the cabin’s living room window – pale face framed by red pigtails, next to the burgundy orb that is Raj’s turban…
The first bad Remembrance Day was 1984, the year Frank turned seventeen and his mother, Juliska, passed away. The old…
You not been to one of these. I’d remember if you had, even if you stayed at the back of…
PAUL could still see the lights from the club reflected in her bathroom mirror. She turned on the faucet and ran…
MIRANDA did not go through the great door of St Luke’s Anglican Church on Rue Montcalm. The great door was only…
Mother’s Day hung over the house like an appointment for surgery. It was not marked in the calendar of bright…
FOR centuries I waited inside, waited out those fierce Irish immigrants on their black Blasket rocks surrounded by waves and weird…
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