Nick Comilla his is what it’s like: I never know what day of the week it is. I get so down I drift through and feel up. We get so high we forget it wears off. The clothes are tight to our skin like tattoos, but they slip off effortlessly. Our wrists have been stamped so many times...
Carly Rosalie Vandergriendt The Gardener Below, leaves rustle and swish. The sound reminds me of an ocean, makes me crave a body of water that’s not a city pool packed with bobbing children. It takes looking at a map to realize Montréal is an island. Pinning my phone to my shoulder, I...
Penelope Evans ome kid thinks he saw poison hemlock up the trail, a good twenty-minute hike from the cabins. So I’m up there looking, even though I know there’s no poison hemlock around here, hasn’t been any in years, everyone who works at the camp knows this and I worked here...
Reece Cochrane ad hauled the family from Chandler to Baie Comeau the day after Duplessis finally died. Good riddance, Dad had said, reading the morning’s paper. He wasn’t good for anyone, the bastard. And that was September 8. I won’t ever forget, because even though, at age nine, I...
Andréa Raymond ith studied slowness, Danny pulls our beat-up white van into the parking lot of Cullards’s Diner, another dubious stop on the Folk Music festival circuit taking us through California. Poor Danny. He’s a gay man, a kick-ass bassist, and the only member of our band, Nebula...
Sarah Thankam Mathews ic wants to make brownies but first needs a smoke. You stare up at the bright cliffs of books lining her walls. The ones she’s written aren’t displayed prominently; they’re shoved off into corners or placed upside down. On one of the shelves is a gilt-framed...
