Literature

Literature • Pauline Peters • Poetry

Pearl

Ancestral magicians perform not tricks, but truly magical acts, like taking a blue and white pearl the colour of the earth and placing it in her work-hard palms. This is my mother, entangled in sisters, brought to peace in age, throwing off years like a hot fur coat, years of bitterness turned some...

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Creative Non-fiction • Glen Retief • Literature

Two

After Natalia Ginzburg’s “He and I” He likes working on the patio. I prefer cooking up a stew or pouring out cocktails. I do the grocery shopping, take the car to the mechanic, and ferry cardboard to the recycling centre. He keeps the house plants alive, launders the sheets and towels, and fills...

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Emily Garland • Literature • Poetry

Women are Becoming Animals

A Bop Reports note Crocodiles with leather purses. Mountain Goats in puff sleeve boho shirts. Animals foregoing shoes, and girls, now Toucans, selling their Kia Souls to fly wingtip-to-wingtip to work, while Rabbits sleep on their husbands’ heads, hearts beating slow despite the predators next door...

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Literature • Poetry • Sarah B. Wiseman

Cuckoo

The cuckoo has laid its eggs in my (mother’s) brain. It found the cerebrum a spongy roost, an almost natural habitat and now, flying the coop, expects me to take care of the babies. I consult a field guide. Learn the cuckoo is a strange relative of the roadrunner, its song a series of hollow...

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Fiction • J.E. Crossman • Literature

The Orchestra Conductor

By the time we flew into L.A., I felt like sending my body through one of those X-ray machines in security to make sure my brain was still intact. If a picnic in Stanley Park was all the disruption Malcolm could handle to his daily routine, why did I think for one moment—one second—that he could...

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Carlee Bouillon • Literature • Poetry

Forensic Report of a Tuesday

Well another day spent boot-walking through my allotted patchwork of registered burns and cutblocks. Rototilling circles around piles of slash and struck-by-thunder trees. In the heat of the day, I sweat through dark coveralls. Here I am: picking up skulls of birds. Woodpecker feathers, horsehair...

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