Reviewed by Evelyn Deshane A black hole infiltrates much of The Videofag Book, a collection edited by William Ellis and Jordan Tannahill about their time running the Videofag art space in Kensington Market, Toronto. Comprising an introduction by Tannahill and Ellis, a roundtable conversation, love...
Dominik Parisien I learned jealousy reading of a boy who kissed a wall. Oliver kissed here scribbled on the brick. I knew, then, love was breathing yourself into another; how boys feared getting caught losing themselves through their lips. And here was Oliver, who could have carried me with...
Sara Patterson You tell me to wash. We fuck the bathroom raw. Elizabeth Bathory, I bathe for you. If I deep clean my face with uterine lining will I be young enough? Blonde enough? I drink Diet Coke. Like horse piss, it removes blood stains. Mary Tudor, that rust haired cancer ridden monarch...
Erin Vance The blackened ear is the third fantastical bit the turpentine bark and the spritz, the oil drip ache to sit on the crumbling steps of the ruined pitch hidden slick, fallen sick, skin flakes black, like the ear scraped into the lichenous foot of the Styrofoam forest floor not the...
Review By Asam Ahmad Near the end of The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, Arundhati Roy’s first new novel in twenty years, we find this passage jotted in a characters’ notebook: How to tell a shattered story? By slowly becoming everybody. No. By slowly becoming everything. It is an awkward fragment...
Erin Kirsh Everyone’s a philosopher and I miss comedians. Everyone’s got a theory and I got a headache. The selected world lives in a device that lives in my pocket with all the other change. It’s gathering lint. It’s tearing my jeans. It’s cutting my hand when I try to tuck one in for...
