ISSUE 29

Fiction.

Stay Schemin’.

by Jon Chan Simpson

I shall tell you the tale of your grandfather, A-Gung, Grand Pimp of the East, Celestial Don and Supreme Bawse of Old Cathay, by this and all true a...

Poetry.

Three Poems.

by Stephen Collis

The Long Regime A small bird Outside my office Window turns itself Inside out over And over again The sky the Colour of the Inside of a Large jar qu...

Elephant v. Rhinoceros.

by Kate Sutherland

  I. Witnesses Ctesias, physician Artemidorus Ephesius, geographer Diodorus Siculus, historian Oppian, poet Pliny, scientist and historian Vale...

Streak.

by Roxanna Bennett

  I’m on an unbroken streak of never speaking, to Stuart Ross though the spaces we share are shrinking. The internet fits in my fist but is lar...

Eighteen Anamneses.

by Joelle Barron

  for Lizzie   I. Things belly their way in, furred, many-legged; she cups them to her. II. They are kept in almost-large alcove; she, her...

Two Poems.

by Meghan Harrison

hot bosses   Except for a sadistic thing about cops, I’ve never gone for lines of authority. When you called all those extra meetings abo...

Valve.

by Aaron Boothby

One possible inquiry  : what materials   objects   phrases   residues are produced in this long act     ( living   let’s continue    call it that ) ...

Leda.

by Vanessa Stauffer

How can I say what happened there? Stripped of the elegant hands, the black webs churning air—when I prayed I would be carried off, the heaven I ima...

Two Poems.

by Caitlin Scarano

Slow to Marvel   You are always the finger, the line of milk down my back. Now you’ve seen a man die but it doesn’t change how we f...

Octopo and Teuthiet.

by Rasiqra Revulva

  Two octopoteuthis deletron squid collided in the Pacific depths at sunset in July. Each one mirrored the other, with a shimmering, voluptuous...

Two Poems.

by Sara Jane Strickland

October 19th, 1989   I was born with a blue stone in my mouth. Over time people told me, My, what big eyes you have. A doctor once stopped my m...

Saturday night Safeway run.

by Carolyn Nakagawa

  “Going out” is a broad expression, and a girl’s gotta eat, gotta have milk to drink. Maybe your grandmother suffered from osteoporosis. Maybe...

Two Poems.

by Hannah Hackney

Pastoral in Relief Of the ones that move through bit-split high-rise to ground tubes knitted overpasses and tunnels and back some slip into cracks. ...

Mr. and Mrs. Tattoo.

by Glen Armstrong

  We each got a tattoo to prove that we love each other. Soon, we each got a second tattoo to prove that we really wanted the first. The third ...

Essays.

Interviews.

Reviews.

The Last of the Wild Islanders: A Review of Michael Crummey’s Sweetland .

by Nicholas Herring

Sweetland, Michael Crummey’s first novel since Galore (2009), marks a return to the hefty kingdom of the narrative, and in many ways, the story he fashions is the logical—and therefore, perhaps, predictable—follow up. Galore, a Márquezian novel, is in my opinion second only to Alistair MacLeod’s No Great Mischief (1999) in terms of the finest to ever come out of Atlantic Canada. Crummey’s latest work is an impressively prolonged and often exhausting study of grief and ghosts centring around the disintegration of 69-year-old Moses Louis Sweetland, a native descendant of the first settlers of Crummey’s fictionalized Sweetland archipelago. The novel is divided into halves marked by biblical epigraphs. The first, “The King’s Seat,” quotes Isaiah 56:5: “Even unto them will I give in mine house and within my walls a place and a name,” and the second, “The Keeper’s House,” quotes Revelations 20:13: “And the sea …...