Issue 37: Spring 2017

Fiction.

Thrill Bucket Spider.

by Jane Awde Goodwin

  I lost my whole life in a walrus’s mouth. In one second, one gulp of air, I realized my destiny and lost it at the same time. You get born. That’s pretty much the hardest part of all this because you have no control over it. Swish, swish. (That’s me swirling my martini around in celebration). After that, things get easy if you got a little smarts. Smarts is knowing which animals to put together in the ring. If you want to have a fight with a chicken, you don’t put in an alligator. You put in a chipmunk. Got to be fair to have fun. Chicken versus chipmunk. That’s a popular one. For that match I charge $12 a head, and have the beers at two for $10 or one for $6. The sign out front: Chip v. Chick. Mmm. Makes me …

The Fox Beneath The Statue.

by Jeremy Colangelo

Under the weight of the eggs the bird’s nest nestled between the deity’s thumb and nail. The mother perching carefully and puffing out her red...

Aurora's End.

by Kylie Lee Baker

In December, I became The Girl Who Saw Her Brother Drown, even though that’s only half true. I saw the ice open up and the lake breathe him in, then...

Sixteen Seconds.

by Matthew J. Trafford

Sometimes, when I’m feeling stressed out, I take my pulse. It’s something my uncle Bill used to do—he was always worried that a heart attack was goi...

Poetry.

693 Cemetery Road.

by Maureen Hynes

  We lived a week in the slope-ceilinged, head-hitting house, banged our knees against the banister, tied pillows over our brains, covered our hearts with oven mitts. Spilled every kind of tea, crushed blueberries to mask our bruises. Sunrise pierced our eyes awake. The sky filled and emptied, fog surrounded the bed, curtained our lovemaking. Once a day we heard news of drought across the land and strife on the convention floor. We cooked outdoors–scallops, turnips, rhubarb pie– and folded ten-dollar-bills into herons and pelicans. We found companions. A shabby-winged eagle perched on a post, presided over our seaside holiday. Quick visits from a hare family. One evening, a stillness with ears stopped and moved and stopped: through thick dusk fog, nine deer in the tall grasses, staring at us. Behind our house, the cemetery. Beyond, suddenly, the world’s calmest ocean. Villagers had pulled tombstones …

New Tenant.

by Marta Balcewicz

Twice she asked me to show her how the back door worked. Her dogs plaited braids with our legs. Then we moved on to the sprinklers, and the mechanis...

The Phoenicians.

by Sarah Stickney

  If at night on a piece of paper I write now it is night and I sleep, when I wake it will be a lie. But when does truth leave? Like wings in a...

Because I am.

by David Ly

Monster by Lady Gaga plays in the background   Was I winked at because I am because I am and he isn’t I wonder if That boy is a monster my song is o...

Two Poems.

by Dominique Béchard

Nocturne Without fail, late evening sets off the neighbour’s treacle of bluegrass, The mosquito’s kingdom of cool sweat & petroleum— What unmana...

Two Poems.

by Tahlia Chloe

  Little Cliffs   a mountain presents itself       at my       feet and       once again I am made to make       decisions       for the       both ...

November: Ruská 48, Vršovice.

by Alison Braid

  A little rain. Researching plovers, lapwings, sandpipers and allies. Last February, 18 ibis escaped the zoo. When I think of them in flight I...

Two Poems.

by Jay Ritchie

Hôtel-Dieu What a great open wound a day can be. Destiny falters at a moody clip down St. Dominique in light’s afterparty. No demands for swift and ...

Spatula.

by Shazia Hafiz Ramji

  Facebook might go TV Bombs over Syria livestreamed Spatula in space Burned up in the atmosphere A sleet of fast-moving stuff A piece of space...

The Daycare Bride.

by Meghan Bell

They’ve gagged me with a tensor bandage; intended for my veil, yes, but the veil is a cotton/polyester blend; twilight lavender, floral print....

Biologists.

by Sam Collier

We only want to measure her, to mark her tail and touch the fur between her night black eyes, and still we know that when we hold the deer mouse she...

Essays.

Is That Her?: When Alice Munro Stories Turn into Spanish Films.

by Sue Sorensen

When Alice Munro received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2013, I was one of those in the literary community tapped to provide comment. My selection was pretty arbitrary; I’m sure I was number twenty on a list of English professors, and just happened to be the one to pick up the phone. While not a Munro specialist, every year I do offer at least one Munro story to my students. For years I taught the sombre and illuminating “Boys and Girls,” from her early career, since it is in many anthologies; recently I’ve turned my attention to the more complex “Miles City, Montana.” I vividly recall the incendiary experience of first reading that story, and I want to pass on some of that combustion to my students. It was 1985. Ken Probert, my favourite English professor at the University of Regina, was standing in …

Grieving Forms.

by Margeaux Feldman

“For me, at this point in my life (when maman is dead) I was recognized (by books)” –Roland Barthes, Mourning Diary   Other’s Wounds and ...

Interviews.

“Inescapable and Unknowable”: On Animals and Poetry.

by Laura Clarke and Kate Sutherland

Kate Sutherland’s first collection of poems, How to Draw a Rhinoceros (BookThug), has been shortlisted for a Creative Writing Book Award by the Association for the Study of Literature and the Environment. Her work has appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies including Best Canadian Poetry 2016. She is host and producer of the podcast On the Line: Conversations About Poetry. She lives in Toronto, where she teaches at Osgoode Hall Law School. Laura Clarke is the author of Decline of the Animal Kingdom (ECW, 2015), which was named one of the The National Post’s 99 Best Books of 2015 and Globe and Mail’s 100 Best Books 0f 2015. You can find her poetry, criticism and other writing in The National Post, Hazlitt, PRISM International, Riddle Fence, and Grain. She is the 2013 winner of the Bronwen Wallace Award for Emerging Writers from the Writers’ Trust of Canada and a 2018 writer-in-residence …

Reviews.

The Meaning Was Mine(d) : A Review of Twoism by Ali Blythe and anybody by ari banias.

by Catherine Owen

Twoism Ali Blythe icehouse poetry 500 Beaverbrook Court, Suite 330 Fredericton, New Brunswick, E3B 5X4 2015, 72 pp., $19.95, 9780864928733   anybody ari banias W.W. Norton & Company 500 Fifth Avenue New York, New York, 10110 2016, 112 pp., $25.95, 9780393247794   “I followed the trail out of the room, invigorated by the possibility of reinventing my own body. The meaning was mine, as long as I was with those who had the vision and vocabulary to understand my creation.” ― Nick Krieger, Nina Here Nor There: My Journey Beyond Gender   Poets, at the very least, can usually count on their readers’ willingness to enter places of discomfiture and unfamiliarity, unheimlich realms of surreal leapings and gendered or otherwise politicized questionings. Both Blythe and banias, the latter from a set of perspectives informed by Judith Butler’s notion of gender as a “performance,” craft poems …