Issue 47: Fall 2019

Thomas Morton Prize: Fiction Winner.

Winner: Man and His World.

by Ben Ladouceur

I spent two years in law school, 1965 and 1966. Both years, there was a boy named Étienne in the class. He was fresh-faced and France-French and we ...

Runner Up: The Kids.

by Bruce Meyer

There was a river with many stones in it. Grey stones. And almost as many people as there were stones. We were all crossing the river. It was not de...

Thomas Morton Prize: Poetry Winner.


My Mother Was a Girl Teen in the 1970s.

by Grace Alvino

  Earl Park New Jersey. Right next to Buena pronounced B-YEW-N-A 40-minute drive to Philly seven-minute walk to King’s Department Store yellow turtleneck scrunched-up yellow socks yellow room. The picture isn’t sepia it’s just the colour of the dead grass and who bought a camera? It was not a birthday gift. She says, I didn’t know everyone else didn’t put coffee in cereal. I asked for it in the morning at a sleepover. They had all laughed at her. Joke’s on them because she was beautiful; joke’s on her because being beautiful comes with stiffness behind your knees. You are not allowed to bend even though you want to. You can’t shrink. I hated, she says, going to King’s. He used to make me buy my clothes there. All of them. Her father. She was tall and I think ankles as synonymous. Turquoise. I don’t …


by Georgina Beaty

I moved to Buenos Aires to quit. It was working. The sun blasted down Avenida Corrientes, an obliterating golden light, as I walked to a public cool...

Miss Mango’s House.

by Jaclyn Desforges

  Tonight there is a party and I am the wallpaper. There are boys splayed on sofas. There are boys splayed on floor. There are boys in wide sta...

Beyond Repair.

by M Lynx Qualey

I slid the folder up my belly, protectively, palms pressed flat against its stiff pebbled plastic. The folder made a popping sound, and I tensed—was...


Two Poems.

by Tanis Franco

The Remains of Earlier Temples Aeons ago in a misty bed with a coverlet as thin as dew but warm as blood, I knew someone, for seventy-two esoteric hours, and with their head hanging upside down they said I’m really happy right now. It is unfortunate that words like these ignite an ancient motion in me to run the fuck away from feeling nice and then do things like circumambulate when asked what I’m doing for lunch. More dismal than Babylon now is how I added them on Instagram and we posted sunset pictures on the same magical night and dm’ed each other Where are you? Wasn’t it amazing? Since then I’ve stayed up crafting plans for a long- term durational work, a temple made up of all my life’s worn-out shoes, and hidden deep in the queen’s chamber, passed the hall of trick arrows, …

Game Show.

by Jane Eaton Hamilton

  I think I know what death is you say, but things that seem dead are not dead in the morning, or in springtime. Springtime happens more often ...

Odourless poem.

by Khashayar Mohammadi

  for Bardia Sina’ei   alas, who was the third one weeping? I thought we were only two! —Hossein Panahi   boo is smell but boo is als...

Parallel Advances.

by Trish Salah

  It is smaller here than what comes next because what I love flowers actually as if much deferred much fixed up ready to pick up move mountain...

Transactive Memory.

by Shaun Robinson

We met in a bar the width of a hallway leading nowhere. You asked me my sign in a neutral tone. I covered my mouth with a placemat when I yawned. I ...


by Caroline Szpak

A box he hadn’t finished making the bottom of A box he didn’t construct the bottom of A box he hadn’t finished constructing A construction he never ...


Who Could Have Lived.

by Erin Soros

No one wakes up thinking of a stranger, a life away, falling. Dionne Brand, thirsty It isn’t my neighbourhood. It isn’t my car, either, but I seem ...

finding safety.

by francesca ekwuyasi

When my friend Frank, a member of the organizing team of this year’s Halifax Dyke and Trans Rally, hit up my DMs to ask if I would be interested in ...


“Thinking outside the coffin”: An Interview with Dr. Dorisa Costello about the good, the bad, and the endlessly transformative creatures of the night.

by Julija Kalvelytė

Dr. Dorisa Costello has a long history with vampires, both personally and professionally. Her doctoral thesis combined critical and creative perspectives to examine fragmentation and non-linear narrative, Victorian prosopopoeic poetry, identity, and mental and physical illness. Although the work lacked any mention of the cult-favourites Dracula or Nosferatu, one of its subjects, the Victorian poet Algernon Charles Swinburn, identified the Greek poet Sappho as a pseudo-vampire in his poem, “Anactoria.” After successfully confronting every aspect of academic life on one side of the lectern, she did what any of us would do…returned to the other side of academia and taught various humanities subjects in the US, Macedonia, and Lithuania. Today, she teaches academic writing, English literature, and English stylistics at Vilnius University and English literature at William Jessup University. Her most recent academic publication is the article “Female Vampires as Embodied Critiques of Heteronormativity, Blood-mixing, …

“I Give the Muse Office Hours”: An Interview with Barry Dempster.

by Maureen Scott Harris and Maureen Hynes

Barry Dempster began his writing life as a teenager in Scarborough, with little in his background to support any literary inclinations, and at a time when the teaching of creative writing was rare in Canada. He found his own way, by accident and diligence and the serendipity of encounters with people who offered encouragement or support or example. His more than forty years’ commitment to a writing practice, particularly to poetry, is exemplary. In fall 2018 we (the interviewers, Maureen Scott Harris and Maureen Hynes) found ourselves talking about Barry and how much he had contributed to our writing lives. Since the early 2000s, with Liz Ukrainetz and Jim Nason we’ve had the pleasure of being in a writing group with him, initially meeting every three to four weeks in Toronto. Now we meet roughly once a month at Barry and Karen Dempster’s home in …...


“the rougarou kept the community in its circle”: Review of Cherie Dimaline’s Empire of Wild.

by Tavleen Purewal

Is there joy—and can one find it—within a spatial and psychological circle, an enclosure separating one from their loved ones? Can sex make things better—be transformative—when the dual colonial assault of resource extraction and Christian conversion threatens one’s connection to their family and land? Award-winning author Cherie Dimaline’s newest novel, Empire of Wild, answers a resounding “yes” to both questions. Empire of Wild grips readers in its mouth. I feel warm yet on edge in the novel’s enclosure, in a narrative that suspends readers in the shadows of the plot, only to shake us out of the dark’s comfort with surprises, twists, and unexpected revelations. This thriller ambiance feels like an encounter with the novel’s werewolf, the Rougarou, who haunts the town of Arcand. Dimaline revisits Métis stories of the Rougarou, a part-human and part-wolf being that has been variously represented as a woman-wolf …