#67

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AJ_Resist_fullpg_SubTerrain_Feb2014.indd 1 14-03-03 12:39 PM CONTENTS

Volume 7 Issue #67 issn: 0840-7533 | since 1988

EDITORIAL | Brian Kaufman reconciliation poems 3 deeper than mere coincidence POETRY | Jordan Abel COMMENTARY | Peter Babiak 13 please check against delivery 4 bianca and the blackbirds POETRY | Juliane Okot Bitek FICTION | Robert Nathan 14 a love letter or considering reconciliation 10 looks just like the sun IN canada POETRY | Joanne Arnott NON-FICTION | Stephen Osborne truth and wreck (excerpt) 16 The coincidence problem 15 POETRY | Daniel Zomparelli POETRY | Beth Goobie to fill the sky 19 hope quest 15

FICTION | Laura Hartenberger 20 The canvas lush triumphant literary awards competition 2013 Runners-up POEM | April Salzano 25 the road to coincidence road FICTION | Adam Elliot Segal 50 Richard FICTION | Alban Goulden 26 as if POETRY | Raoul Fernandes 54 silence splashing everywhere (5 poems) FICTION | Jon Paul Fiorentino 30 IT seems like sex is a weird that used to happen to me sometimes Book Reviews FICTION | Caroline Szpak Report from the Interior by Paul Auster, Needs Improvement by 34 sleep on 57 Jon Paul Fiorentino, The Iraqi Nights by Dunya Mikhail, Cyclists: Photographs by Lincoln Clarkes, Under Budapest by Ailsa Kay, A Recipe for POETRY | Emily Davidson Disaster & Other Unlikely Tales of Love by Eufemia Fantetti, How Poetry 39 persimmon Saved My Life: A Hustler’s Memoir by Amber Dawn, The Hypothetical Girl by Elizabeth Cohen, Hollow City: The Second Novel of Miss Peregrine’s Peculiar POETRY | Philip Quinn Children by Ransom Riggs, Black Liquor: Poems by Dennis E. Bolen 40 i read the news today oh boy

NON-FICTION | Jim Christy feature artist: 42 chance Julie Flett FICTION | Gerilee McBride Julie Flett is a Vancouver artist, 46 Gene, genie children’s book author, and illustrator. FICTION | Rachel Shabalin 49 spectacles The cover image for this issue was inspired by a series of coincidences that I experienced over the past subTERRAIN is published 3 times a year (Spring, Summer, Fall/Winter) by the month: both my son and a friend sub-TERRAIN Literary Collective Society. All material is copyright of subTerrain, the shared stories with me about the authors, 2014. subscription rates: individuals: Canada/US: One year $18; Two years $32; red flowering currant; I stumbled Elsewhere: One year $24; Two years $38. institutions: One year $24; Two years $38. upon an article about dolphin calls PHOTO: Taylor Ferguson manuscripts & artwork are submitted at the author’s or artist’s own risk and will not be being turned into kaleidoscopic flower patterns using sound wavelets shortly returned or responded to unless accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope after having a dream about dolphin ‘petals’ while working on a book about bearing sufficient postage for the submission’s return. Those submitting material from outside Canada must include sufficient International Reply Coupons to cover the mate- dolphins. My sister had also called earlier in the month to tell me about a dream rial’s return. Please allow 4-6 months for a response. Indexed in the Canadian Literary she’d had about our mother; we realized we had both dreamt the same dream. Periodicals Index and the American Humanities Index (AHI). Canadian Publications Mail Products Sales Agreement No. 40065490. Postage paid at MPO, Vancouver, BC. Date of issue: Spring 2014. All correspondence to: subTerrain Magazine, PO Box 3008 Apology: Issue #66 featured an error in Sandra Alland’s story, “Chance”. The line, They pushed Main Post Office, Vancouver, BC V6B 3X5 canada, tel: 604-876-8710 fax: 604-879- their glasses up onto their not-so-pale Canadian nose, and exhaled. was incorrectly published as 2667 email: [email protected]. No e-mail submissions—queries only, please. Printed “…their not-so-pale Canadian noses...” Our apologies to Ms. Alland. A corrected version of and bound in Canada. Sniffing the ether @ www.subterrain.ca her story can be found at our website, subterrain.ca First Books, First Voices They Called Me Number One Secrets and Survival at an Indian Residential School Bev Sellars Xat’sull Chief Bev Sellars spent her childhood in a church-run residential school whose aim it was to “civilize” Native children through Christian teachings, forced separation from family and culture, and strict discipline. In the first full-length memoir to be published out of St. Joseph’s Mission at Williams Lake, BC, Sellars tells of three generations of women who attended the school, interweaving the personal histories of her grandmother and her mother with her own. She tells of hunger, forced labour, and physical beatings, often with a leather strap, and also of the demand for conformity in a culturally alien institution where children were confined and denigrated for failure to be white and Roman Catholic. Winner of the 2014 George Ryga Award for Social Awareness in Literature

$19.95 / 256 pp / Non-fiction: Autobiography / 978-0-88922-741-5

The Place of Scraps Jordan Abel “Jordan Abel has moved a poetics of erasure into an inventive and deeply unsettling, stir-it-up interdisciplinary modality.” – Arc Poetry Shortlisted for the 2014 Dorothy Livesay Poetry Prize Shortlisted for the 2014 Gerald Lampert Memorial Award

$19.95 / 272 pp / Poetry / 978-0-88922-788-0

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2 << EDITORIAL >> dEEpEr ThaN mErE COINCIdENCE

ometime in March of 2013 I was at the main post offi ce mailing Volume 7 no. 67 several parcels, review copies of books destined for US magazines publishing since 1988 and journals . . . or maybe it was contributor copies of the maga- publisher/editor-in-chief s zine, fi ve apiece sailing off, at alarming prices, to destinations across Brian Kaufman the country and into the US. I was bantering with the postal clerk, as I editorial collective often do, paying by cheque for services rendered, noting my BC driver’s Peter Babiak, Jenn Farrell, Hilary green, Karen green, license number on the back, lest Canada Post Corp needed to track me Odette Hidalgo, Robert Hughes, down in the event that the cheque bounced, which wouldn’t be a huge Brian Kaufman, Patrick Mackenzie, stretch of the imagination, issuing, as it was, from a small literary maga- Caroline Mcgechaen, Jim Oaten, zine. He took the cheque, inspected it for date, signature, amount and Aimee Ouellette, Paul Pitre, Shazia Hafi z Ramji, Christine Rowlands, then slipped it into the drawer beneath his station. The receipt was zzzzt- Robert Strandquist zzzzt-zzzzt printing out and he soon tore it off and circled the tracking numbers for the various packages that had just been processed. I then book review editor Karen green realized I had forgotten to note the cheque number, which I needed to write on the receipt so that our bookkeeper wouldn’t get on my case advertising Janel Johnson about a receipt without a paper trail. I apologized for not noting the number of the cheque and the clerk obligingly pulled it from the drawer production/layout Derek von Essen and informed me that it was cheque 1996. I thanked him and said, It was a good year. He chuckled and said, Yes, we’ll party like it’s 1996! We publishing assistant both laughed, being about the same age, and realizing (however poi- Natasha Sanders-Kay gnantly) that our heavy partying days were long behind us. We wish! he cover & interior illustrations said and we both laughed again. I thanked him, wished him a good day, Julie Flett and headed off to check our postal box that is located in the main lobby general guidelines just through the doors from the service counter area. I was still smirk- Fiction: max. 3,000 words ing, but wondering, wasn’t the line—we’re gonna party like it’s 1999? But Creative Non-Fiction & Commentary: max. 4,000 words; Poetry: no unsolicited maybe that was his joke? poetry submissions. Photographers and Even in the age of email our post offi ce box is regularly stuffed with illustrators: please send samples, mail—manuscripts, query letters, bills, cheques, subscriptions, review or direct us to your website. copies, and assorted junk mail. And still, after twenty-fi ve years, I feel letters are welcome a sense of excitement when I pull the mail from the box, load it onto We encourage your comments about my arm, and carry it to one of the granite slab sorting counters to sift what you fi nd between our covers. Letters become the property of through and examine the names and addresses on the top left-hand cor- subTerrain magazine and may be ner of the envelopes. One of the most enjoyable aspects of running a edited for brevity and clarity. literary magazine that publishes book reviews is receiving the new re- bookstores & retail outlets leases from our publishing colleagues across the country. subTerrain is available in Canada from And on that particular day in March of last year there was a pack- Magazines Canada 416-504-0274 and in age from Anansi and I tore it open immediately, freed its contents, and the US from International Periodical Distributors (IPD) 1-800-999-1170. stuffed the padded, recyclable envelope through the slot in the blue re- www.subterrain.ca cycling bin. And there on the table, in the midst of the other assorted mail items, wrapped in its 8.5 x 14 press release was the poetry book ISSN: 0840-7533 1996 by Sara Peters. The coincidence was not lost on me, and as I held We gratefully acknowledge the fi nancial the book I wondered if maybe there was some greater signifi cance to this support of the City of Vancouver, the BC Arts book landing in my hands today as opposed to next week or the week Council and the Canada Council for the Arts after. And then I noticed the endorsement from Robert Pinsky on the and the government of Canada through cover—“Deeper than mere darkness.” I was now even more intrigued. If the Canada Periodical Fund of the Department of Canadian Heritage. there is a thing that we call “light reading” then I am naturally drawn to the opposite end of the spectrum of literature, and that would be “dark reading.” I made a note to read 1996 with close attention, to see if there wasn’t perhaps a deeper meaning, a special message for me, just me . . . —Brian Kaufman, Editor << COMMENTARY >> and Bianca the blackbirds: How Vladimir Nabokov Saved Me from Referential Mania

by Peter Babiak

here’s a scene in Vladimir Nabokov’s Laughter “Bianca” was a student in my English class. in the Dark where Axel, the rakish middle- Older, around twenty-five or so, and south-eastern Taged artist, turns to his way-too-young lover, European by birth, she struck me as well versed Margot, and delivers an impeccable aphorism: “A in the ways of the world, certainly compared to the certain man once lost a diamond cuff-link in the more morally-chaste younger students, though wide blue sea, and twenty years later, on the exact academically she was extraordinarily average. A day, a Friday apparently, he was eating a large fish— classic femme fatale who adapted to the brazen but there was no diamond inside. That’s what I like aesthetic of sex-positive feminism, Bianca an- about coincidence.” These little word-jewels are what nounced her presence the first day of class almost I like about Nabokov. Life is capricious and open to a decade ago by declaring that feminists “need a chance, not held together by some cosmic duct tape good fuck.” Always one for theatrics, she’s what that harmonises random events in a state of meta- you get when you slip a coquette like Lauren physical awesomeness. And yet, even though reason Bacall or Lana Turner into the cast of Lena Dun- and Nabokov tell us that coincidences don’t just ham’s Girls. She was, in short, a woman with gift- happen, we know that it’s only in detecting and ed cleavage and a mediocre mind who knew she recognizing flukes and fortuities that the deliber- could often use the first in the service of the sec- ate familiarity of an ordinary life can be refash- ond. ioned as extraordinary, enchanting, and at times I hadn’t heard from Bianca in a few years when even thrilling. she emails and asks if I remember her and can she My job—teaching English literature to college come by my office? She was writing a paper for students—isn’t exactly exhilarating. Like being a grad seminar on postmodern language games the night watchman at a museum or a volunteer and wanted to talk literary shop. I obliged with a shelver at a public library, it’s rewarding in an time—2:30 on a Tuesday—and mentioned that intangible way but it’s more pedestrian than pro- I happened to be teaching Nabokov’s short story vocative. When something memorable happens it “Symbols and Signs” that very week and goading happens to fictional characters; I’m supposed to my first-year students, in the same course she’d remain abstract and nonplussed by the scandal- taken with me a few years before, in slow textual ous shenanigans that happen on paper. But there analyses of the narrative. was this one time, one afternoon years ago, when She was on time but I was with another stu- something happened in my office that was so un- dent. This one was crying, like the sensitive ones nervingly wanton and such a bamboozling conun- sometimes do when they realize that theirs isn’t drum that it left me metaphysically bamboozled. the A-level work the high school teachers said

4 says like

rit was. I don’t is remember most of thequé criers but If there were a fate story that overlapped with I remember this one—Harry Potter glasses and my life I wouldn’t want it to be this one. It’s a an unironic Hello Kitty knapsack—because dur- dreary narrative about an elderly Russian couple ing the fifteen minutes she was in my office I who go visit their deranged son at an asylum for had four or five phone calls. The first was a guy his birthday but are turned away because he has who wanted to speak to Charlie somebody, and tried to commit suicide again. I like it because the rest were hang-ups. All that ringing allevi- it’s short and because Nabokov—a literary genius ated the task of trying to make my criticism of but a pretentious dick—puts you on a wild goose the girl’s banal analysis of a sentence in “Symbols chase looking for “signs” or “symbols” in the story and Signs” sound more like a consolation to her that are supposed to make reading the story hook wounded self-esteem, but persistent phone calls up with the son’s delusional condition. Believ-

ing can make you go fucking ape-shit with paranoia. ing that “everything happening around him is a Even Nabokov knew this because at the end of his veiled reference to his personality and existence,” story someone calls for a “Charlie” two times. he considers every detail in his environment—the This was when I first considered that this parcel clouds, mannequins, his exhalations—as some- of time on a dreary Tuesday afternoon in Novem- how being about him.

h ber just might be, contrary to the routines that The thing is, when you read the story you fall structured my typical afternoons, textured with a into the same system of paranoid delusions be- metaphysical thread of tattered references and al- cause each detail in the narrative is designed to lusions that were just a little too strange, though at charm you into your own “referential mania”: the time I didn’t think the phone calls could have even if you want to read right past them, you possibly foreshadowed that something wildly in- can’t. On the contrary, like the compulsive para- appropriate was about to happen to me. And I still noiac in the story you find something relevant can’t. But then coincidence is a seductive spark ig- in each reference and suture them all to a big- nited by memory, and what’s so fascinating about ger pattern of meaning. The postmodern joke memory, like Nabokov says in his autobiography, is that the parents experience things—the rain, “is the masterly use it makes of innate harmonies a girl crying, a late bus, the phone, a fledgling when gathering to its fold the suspended and blackbird, and so on—that are so obviously ran- wandering tonalities of the past.” It was months, dom and unrelated to their son’s fate but we can’t probably closer to a year and maybe even longer, help but think they’re all references that tell us,

not before I remembered in my own “suspended and conclusively, that something bad happens to the wandering tonalities” that Bianca, who was pac- boy. Even though it’s really only about an old

ing outside my office while I was with the crier, couple in New York City who want to visit their had a phone in her hand. Which isn’t strange in fucked-up son on his birthday but end up going itself, not really. But was she trying to tumble my home—where someone calls asking for Charlie. dominoes of fortuity. Aristotle points out in The You can’t help over-reading the story, forcing con- Poetics that coincidences are “most striking when nections between the parts and making it into e they have an air of design” and if Bianca did dis- something it’s not. It’s like Thomas Pynchon says: guise her voice and place those calls then it was a “there is something comforting—religious, if you striking design for sure. want—about paranoia” partly because we can’t The crier exited and Bianca entered. She didn’t stand when “nothing is connected to anything.” mention the ringing, but sitting down in the chair Whatever the case, Nabokov’s story is a great in- the crier had just vacated, she leaned forward. troduction to the “arbitrary” relationship between Wasn’t it bizarre, she asked in what I think was a signifier and signified—a word and its idea— a mock conspiratorial voice, that one of the im- which is a core part of literary theory-speak and is portant signs in Nabokov’s story is a crying girl pretty useful in understanding why any semioti- and that a real one was just sitting in this chair? I cally-charged cultural practice—from horoscopes agreed. It was weird, and so were the phone calls. to modernist poetry, road signs to online dating Life imitated art in the weather pattern, too, I told profiles—are so evocative to us even if we know her, and then in our ensuing conversation when I they’re arbitrary. learned that it was Bianca’s birthday the next day Though Bianca and I did talk about Ferdinand ayb I pointed out that it’s also a raining birthday in de Saussure, the Swiss linguist who came up with “Symbols and Signs.” this concept of arbitrariness, we didn’t dwell on

6 M a dISCuSSION Of mETaphOr aNd SyNTax IN SuGGESTIvE NOvElS the kinks in the envelope of analogical weirdness My door was open the day Bianca came to visit, ThaT that meshed this parcel of real time things—a and it stayed that way until something happened ringing phone, the crier, the weather and birth- that was stranger still than the trifl ing conspiracy day—with their anchors in the Nabokov story. of fi ction with reality I was just going on about. mOST Instead, she told me about life in Toronto, that I was rambling on about Nabokov’s sentences. NOrmal she’d been there a year, loved postmodernism and I think it was how his suspended sentences say wanted to teach Comp Lit one day, and—fi nally— indirectly what his characters are doing when pEOplE that she needed help with her essay on the erot- we think they might be fucking but don’t know wON’T ics of language in Lolita and Laughter in the Dark. for sure because his language is so murky. She EvEr She was working with a “theory” of reading she said she was writing about the “erotics” of his rEad... pulled from The Pleasure of the Text, a book by Ro- writing and wanted to argue that the intermit- land Barthes, a French literary celebrity who was tent suggestiveness in his sentences, the fact that struck and killed by a laundry truck back when he goes on and on and teases readers with quick students were all down with the zany language of fl its and fl ashes of sexuality, is like a striptease. It postmodernism. was around here that Bianca reached across my This business about the “erotics of language” desk with her left hand to the jar of jelly beans I in Bianca’s essay, coupled with the title of that keep beside my phone. Maybe it was her fi ngers one Nabokov novel—both, actually, though the or maybe the sleeve of her black raincoat, but on second, an earlier attempt at the same kind of the way she dislodged the handset from the phone story, doesn’t have the twisted reputation—prob- and it dropped between the desk and her chair. ably suggests that my trivial narrative about the She got up and I probably did, too, or half-stood collusion of fi ction with reality is going to a per- and leaned, nudged her chair back and reached verted end. Though Bianca had graduated years down to pull up the handset by its cord because before that November visit, it’s pretty much al- when I looked up again I saw that Bianca was at ways scary—and destabilizing in an existential the door, which was now more closed than it was way that can dislodge you from the walls of your when she came in. And apparently in those four ethical self faster than you can say Oleanna— or fi ve steps it took her to get from the chair to when a female student is in your offi ce talking the door she signifi cantly altered the structure about taboo books and overheated themes. Bi- of her apparel because what I saw was a vertical anca’s Frenchman wrote “the pleasure of the text column of bare skin framed by a mostly opened is that moment when my body pursues its own black raincoat—unbuttoned or unzipped, I don’t ideas—for my body does not have the same ideas know which—and punctuated only twice with as I do,” and anybody who’s had a bodily reaction minimalist underthings. She leaned back into when reading bad porn knows he’s right. But the jackets and sweaters I keep hanging on the people who read and talk about what they’re read- back of the door and it clicked shut. If any of this ing can’t go around living by this truth. It’s bad happened in a novel or a fi lm I’d say it was an im- optics. Maybe nothing says risqué like a discus- portant dialectical image or core mise-en-scene sion of metaphor and syntax in suggestive novels and talk theoretically about composition and prox- that most normal people won’t ever read, but the emics and psychological setting, but here, at 2:30 overdetermined setting of an academic offi ce trig- in the afternoon in my second-fl oor college offi ce, gers, in the compulsory pornography of our time, I just stared. a series of tawdry conclusions, which I suppose There’s nothing so wanton or wantonly incoher- is its own kind of referential mania. And which ent in Nabokov. I know what Bianca was disclosing is why my door is always open, especially when with that subtle reorganization of her clothing but I’m with a female student and doubly especially in-the-fl esh embodiments of literary principles when she’s a morally-emancipated one who wants like the “erotics of language” aren’t supposed to to talk about mature subject matter like a fl eshy really happen, and never to me. I was, and still am, ee cummings poem or an Angela Carter story. looking for references, for something I may have Or Nabokov, though this guy’s sentences are so missed in “Symbols and Signs” or in those novels compounded and his allusions so convoluted that Bianca wanted to talk to me about, that explains indecencies remain hidden to most people or only or legitimates the malapropism of a partially- alluded to through tedious indirection that most clothed woman leaning back against the inside of won’t bother to follow. my offi ce door. Margot inLaughter in the Dark was ...what I saw was a vertical column of bare skin framed by an mostly opened black raincoat— unbuttoned or unzipped, I don’t know which...

a conniving temptress, and Lolita, well, I’m never that afternoon weirded me out way more than sure what to say about her. But neither did this. its impropriety. The “girl with dark hair . . . was I stood there, uncomfortably, in the Tuesday af- weeping,” “the telephone rang again,” “a tiny un- ternoon low-key light of my offi ce while this wom- fl edged bird was helplessly twitching.” The details an who said she wanted to talk about words leaned edged their way from Nabokov’s story into my of- against my door in a scandalous but exquisitely fi ce, some by design but mostly as a function of a fetching state of dishabille, and signifi ed herself remarkable shift in the narrative of an afternoon silently. I wasn’t even sure if I was the intended that was punctuated with an enticing personifi ca- referent or part of the sign or even if the scene was tion of the “erotics of language” that, unclothed, her attempt at illustrating the arbitrary relation- leaned back against my door until it shut. And ship between a signifi er and signifi ed for some there are more stories about the memorable Bian- secret grad school project. So I just stood staring ca. She fl irted obsessively, shifting attention from at that vertical strip of white barely punctuated comma splices and mishandling of semi-colons with two horizontal references to clothing and with compulsive leg crossings and inordinately was spellbound by the uncanny pornography of low leans across the desk, sustained stares, and it all. Barthes, Bianca’s French theorist who went the time she asked a borderline unsavory ques- on about the “pleasures of the text,” once asked tion about the pair of costume handcuffs I have “is not the most erotic portion of a body where hanging on my wall. A couple of years after she the garment gapes?” Theoretically speaking, the leaned back against my door in that unclothed of- answer has to be yes. I know Freud was right to fering she sent me a copy of the paper she wrote say that repression of sexual instinct is needed in on Nabokov. It was okay, but all I really remember a civilized society for it to work but, let’s face it, of it is the epigram, which came from her French when a woman strikes this semiotic pose in your theorist: “Is not the most erotic portion of a body offi ce you can’t help but wonder if Herbert Mar- where the garment gapes?” cuse, the guy who reread Freud from a permissive In the subdued rush of references—her visit point of view and said that eros is the truly con- to my offi ce during my Nabokov week, the phone structive impulse of civilisation, might have been calls, Charlie, the rain, the crying girl, the bird, even more right? the birthday—I convinced myself that this sliver This event became more coherent to me when, of time on a Tuesday afternoon in November was improbably, Nabokov’s story pushed itself back so patterned and symbolically-charged with sig- into the narrative. Bianca stood there, armed in nifi cant details that it coalesced in some grand that long, opened raincoat and waiting for me to master plan or fl ash of wisdom. But who knows? say or, maybe, to do something, but fortuitously— The impulse to fi nd a pattern in one’s life, to fi nd or maybe not?—two more quirks intervened to causes and reasons for the events we experience nudge this suspended arousal away from sheer that push thinking away from the banal towards caprice back to the world of incomprehensibly the extraordinary, and maybe even to the spirit- meaningful signs and symbols. The phone, still ual—yes, even in tawdry narratives involving in my hand, started making that irritating sound lascivious characters named “Bianca”—is greater a phone makes when it’s off the hook too long, than our seemingly absolute knowledge that no and this, I think, effectively compromised the in- such patterns can possibly exist. Nabokov says tended tone of the scene. And then, as if on cue, in his novel Ada that “Some law of logic should just as we both became aware of that sound, a bird fi x the number of coincidences, in a given do- fl ew to my window. I heard but didn’t notice it un- main, after which they cease to be coincidences, til Bianca, with a look that signifi ed comical vexa- and form, instead, the living organism of a new tion, said something like “A bird. Unfuckingreal. truth.” I have no idea what kind of “new truth” the The phone. And I have red toes.” She was looking coincidences on that Tuesday afternoon pointed behind me, and when I turned to look I saw black towards. It wasn’t fate that connected her to me wings scrum along the window and fl y off. as much as it was a voluptuous appetite for Nabo- I didn’t ask about the red toes. There’s a refer- kov and literary theory, though it was a thrill I’m ence to red toes and a bird in “Symbols and Signs” bound—referential maniac that I am—to vaunt to and red is obviously a sign—or symbol?—of pas- the level of enchanting, beautiful things. » sion and sexuality. But the sheer congestion of fi ctional coincidences in the temporal continuum

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e danced with his jacket inside out. He wore long hair with deep I knew waves that shone in the moonlight and bounced like a thing Halive. His blue eyes sparkled high in his tall frame. When he opened his mouth men laughed and women pretended not to stare at his something pearly teeth. He was like a comet in this world, burning bright, speeding by. Disappearing.

tectonic I met Simon at the red pandas. Staring at his beautiful cheekbones, his innocent untarnished skin, I had the answer to my question. Because I never liked zoos. Much less driving to Granby. was Yet there I was. A sunlit afternoon in May, an hour east of home, an enclosure of ochre beasts. And a man, one I knew I’d make my own and happening, make love to in whatever order seemed convenient. It wasn’t the kind of thing I did, setting aims like that. Not because of some principle that forbade it. The idea of choosing a man off the street I just and seeing things through ’til he was mine and naked always struck me as a thrill. A venture to be tried if not made a habit of, like paragliding. Meeting small goals, pushing the bounds of one’s power—what greater didn’t bliss? No, it wasn’t ideals that held me back. It was the sweating. Funny for a girl like me, being awkward with men. I was once, three know how years ago, in an underwear advertisement. Me in my tangas and a lacy push-up. That pretty much guarantees men have sated themselves to my photograph, if growing up with two brothers is anything to go by. I am it would an official Object of Want, sanctified by the laws of marketing. And yet I can’t have what I want, because it makes me perspire.

affect me. Two red pandas lay curled on their treetop platforms, sleeping silently. On the other side of the fence two animals stood, equally silent, one sub- tly spying on the other while feigning interest in small red bears.

10 I sidled up to him, skin noticeably moist, heart circus or the favour of a wild friend who worked pummeling my ribcage. But I didn’t look. After on barges and swam with sharks. that fi rst glimpse I couldn’t bear it. Simon was a It’s not that I needed Simon to make me happy. man I had to keep on the periphery lest my eyes I’d always been fi ne by myself, indeed better than ache from the inside out. when I wasn’t (mostly because of the men I’d “They’re amazing, aren’t they?” God. His voice. known). But the best thing about Simon was he Better than I’d imagined. No, I hadn’t imagined it didn’t make me unhappy—a miracle in the world at all. He was, ’til then, the man I would possess of dating. I was me and he was him and together and ravish all in silence. we were beautiful. And so we never went on man- “Yeah, you’re so beautiful.” I felt it in my arm- ic roller coaster rides, raging brutally down and pits then, sliding, slipping, rushing away from then fl ying up the honeyed hills of reconciliation, me. Perspiration’s rain of terror. “I mean, yeah, like most couples. We preferred the zoo. you’re right, they’re so beautiful.” I smiled patheti- And I could hold my own. Sure, he was a bright cally and scuffed the hard sole of my shoe on the light, but I had my own life. concrete. It’d been fi ve years since graduation, and for the He laughed, looked at me. My eyes pushed last two I’d been turning down contracts several right, strained toward him while my head stayed times a month. Fresh out of school I designed the still. If I didn’t move I couldn’t lose anything, logo of a start-up that turned huge, this computer surely. I could hang on and everything was li- accessories thing called Mousepocalypse. People able to be fi ne so long as I remained in one spot. knew my work. On days I didn’t feel like design- Somehow this line of reasoning made faultless ing I walked the banks of the St. Lawrence with sense at the time. “What’s your name?” he asked. my camera, then blogged about my photos over a I turned to face him, relenting. It was like glass of wine. wrenching up a tree that’d been rooted to the All the same, it was now impossible to imagine same land for a thousand years. “Cora,” I said, life without Simon. Or at least a comparable one. clearing my throat and batting my lashes like a This is where people start to get weird and po- fool. litely suggest you’re clingy. But what’s wrong with someone making you happy? The European Institute in Florence had accept- The basics of life have become sinful in our ed Simon as a post-doctoral fellow on a twelve- age; we’re full of excuses. I for one have had month contract. He asked me to go with him. “I enough. So let me just tell you: I believe in love don’t think I can stay in Europe for a year,” I said, and, though I didn’t before, higher powers. And curling my long brown hair around a fi nger to though I still don’t know what pushed me to stave off apprehension. I knew something tecton- Granby that day, I believe it was something like a ic was happening, I just didn’t know how it would god. That or the sheer magnetism of beauty, pure affect me. My body lay naked on the bed, and Si- and concentrated. mon leaned back with both hands on the dresser I looked at the button in my hands, at my slop- across the room, watching. Normally I didn’t ing breasts and the darkness of my belly button mind exposure to him, because I didn’t think of it beneath my shirt. Then I turned to him. “Ok,” I like that. But in that moment I did, and my sense said, solemn as a tomb, like I’d just resolved to that it was all so wide open threw me into a panic undertake what no normal person could pull off. I tried my best to hide. “I’m not a citizen.” He stood. “Well.” He fl opped onto the bed, staring at the “Really?” he said. “You want to?” ceiling’s tiny stuccoed stalactites as I sat up to “Yes,” I told him, biting my bottom lip as my button my blouse. “We could get married.” With head shook fast up and down. “I do. I, Cora, will those words it was back: the sweating I’d forgot- marry you, Mr. Simon of Florence.” I always tried ten after long months with Simon. to make light when I was wracked with nerves. A year and a half had passed since we met at He took my hands, looked into the skin on my the red pandas in the Granby zoo. It’s not that life knuckles, kissed them. Then he began to jump on had been bad before, but I was happy now in a the bed, shouting “Viva Italia! Viva Firenze! Viva way I hadn’t known. Not in adulthood anyway. l’amore!” I giggled, only to see him run from the These past eighteen months I’d lived in a state of room as quickly as he’d bounced on the blankets. wonder, like a child swept up in the majesty of a Then in a moment he was back and the music When was blaring and he was putting his jacket on in- First I worried and then I was angry. There are side out and pulling me to my feet. “Come on, always hiccups when you fly, but surely by now he a plane pumpkin,” he said. “Dance with me.” could’ve found a way to send me a quick email or a explodes And so we danced together and I watched the text message. My thoughts ran and circled back on moonlight stream in the window and splash themselves in the morning as I fried eggs in the at 35,000 across his wavy locks as we mangled the springs cast iron pan Simon brought home from the thrift feet they of a mattress we’d no longer need. In a few weeks shop on Maisonneuve one day, happy as a kid. it would be on the curb with the rest of it, relics of Out of habit I cracked them close to the edge. I say it a life left back by Italian lovebirds. But the truth stared at his half of the pan, black and empty, and looks was it grew futile sooner than I’d imagined. then into the thickening yolks of my eggs huddled to the side as they cooked. They look just like little like the Having only ten guests made it cozy, so for once, suns, I thought. Two stars cooking along together. sun. and even though it was my wedding, I didn’t have Then, snaps and sizzles in my ear, I did it with- to sweat. We were saving our money for Europe out thinking. And as I opened my laptop to pull A flash (the excuse we gave), and would leave at the end of up the news—a morning reflex hard to break— of white the month once Simon was back. He’d submitted a raging dizziness yanked at my feet, and I saw a paper to a UN governance conference that, un- both yolks had run across the pan. “No,” I said, way up like most academic meetings, subsidized travel the sound creaking out as though someone were high. costs. there, as though a word could alter life when you We couldn’t spare the time, considering all we were alone like it could when you weren’t. had to do before dissolving our lives in Montreal I dropped the flipper from my trembling hand and building them anew in Florence. But it was a and its hot metal seared my toe, though I felt free trip to Beijing, and I encouraged him to go. nothing. In a moment I too fell, the headline I could see how much it meant to him. “Are you I’d seen in a flash knocking me like a blow. One kidding? Are you mad? Have you lost your bloody that shatters, stabs—an act of pure negation. A mind, man?” I said, hamming it up. “Seriously robbery, a despoliation that crushes all in three though, you should go, babe, it’s a great opportu- words. China Flight Missing. nity.” And it was. Another glowing line on the CV I lay on the floor until the eggs burned black. of a glowing man. Though frozen in anguish, I didn’t sweat. I knew, He was living a dream and I was happy dream- moreover, I never would again. And I also knew, ing with him. And we both knew I would do most in those lonely kitchen shadows, that the sun was of the packing anyway. It was something I was never coming back. » especially good at. I drove him to the airport and kissed his eyes. “Write me when you land.” He hugged me tight. “I will,” he said, flashing that mollifying smile he carried like a weapon. “I’ll miss you.” I pouted, only half pretending. “I’ll miss you too. So much.” His fingers stroked my hair, landed softly on my cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon. Then we’ll drink espresso and propitiate cupid on the banks of the Arno!” He made a splashy gesture with his hands, throwing them up as to the gods, so gifting me a final moment’s laugh. And like that he was gone. MOVING? Don’t forget to send us When a plane explodes at 35,000 feet they say it your new coordinates so we can looks like the sun. A flash of white way up high. keep your issues coming. Ultimately this gives way to streaks of red and black that arc to the sea and are snuffed by waves. SUBJECT: ADDRESS ALERT A star falling to pieces. [email protected]

12 rECONCIlIaTION ThrOuGh pOETry

eptember 22 was one of the wettest days on record last year, Please Check Against Delivery notably wet even for rainy Vancouver. Despite the monsoon- slike downpour, some 70,000 people converged at the inter- former students have spoken but as you became section of Homer and Georgia to walk in support of a hopeful yet parents, cultural practices were prohibited formidable concept: reconciliation among Canada’s Aboriginal and federal partly in order we are now non-Aboriginal peoples. joining you on this journey. Most schools families, strong communities remove The walk was the vision of Robert Joseph, Hereditary Chief of and isolate children a renewed implemen- the Gwawaenuk First Nation and Ambassador for Reconciliation tation of the Indian never having Canada. As a child, Chief Joseph suffered the brutish treatment of received a full Anglican, Catholic, Pres- St. Michael’s Indian Residential School in Alert Bay, British Col- byterian new relationship between and a desire to move forward umbia, and dedicated much of his life subsequently to supporting First Nations, we apologize for failing to other residential school survivors. Over time, his focus on healing now recognize that in separating sad legacy of has expanded to include a wider examination of the relationships the Government of Canada between Aboriginal peoples and all Canadians. system in which very young children and an opportunity to This work has taken Chief Joseph from Ottawa, where he advises recognizes that it was wrong Years of work Canada’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, to as far away as In the 1870’s, the cultures and spiritual beliefs the Vatican City, as part of the delegation that received Pope Ben- were and their separation edict XVI’s statement of regret for the Catholic Church’s role in and cultures, and to children from their families, inadequately fed, clothed understanding that Canada’s residential schools. What unifi es these activities is a belief strong to adequately own children that a lack of mutual understanding is undermining attempts to from suffering powerless to protect Resi- seek justice for Canada’s Aboriginal peoples, and that the fi rst step dential Schools system Canadians in this process is exploring shared values that can inspire Can- built an educational said, “to kill the Indian in the child”. Government adians to do better for each other. sincerely apologizes sowed the seeds for The four poems that follow were commissioned by Simon Fraser all Canadians on the Indian apology University’s Centre for Dialogue to honour Chief Joseph’s ap- caused great harm, and are sorry proach, and to mark his receiving SFU’s 2014 Jack P. Blaney Award federally-supported schools Ste- phen Harper, inadequately controlled, and the for Dialogue. The diverse cast of poets—Jordan Abel, Joanne Ar- abuse It is to healing and reconciliation nott, Juliane Okot Bitek and Daniel Zomparelli—drew from their asks the forgiveness of the Aboriginal Inuit and own backgrounds and perspectives to create a tableau on the con- Métis and You have been working cept of reconciliation. Advisors for the event included Wayde Comp- on recovering while attending residential schools Residential Schools no place ton, Barbara Kelly, Megan Langley and Renée Sarojini Saklikar. in our country. housed. students are The debut reading took place on February 27, hosted by Vancouver and communities, and we far too often, Public Library as part of the City of Vancouver’s Year of Reconcilia- Many were a lasting and damaging im- tion activities, across the street from where the 70,000-person pact institutions gave rise to abuse having done this. is a sad chapter in our his- Walk for Reconciliation had assembled just months before, a fi tting tory. Residential Schools forward to indicator that the legacy of the Walk continues. speak publicly about the same experience, and for assimilation —Robin Pres t, Program Analyst Simon Fraser University’s Centre for Dialogue by Jordan Abel a love letter or Considering reconciliation in Canada for Chief Robert Joseph by Juliane Okot Bitek

Dear Kas, today Vancouver is as beautiful as ever. It rains sometimes; sometimes it doesn’t rain.

Dear Kas, talks about reconciliation are happening in the context of young people walking to Ottawa, walking for miles and miles and miles.

Dear Kas, people haven’t remained idle—they never were; just simmering, like porridge simmering, like thick, thick soup.

Dear Kas, reconciliation walks, protests, drums, tattoos, and this year, marks the coldest winter in memory. A bus ride to Kamloops reveals a landscape in which people were loved.

Dear Kas, spring isn’t a promise, it just is. Otherwise you would be here.

Dear Kas, exactly a month after the funeral there’s a brilliant blue in the sky. A woman in a yellow kimono, at Oppenheimer Park, remembers the murdered and missing women. She releases red balloons into the sky.

Dear Kas, I can no longer depend on dates and times. I don’t know where you are.

Dear Kas, there are at least 20 women missing from the Highway of Tears. I still don’t know all their names.

Dear Kas, here are some echoes. There was a Trail of Tears and the Long Walk of the Navajo in the United States and I only knew of them after you were gone. Dear Kas, there were children walking in our homeland during the wholesale murder—sometimes they call it slaughter. Hundreds of huts spontaneously burst into fl ames. I think of it as a culling.

Dear Kas, here are some echoes. We remember and we forget. We remember Gassy Jack and Captain Vancouver and we forget the dispossession and displacement. We remember the murdered and missing women and forget the dispossession and displacement. We remember Hogan’s Alley and Vie’s Chicken but forget the dispossession and displacement.

Dear Kas, we often forget that we’re guests on this land. How can we reconcile this with the insistence on nightmares and tears?

Dear Kas, we remember tight jeans, cowboy boots, Elvis wannabees and we forget why these are markers for our youth.

Dear Kas, I miss you.

Dear Kas, this crisis has been going on too long. Young people are walking to Ottawa and I’m remembering how your eyes sparkled the last time you said goodbye.

Dear Kas, we may cover the landscape with our bodies and memories but we cannot; we cannot forget.

14 Truth & wreck, To fill the Sky excerpt A poem in honour of Chief Joseph by Joanne Arnott by Daniel Zomparelli

I have a multiplicity of stories I stand before you today in order to meet its obligation. within me White linen folded over wood, folded some are the bones of me over dirt, over earth. Dry grass press some are the blood skin leave marks on body. some are the meat of me The sun, not yet visible, lights the clouds some are the stagnant pools of qi that surface the earth, that dips around some are the resuscitation of being the spaces between us and them. In the distance, there is a building, heavy with stone bricks rising up that weighs the earth, press against the same dirt that pushes against your skin, I feel a cool wind blowing through that presses grass, or when I hear the truth how do we reconcile with the land? the truth about who is dying from neglect Before today, I order you to stand in its obligation, meet. who is lied about, who is suppressed Start from the land, press against the sky who is showcased and honoured and no, wait, listen— and make who is allowed a natural life shapes. who is interfered with, who is taken You fi ll the sky with words to constellate each night rising up asking where to start again or how do we reconcile with memory? a cool wave of truth fl owing through Stand in order today, to meet in its obligation, you before I. aligning the bones and the meat of my stories A poet goes inward, asking what it is to reconcile cousins disappearing from the left hand and all he can think of is him, new cousins arriving on the right hand or more dangerously, her. who is interfered with We meet again, who is paid to raise whose children, how and you say goodbye, and goodbye. indigenous families became outlawed He thinks of her now and the way how settler economies feed upon me the body is pressed between earth she takes a space within the question mark the cool truth has a hot heart do you remember, mother, that we the cool truth has a sober word for you never fi nished that conversation, or the cool truth is a mind-blowing instrument how do we reconcile with the dead? I stand before obligation, in order to meet in its, you today. blowing through the dead leaves of the fallen The comments are closed, and I watch as you make shapes with words, build homes blowing away the grit of snow under which with a story. the stories were buried, frozen I would be nothing without you. Rewritten, taking up a shovel poetry would be nothing without you. Descending for redemption from mountains, the sky doesn’t ask the question, it does fi ll in the blanks, you and I. or how do we reconcile the space between? << NON-FICTION >>

the COINCIDENCE PROBLEM by Stephen Osborne

was walking down the street thinking about a events could be held accountable according to an friend I hadn’t seen for some time, and when I iron law of cause and effect. What was never point- Ilooked up, there was my friend standing at the ed out to us was that coincidence required percep- corner with his wife and he was looking at me in tion in order to exist: it was a function of our look- some surprise, for as it turned out they had been ing at the world. If my friend and I had not seen speaking of me in the same moment that I had each other there would have been no event: this is been thinking of him, and so we congratulated perhaps what troubled the rational minds of grown- ourselves on having arrived there at the corner at ups, who believed an event had to be an event wheth- just the right moment for these facts to be revealed er or not it was perceived to be one in the first place. to us. We talked for a while, as there were many On another day I had been trying to write a things that we had been meaning to discuss were we story about the British Israelites, a Protestant sect ever to run into each other precisely as we had just whose followers were convinced that Anglo-Sax- done, and when we parted I had the happy sense ons were the lost tribes of Israel, and I had de- that the substance of my day had been revealed. veloped the uneasy feeling that there was much Only later did I recall that none of us had referred to about British Israelites that I would never under- our fortunate meeting as a coincidence, which is stand. I left my desk and went for a walk along an what it was, of course. But coincidence is a word that unfamiliar stretch of Kingsway Avenue occupied we have learned to distrust, a term of mild deroga- by Asian grocery stores and restaurants and elec- tion employed by parents, teachers and other grown- tronics shops, and became lost in thought; when ups to dismiss the marvellous: “only a coincidence” I looked up I was standing outside an aging store- was the way they usually put it, and in that word only front in the window of which lay a map of Europe we understood meaning and significance to lie not and North Africa on which curved arrows had in the world of the coincidental, but elsewhere, in a been printed to indicate, as I soon saw, the move- more real world of non-coincidence, in which ments of the same lost tribes of Israel that I had

16 been reading about. They surged up across Eu- ing of “concomitance” instead). How many times rope and the English Channel and then across the have events like the ones I speak of been demoted Atlantic Ocean: I had stumbled onto the British- from the real world by being dismissed as mere Israelite World Federation Bookstore, the propri- coincidence? Not long ago on the radio I heard a etor of which was a red-haired man with a beard man brush off a rather wonderful coincidence in who was pleased to fill me in on the present state his own life as being but the product of “random of the Israelite movement, which he said was still chance,” as he put it. What, we want to ask him, alive in certain circles. Among other documents, constitutes the non-random chance? Is there a he showed me a pamphlet containing a speech world of intended occurrence? Three of the four given by a local scholar and businessman in dictionaries within my reach define coincidence as which the Jewish origins of the Japanese people events “apparently accidental” happening “without and the Shinto religion had been explained to the apparent causal connection,” “apparently by mere public on March 28, 1932, in the Oak Room of the chance”; the fourth is even more skittish: “an event Hotel Vancouver. I bought the pamphlet for two that might have been arranged although it was re- dollars, and as I walked home with my souvenir ally accidental.” None of this helps us understand I felt as if I were returning from a dream. Coin- what the non-coincidental might be, or might, as cidence is the glue of dreams, and that dreamlike the lexicographers put it, apparently be. quality may be what makes a coincidence so dif- ficult for rational minds to account for: a coinci- Coincidence invokes the spectre of cause and ef- dence is always somewhat ludicrous; it makes us fect, a set of rules poorly understood by modern, feel laughable. In a moment of coincidence the non-Newtonian physics, and it reminds us of the world seems, however gently, to be mocking us. photon that exists as a wave or a particle depend- And so we speak with caution about coincidence ing on how you look at it. Perhaps behind a fear of (Wittgenstein avoided the word entirely by speak- coincidence is a fear of magic passed down to us I lOOkEd by the age of Newton, but magic is unnecessary controlled by Mars and Mercury, and after that the to understand a world that proceeds by the rules following races would come in like clockwork. OuT TO ThE of cause and effect: evolution and entropy follow My brother and I set out in the Pontiac with EaST whErE these rules, and so does coincidence, which is our charts and my girlfriend, who became un- made marvellous precisely because those same pleasantly negative as we drove across the city and ThE mOON, rules are the mode of its coming into being. Here eventually I had to pull over and ask her to get NEarly perhaps we approach the heart of the matter: out of the car. She had no money so I gave her the rules merely defi ne a system; of themselves cab fare. The Pontiac ran out of gas a few blocks full, they cause nothing. Coincidence is a fl aw in the from the track and we had to push it into a gas COuld tangled blur of cause and effect that we see when station and pour a few gallons into the tank; the we look out at the world: suddenly the world looks parking lot at the track was full so we drove onto bE SEEN back at us in a moment that has no explanation, the street to park, and then ran back to the gate to haNGING IN that is defi ned only by our perception of it. In pay the entrance fee. We were within a few feet of such a moment everything is changed but noth- the betting window when the bell rang and the a bluE Sky. ing is different. Perhaps this is why there are no race went off before we could place our bets. Mars I SaId TO monuments to coincidence, although coincidence and Mercury came in just as they were supposed informs the life of each of us. to do. We could see then that the system worked, mySElf: but we couldn’t see that it didn’t work for us: we whITE Last week I met friends from out of town in a followed up the consequences of the fi rst win as downtown bar and told them stories of an old our advisor had directed us, and broke even in the hOrSE, mentor of mine who twenty-fi ve years ago had second and third races. whITE been an important force in my life. The music in The fourth race was a big one, we had been the bar had become funereal, and when we asked warned, and Mars and Mercury would play a part mOON, the bartender about it he shrugged and made a in it. My brother took our money to the wicket to fOur joke about a funeral parlour. When I got home I bet on six and three both ways. I looked out at the picked up a magazine from the stack in the bath- track as the horses came up to the post; among IN ThE room and it fell open at an elegy written in mem- them was a white stallion, a rare sight at the races, fOurTh ory of the man I had been telling stories about, and it carried the number four on its back: four my old mentor, and I understood at that moment was the number of the moon, which according raCE, that he was no longer alive. The magazine was six to our advisor always played a role in the fourth aNd ThEN months old; the poem, written by his daughter, race. It was also an extreme long shot. I looked out would be how much older than that? to the east where the moon, nearly full, could be I SaId: I lit a candle to honour the man whom I had seen hanging in a blue sky. I said to myself: white IT’S ONly loved but had not seen since 1986. His name was horse, white moon, four in the fourth race, and Richard Simmins and he had been a curator and then I said: it’s only coincidence, and manfully, COINCIdENCE an art critic before moving to the Ottawa Valley to rationally, resisted the impulse to call my brother become an antiquarian book dealer, and he was back (I was the eldest, and perhaps the more ad- a writer of some power. (“We all laughed at the dicted to the unbending lever of logic). The white photograph of the surrealist insulting a priest,” stallion won the race handily, separated from the he wrote in a poem in 1974, and I copied the line pack by six and three, who seemed to be running into my journal.) He once gave me a 1958 Pontiac interference for it, and my brother and I failed to in return for some small favour; I drove it for six win many hundreds of dollars. months and sold it for a dollar in the Cecil beer Thirty years later, I read in a layman’s book on parlour when I didn’t need it any more. quantum mechanics that what we experience of That was the summer I used to go to the race- the world is not external reality at all, but our in- track with my brother to place bets, on the advice teraction with reality. » of an astrologer who had worked out a way of predicting winners based on the positions of the planets and the timing of the starting gun. It took a few weeks to adapt to the system, and when we were ready and had chosen our day, the astrologer calcu- lated that the fi rst race, if it started on time, would bring in horses six and three, which, as I recall, were

18 << POETRY >>

Enlightening Summer Reads

Steeling Effects Jane Byers Poetry

9781927575444

“This collection takes breath as its starting metaphor and breathes the fire of excitement and admiration into the reader.” —Maureen Hynes hope quest author of Harm’s Way by Beth Goobie

Hideout Hotel Janine Alyson Young one petal in a fl ower. Short Fiction a single sun-fi red snowfl ake node. longing etched out stark as a november tree branch. 9781927575468 days when the part suddenly manifests the whole, some unseen resonance surfacing to tune the choices of a life the way a violin’s peak note vibrates crystal. where does the quicksilver thought come from, whose hands embroider confl uence onto awareness? “Each story has an eerie lit-from- is it that bus stop smile, within quality, utterly without false this library book’s hope quest, sentiment, utterly captivating.” an afternoon sky’s anthology of blue —Annabel Lyon that awakens the brain’s synapses, author of The Sweet Girl bringing them out of their slow-blink trance state? and, once awakened, are their rapid-pulse declarations merely the erratic chatter of backyard chickadees “…characters are strong and weak at once, certain and confused at or the incandescence of a million monarchs once, and always compelling.” determinedly fl ickerfl ying, inch by inch, here to mexico —Steven Galloway that magnetic grid summoning us to a cognizance author of The Confabulist of global vistas sketched through fl esh and beyond, synapses of a cosmos dreaming itself into being.

Caitlin-Press.com << FICTION >> ThE CaNvaS

by Laura Hartenberger

he job was simple: knock on the doors of people who hadn’t yet I fOuNd hEr returned their census forms and remind them to do it. T The reality was more complicated. People submitted forms with SITTING IN errors, or they were moving in a week and hadn’t fi gured out where. They omitted household members after arguments, or included the names of ThE dOOrway, foreign relatives, hoping it would somehow imbue them with citizenship. They were illegal and skeptical of my claim that the census wouldn’t be aCrOSS frOm a forwarded to immigration. They hated the government and everything it asked of them. They wrote indecipherably, or with non-English charac- ters. I tried to explain the purpose of the poll and its accuracy: it’s really GIrl whO waS important because of voting and that kind of thing. I feel terrible, but would you mind? It’s because they really need to have the numbers right so they can maybE my aGE, create the right number of jobs, and open the appropriate number of schools, that sort of thing. hEr faCE pINk I was subletting a cheap room in a two-bedroom above back-to-back pizza-by-the-slice shops. I’d moved in the same day I saw the handwrit- aNd haIr damp ten poster in the window: Apartment for rent. The sign now read: Fortunes, $20. Trudy, my roommate, was a psychic. wITh SwEaT. She could’ve been thirty or fi fty or anywhere in between. We didn’t talk much, but she liked that I let her keep her sign in the window facing the street, even though it blocked out most of the light. “For you, no charge,” she told me. I wasn’t interested in having my fortune told: I doubted there was much to look forward to. The living room was sparse. Its tattered rug was the colour of mud and cracks in the walls webbed together densely. Trudy had a small wooden table and two chairs, and I’d brought a mattress and an alarm clock. In the mornings, soft fl ute music played in Trudy’s room as I drank water at the sink. At night, she soaked her feet in a red mixing bowl while I sat at the table and cut coupons or cut up my T-shirts. Each day, I picked up a new copy of my route, the grayscale ink wear- ing off on my hands throughout my canvas. If I missed a household, I took note of the address and returned the next day, doubling back over my routes again and again. My stack of maps thickened, adding weight to my pocket and hours to my day. I left cards with a printed reminder:

20 “Return your census form—It’s The Law!” and a “It’s okay,” I said, uncomfortable. I waited while handwritten note indicating that residents should Trudy took her payment—four crumpled fi ve-dol- call me if they had questions. I carried a govern- lar bills—and showed her out. ment-issued phone with me and did not receive a “This is not for you.” Trudy waved the cash at me. single call. Canvassing had sounded easy enough “Of course not.” I couldn’t tell if she was angry. to fi ll a summer, but now I felt lucky if I fi nished Trudy folded her blanket and unravelled her half of my list each day. At 4 pm, I reported to my headscarf. I could hear the crunching of tvs in district supervisor, a pimpled teenage boy who the apartments above and beside ours. was probably a decade younger than me. “Do you have more jobs?” “I need you to pick up the pace,” he told me a week “At the census? I mean, they’re hiring, yeah, into the job, snapping his gum, nearly gagging. but—” “Got it?” I wondered how much more per hour “Come back again tomorrow.” he was earning than me. If it was a lot, I’d be irri- tated. If it wasn’t much, I’d be even more irritated. It was another hot day. My stomach twisted pro- I tried to pick up the pace. I took elevators in- gressively throughout my day of canvassing. I stead of stairs. “But it’s the law,” I parroted when visited the same family twice without realizing it, people refused to submit their forms. I omitted and they patiently fi lled out duplicate censuses. please, thank you and excuse me from my spiel The carpet in the hallway of my apartment to save time. None of this improved my rate of building glistened like it was perspiring. Trudy progress. sat in our doorway with her client, a middle-aged At the shift’s end, I tossed my pile of forms onto man with a bad haircut and long-sleeved shirt. the district supervisor’s desk. He leaned back, “Excuse me,” I said, slipping past into the apart- kicking up his feet. His oversized boots were ment, “just passing through.” missing laces, their tongues hanging loose, wag- The man kept his gaze on Trudy’s face, which ging at me. was expressionless. “We’ve gotta hire,” he said. “Speed things up.” I washed my hands at the sink, waiting to hear “Are you fi ring me?” I asked. Trudy’s prediction. “Do you listen? I said I need hires. That’s it.” “Sooner than you think, an offer of work may He spun around in his chair, trying to keep his arrive.” I smiled, impressed at how mystical she eyes on me as his body rotated. sounded. I’d believe her if she’d predicted my fu- Trudy hadn’t told me she was seeing clients at ture in that tone. home. I found her sitting in the doorway, across “Oh, that reminds me,” I turned around casu- from a girl who was maybe my age, her face pink ally, waving my dripping hands in the air to dry and hair damp with sweat. A gauzy scarf covered them. “We’re actually looking for people at my of- Trudy’s hair and a matching blanket lay across fi ce. In fact, we need people exactly like you. En- her lap. She didn’t seem to mind the heat. thusiastic, hard workers.” I pointed a fi nger at the Trudy held the girl’s hands, examining them by man, who stared at me as if trying to focus. feel, eyes shut. Shimmering paste glimmered on “See?” said Trudy, shaking the man’s hands. her eyelids. “Yes,” she said. “I see good news com- “See? You are very, very fortunate.” ing very soon. Somewhere unexpected, an offer of “Amazing,” the man whispered. He left a gen- work will come your way.” erous tip and I peeled back a corner of the sign in “Oh,” I said suddenly, and Trudy’s eyes opened. the kitchen window to watch him walk down the “Hi, excuse me.” street with his head up, smiling. I squeezed into the apartment between the Trudy asked me not to turn on the sink while women, forcing them to break hands. “Sorry to she was with a client. “Bad for energy channels. interrupt. We’re hiring over at the census. No They prefer silence.” pressure, of course. It’s temporary, and the pay “No problem.” My hands were shaking. My isn’t great, but it’s work. If you want.” feet, which had ached all day, felt light. The two Silence. wooden chairs waited by the doorway for the next The woman began crying. Trudy grabbed her client, the hallway light shining on them like hands again. “Okay,” she said. “See? There you go.” spotlights. The girl turned to me. “Thank you.” Her voice “Also,” Trudy said, “you could wait outside. Say sounded like it came from the bottom of her soul. you live upstairs.” “Whatever you think works best.” which houses had dogs and what breed: the ones The next day, the building was quiet, making with young kids had the biggest dogs—retrievers the coincidence of me passing by at just the right or German shepherds—and the childless couples moment seem even more remarkable. Trudy’s cli- had beagles or basset hounds. Single women had ent was so grateful that she hugged me, leaching chihuahuas or terriers, and single men had cats. tears into the collar of my shirt. For all the predictability of their living spaces, By the end of the week, I’d gotten the timing the people inside were various to an improbable down just right. I waited until I heard Trudy say degree. Each person had a distinct voice, a unique “good news” and started walking towards the stair- alignment of wrinkles and moles, a singular eye- case, passing by the open apartment door right at brow arc, a recognizable tic, a specifi c degree of “unexpected.” I halted with exaggerated force, cleanliness. I lingered, accepting offers of iced tea pivoting to face the client. “Say, you aren’t looking and granola bars, chatting about families, jobs, for something starting immediately, are you?” Sign- dreams. ing my name in thick ink over blank census “You’re easy to talk to,” said a burly accountant forms, I distributed them like business cards. I was who drew his own comic books. becoming quite the actor. Nobody seemed to “Oh, no,” I shooed away his smile but was pri- think it wasn’t authentic surprise on my face as I vately thrilled. found someone looking for a job at just the mo- A middle-aged woman said, “We should meet ment I needed to hire someone. Many of Trudy’s for coffee,” after telling me about her divorce and clients wouldn’t have taken the job under other subsequent dating attempts. circumstances. Minimum wage, door-to-door work “I’ll give you my phone number,” I said. in the burning heat—it was worse than telemar- On my way home, energized, I talked quietly to keting. But to get the offer right there—it would myself, replaying the encounters. be a slap in the face of fate to turn it down. Trudy didn’t split the cash with me, and I didn’t At the apartment, Trudy and I had a run of suc- ask her to. I wasn’t in it for the money. The feeling cesses: I recruited census workers and she made afterwards was like none other. After the clients generous tips. left, the two of us sat in the dark kitchen with the It was only the exchange of information. Trudy’s overhead fan humming and Trudy closed her eyes, clients could just as easily have found the job maybe napping or maybe just resting. My head from fl yers or subway ads. But something about it buzzed and my ears were hot to the touch for felt deeply satisfying. Trudy had the best job in hours. It felt good just to sit and cool down like that. the world. How lucky I’d been to walk past her sublet sign in the window that fi rst day. My canvassing numbers began to improve as I covered a bigger area each day. It was getting “I just can’t wait to meet someone and get mar- easier to knock on strangers’ doors. I no longer ried,” a young lady, a medical receptionist, con- tapped quietly, hoping for no answer. Now, I gave fi ded in me. She lived alone. We sat together on a confi dent pound and invited myself inside. a fl oral-patterned loveseat, chatting, with the sun “Why hello, I’m here with the census! I’d love to streaming in through the window, her census help you complete your form. We can get it over half-completed on the coffee table. with and then you won’t have to think about it. “You will,” I said. I took her hands in mine, the Easy. Why don’t we sit over here.” way I’d seen Trudy do. “Very soon. I feel certain Just like that, I was inside. I looked around, this will happen for you.” making eye contact, taking in the surroundings. The woman looked at me with big, teary eyes. I cycled through apartment after apartment with “I know exactly the person I’m looking for. I just the exact same room layout—couch by the win- haven’t met him yet.” dow, bed in the corner farthest from the bath- I nodded sympathetically. room. I started counting how many had the same “Hispanic, fi ve years older than me, a doctor,” cream-colored kettle, how many the starched bed she said, laughing. “That’s my checklist.” sheets that sold at the weekend street fairs. The “That doesn’t sound so unreasonable.” houses had the same wilting impatiens in hang- “Thank you. It’s just so hard to wait, not know- ing baskets, grains in bulk jars on the counter, ing when he’ll show up. What if I don’t get what half-opened mail on radiator tops. I could predict I want?”

22 Each person had a distinct voice, a unique alignment of wrinkles and moles, a singular eyebrow arc, a recognizable tic, a specifi c degree of cleanliness.

“I promise you will. It’s going to happen.” I “It’s okay,” I told him. “These things take time.” pulled a blank census form from my bag. “Let I included his mother on the census, and gave me prove it to you.” Taking a pen, I copied down him a hug before leaving. her identifi cation and demographic information. Next door lived a couple with three beagles and Then, under “additional household members,” I an elaborate fi sh tank that completely encircled wrote “one.” the living room. We sat on upholstered stools in “What are you doing?” she said. “Oh!” the centre while the dogs snarled at the fi sh. “We I fi lled out her future husband’s age, ethnicity, only let them into the fi sh room for special occa- and occupation, then folded the form and sealed sions,” said the man. it into the envelope. I was reluctant at fi rst to add their pets onto the “There,” I said. “Now, it’s defi nitely going to form: I didn’t want this to get out of hand. But, happen!” as they pointed out, the creatures were essentially She smiled gratefully. “Thank you.” family, not to mention true household members. “I worry I’m too old for children,” said a police- Indeed, the form did not specify that only human woman, home with the fl u, her gun sitting out household members should be listed. The couple, on the kitchen counter. “Maybe it wasn’t meant pleased, sent me off with a baggie of Oreos. to be. I’m not superstitious. But I’m thirty-nine One young woman about my age in a pink and I work long, hard days—I don’t think it’s in tracksuit closed the door in my face. “No thanks,” the cards.” she called fl atly. “Do you want it to be?” I asked. “It’s the law,” I shouted through the door. “I’m The woman put a hand over her heart. “More only here to help.” than anything.” “I said no, thanks.” “Well,” I said. “I will do everything in my pow- “You need my help.” I knocked again. I pound- er to make it happen.” ed, hurting my wrist. “You’ll wish you’d asked me She laughed. “How—prayer?” to come in.” “I can do better than prayer.” I didn’t show her I fi lled out her census right there in the hall. She my additions to her census—she was a police- was no older than twenty-three, but I wrote down woman, after all. But after our talk, I knew, over- forty. Gender? Other. Children: four, named after whelmingly, that she’d want me to do it. I gave her fascist dictators. I licked and sealed the envelope. twins: one boy, one girl. The heat intensifi ed and the smell of August— A sixty-year-old man had been living with his garbage about to rot, leaves about to turn, things elderly mother through her battle with cancer. on the verge—hung in every hallway. One day, in- She’d passed away two weeks earlier and the stead of my canvas route in my mailbox, I found apartment was fi lled with fl owers wilting in their a memo requesting that I proceed to the central vases, the aftermath of the funeral and reception. offi ce. The water in the vases was murky and beginning A promotion, maybe? I imagined the district to smell. As I helped the man spill out the water supervisor saying, with a serious look, “She de- and compost the old fl owers, he told me, “I know serves this job more than I do. That’s all there is it’s been coming for a while, but I’m not ready for to it.” her to be gone. I want another month with her— He was there, with his baggy T-shirt and greasy just a month.” yellow hair. He sat next to the central manager. His chair had no wheels but he rocked in it any- way, clunking its legs heavily on the floor each way he leaned. The office had no windows. Paper- ing the walls were district maps, highlighted and drawn over so many times the street names were illegible. The central manager wore a full suit. He greet- ed me with a handshake. “We have had some reports,” he said, “of dis- crepancies.” I wasn’t worried. “Isn’t that natural for this sort of thing, to have a certain number of—” “Discrepancies. Yes. But there have been a surprising number. You do know,” he leaned forward, revealing smudges on the panes of his glasses, “that we cross-check everything with vot- ing records, social security, the works.” I frowned. “Information changes. People don’t stay the same forever. They change things about themselves.” The man coughed. “Well, yes. But the numbers There’s a story are, as I said, surprising.” inside you. Join In the next room, the photocopier whirred and crunched, and somebody cursed. our community I reached across the desk to hold the man’s of writers and hands. The man yanked his hands away. let it out. Beside him, the district supervisor laughed into his hand. “Told you she’s a nut,” he said, leaning back so far his chair tipped over and he jumped up while it toppled behind him. “I’m sorry,” the central manager said. “We have so many folks lined up to work for us. I’m going Choose from four part-time to have to let you go.” “Go?” creative writing options in “This isn’t the place for you.” Vancouver and Surrey: “No—I belong here. On the route.” “We’ll mail you the cheque for this week.” • The Southbank Writer’s Program, I couldn’t speak. All those people I’d helped. our summer program Everything I’d created. Walking home, I tossed handfuls of my busi- (apply by May 10) ness cards in the trashcans at each corner. Trudy sat alone in the doorway as if she knew I was com- • The Writer’s Studio ing. • Specialized creative writing courses “It’s over,” I said. She sighed. “This came in today’s mail.” She • Manuscript consultations handed me a postage-paid envelope and a form. I stared at it. “Fill it out for me,” I told her. » www.sfu.ca/creative-writing

24 << POETRY >>

must be interstate 79, southbound, somewhere between Erie and home, not off the Kearsarge exit, but close. Two text messages with nearly identical content, methodically spaced exactly the one year apart. Hello? the second prefaced, as if my ex-husband was announcing his second intrusion on my family’s second road trip to the water park to enjoy my second son’s birthday. Huh? my response resounded, refraining from expressing the whatthefuckness to of the whole situation. Just like the first year, he said he had been calling all day. No coincidence missed calls. He asked a question of a practical matter, insurance or well-being of the children, maybe to deadbeat his way road out of timely child support money again this month. The best time to fuck me over is before Christmas and at the end of summer, when the kids need school by April Salzano clothes, supplies, shoes, though June works too, to set the tone for a summer without extras such as ice cream afternoons and anything else that isn’t expense-free. I bit my tongue until it bled and answered his question before returning to my hatred, rekindled as always, at the worst time. << FICTION >> aS If

by Alban Goulden She touches her daughter’s cheek, warm, imag- ines blood fl ooding through legs, arms, head, up and down, it’s like a water pump or computer that “The body is as complex as any thought process we can have.” you depend on every day, every moment, but have —Édouard Lock no idea how it works in spite of diagrams or ex- planations from doctors. Or some of her relatives, the religious nuts sounding like drug pushers who s if it were that easy. A blind roll of the universe dice. keep babbling to her of “The Forgiving Holy Spir- Trashed Adidas (supposed to wear safety boots), bare hands it” at the party after the funeral, especially when A(supposed to wear work gloves), air of salt-fresh Fraser River she sees the look on their faces. Why haven’t these lifting hair (supposed to wear hard hat). And a leap without looking people disappeared from the world? onto raft of logs, grafter pole nonchalant above the head. Done a thou- The behaviour of most of the rest is more con- sand times. Today a bonus of taffy sun oozing across skyblue; new ventional: Johnny Walker, Molsons, and that cloy- towers and old slag buildings of New Westminster gleaming like they ing cloak of weed enfolding the young. belong together. At this party she sits in a chair in the corner. He never looks down because it’s always as easy as taking a breath. They think it is the grief about Rye. But she has to Except this once. Neimi calls out as Rye is mid-air between the tug concentrate all her energy on breathing: imagining and the raft. He hears every predictable thing Neimi says: “Hey, bal- him lurching, jerking, gulping water for air, his body lerina! Yer wife let you out tonight?” Half-turns, sees Neimi’s scraggly so angered at the change. His terror. She experi- head against the tug and the sunshine on New West, the background ences it over and over. But she can’t drink a bottle hill with its top evergreen chunk of Queen’s Park dark spires. And he of vodka or inhale a joint like the rest of them; that knows something. It bursts up from a place he had not before realized, would make tomorrow morning impossible. She a revelation, as his head turns slowly back across the bright river to the might as well go jump into the river with him. raft—a leisurely pan of sky/sun/blue/cedar—then down to the logs Which she has considered. beneath his feet and the gap between: water, dark and open between But her anger at Rye saves her; her body’s anger the logs. There. That’s where it is. will not allow the booze or the water in. And of The decision made, he alters everything, drops the grafter, lets go, course there’s Krystal. Do I love her enough? She disappears from the world of light. huddles in the corner where the two walls can pro- tect. Do I love anyone? She remembers the quote As if she should know. someone sent to her Facebook page: “A hug from Why. That’s what they all ask her—cops, media, relatives, the some- the right person can make just about anything time-friends, people at work. better.” At night Maureen sits in a chair in a corner of Krystal’s darkened And then there was the grasping feel of Ella her room, listening to her child sleep. Sometimes she creeps close to check sister, a few hours ago, before Ella fl ew back to Ot- on the breathing. They are supposed to keep breathing. tawa. They’d both cried, Ella gulping like a plump What she wants to explain to everyone is her confusion: how can seal, her warm tears running down Maureen’s there be death without a body so you can check on their breathing? cheek into her dress. Maureen had stiffened, fi ght-

26 ing an impulse to laugh. Ella had interpreted some kind of bug waving its feelers towards more convulsive grief and so grabbed harder. But him. Then his vision lurches forward. “Fuck!” he an indifference opened within Maureen. As if she swears. She laughs. The hard light fades. were watching a rehearsal for a drama in which Some moments later Rye has a dream. He’s she might be asked to act as if she could provide seated at a table playing cards. Maureen is deal- proof. Proof of what? My acting ability? ing, but there’s a guy beside her who points his She remembers Ella nine and herself five when fingers at a card she takes off the top of the deck her sister and mother had buried the rabbit. After to give to Rye. The man—his name is The Colo- Maureen’s racking sobs ceased, she’d looked out nel—raises one eyebrow, and she quickly puts the the window into the sky where her mother said card on the bottom of the deck and takes another Flopsy had gone—maniacal, seeking the cloud off the top. A haze of other players sit at the rest she now was. And Ella coming quietly behind her, of the table, but Rye knows they’re not important. whispering, “She was still alive, you know. When The guy next to Maureen keeps changing. One we buried her. Still... a... live.” moment he’s young, dark-haired, a trimmed black It crosses Maureen’s mind that she can get up, beard; then he’s elegant, grey-haired with one go to her daughter, and easily stop the life they wandering eye. Then he looks like the Canadian told her in the hospital she’d given (when the drugs Forces Colonel who turned out to be a rapist and began to fade they put the small bundle with the murderer. screwed up face in her arms). It’s easy to stop any- Rye turns up his cards. They’re blank. He puts body’s life. The blood, the skin, the silly brain, all his chips in anyway—$4 mil. The Colonel everything so fragile. Her leg moves forward to grins at him. “Can’t get hurt if you’re shot with get up; she grabs it. To do what? Am I mad? blanks,” he says, his eyebrow raised. Shivers. Rye would laugh. He has no time for imagination. He’s all about action. As if he were there. The next image is river morning. Mist drifts, As if it were possible. curls over the water; a rising sun burns it away. Not to let go. Ice fear as he drops from certainty He’s sitting on a rickety porch, blanket wrapped into panicked didn’t mean to! Horror love for the around him. Distant groan of waking container world above—Maureen, Krystal, anyone. Instead cargo machines; a spiritual exhaustion inside. now this despairing sink into the vicious dark. Cup of steaming tea in front of him: wisps of fra- Lungs almost empty, head jerks up to receding grant heat. Like a plant seeking light, he brings it square of light. The river carries him beneath, to his lips, feels the hot tang roll into his mouth away. Flailing legs, arms, spits out remaining air and down, spreading warmth. and becomes insane desire to live, upthrusting un- Rye looks up. A woman somehow very familiar, til open water between the rafts lets him through. grey streaks in her hair, drops into the chair op- Somehow into air. Sunlight. posite, takes a deep breath, and gazes at him. Her The very next thought he claws up a rocky bank eyes are full of experience, not hard but absorbing. in the painful light. Sees his hands shake as they Rye becomes nervous, gulps tea, and chokes. slick over wet dirt and rocks, but he can’t feel the She waits him out. When he can breathe normally shivers. There is a racking cough in his lungs. she says, “It’s not easy coming back to life, being Mind sinks away . . . born again. Time can slide. I know.” And wakes. “Neimi?” “What?” he croaks. There’s a scrabbling. He is aware of himself “I saw you out there,” she says, flicking her pulled roughly along in the slanting sunlight, head towards the river. “You didn’t slip. It wasn’t hears the laboured breathing of someone whose an accident. You just let go, dropped into it all on hard work this is. your own.” His possessor stops. He knows it’s a woman He puts the tea down on the porch. “I don’t even before she gasps: “You’re harder to haul than know what I did. Or why. I don’t feel like I decided a deadhead.” anything. It just came to me... happened. Some- The world seems broken into crystal facets: thing my body did.” hard-edged clarities. There’s a single shard of “Huh. Well that’s a big thing to do on the spur grass just inches from one eye. He notices a tiny of the moment.” She sighs and reaches over, sticks blotch curling the end of it. The blotch moves, out her hand. “My name’s Maureen.” Rye’s head comes up; he jerks back into the F A R

R chair, holds the blanket tight around him. “Oh, A N

T God,” he says. T

H

E “I admit it’s not the greatest name,” she half

W

O

R

L D laughs. “And I’m not even Irish. My Ukrainian

A F L

O

A parents thought Maureen was English. Desperate T

to blend in, eh.”

Rye looks up at the sky to turn his attention an- T A

L • miniatures • O N M. A. C. FA R R A N T other way. “Why am I here?” This time Maureen laughs. “Hah! You’ll have to figure that out for yourself, boyo. I’ve got work to F A R R

A do. No time for epistemology.” N

T “Huh?” Rye says. T

In The World Afloat, a collection of “Farrant has a H seventy-five irreverent and humorous lightness of touch, E

stories that meld narrative with and her writing is W

elements of prose poem and farce, not too charmed by O

master of the absurd and expert its own cleverness … R

observer M.A.C. Farrant interrupts at her best, it feels L everyday routine – daily rounds of as if she is getting D As if he never existed. doctor’s appointments, meetings, at the heart of A and mealtimes – with intensely something that F L surreal, frothy moments that help takes other writers O

keep chins up and thrust bravely much longer to lead A forward. As each “miniature” story us to.” T The thought is surprising to Maureen. She reads stranger (and truer) than the – Canadian Literature one before, Farrant coaxes her readers from their well-worn, earthbound “Challenging, narratives and into a world afloat on unnerving, satire, absurdity, and, in her most unforgettable …” tastes its strangeness. Grief at Rye’s death has be- brilliant moments, expansive joy. – Globe and Mail

ISBN: 978-0-88922-838-2 T come a black gulf between now and her past. A A

L $12.95 CAN / US O SHORT STORIES N gulf that’s growing. She can see this receding landscape break into coruscating light that fades into rerun convention: the night after their wed- Talonbooks Spring 2014 ding when he had tears in his eyes; the Thanks- The Talonbooks spring list features new poetry from Catriona giving Day Maureen’s father got drunk and cracked Strang, Nikki Reimer, Cecily Nicholson, and Natalie Simpson. one of Rye’s ribs and how Rye manoeuvred his We also have M.A.C. Farrant’s existential elixir, way through the cops just for her; the way he sat The World Afloat, and new books in translation inc;uding the with Krystal on his lap as they both stared at the hockey game on tv. (Krystal checking on Rye’s psycho-sexual thriller The Obese Christ, and Hélène Vachon’s open face that is like the face of a child too . . . death defying A Matter of Gravity. Plays by dramatic masters Krystal making sure she was doing the right thing, David Fennario, Joan MacLeod and Drew Hayden Taylor copying her dad’s cheering, swearing.) round out the list. And other memories: the way he would become a wild mad man during sex exactly when Mau- reen wanted him to; the way she caught Rye and her sister, a then still thin Ella, looking at each other when they didn’t know her understanding had knifed through—of course, they didn’t know she’d seen the email, airhead Ella babbling: “My feelings—temporarily crushed because I am not seen as realistic but a fantasist. Rye, you and I have greater communication of mind and soul than I ever experienced with anyone before, male or female . . . magnetism that creates stronger energies to deal with people. Maybe, Rye, that is not allowing you a true sense of what you feel . . . but I want to make me a stronger person, self-reliant and God-loving in the energies that soar from our creativity of spirit . . . .” Now all of it—especially Ella’s babbling—be- longs to someone else in some other place. There is a clean, clear emotional space around her, a kind of open field. It’s as if her body knows she can turn in any direction, go any way. It’s not that the other person—that other Maureen who used to be her—doesn’t still want him, miss him, not

28 flailing legs, arms, spits out remaining air and that the memories don’t make love and sentiment wash around her, but he is not at the centre of the becomes insane desire new Maureen. She’s not sure what should be there. to live, upthrusting until

As if he dreams he died in the river. Fierce currents pushing him down into dark- open water between the ness, bubbles trailing, the complete dread of knowing his body will make him die. But fi rst rafts lets him through. fi ghting it. Alone. Grey dark. Abandoned. Every- thing out of his control. “Mommy, help me!” he Just before they get underway, Sergeant Cam- opens his mouth. Sharp pain like a blow to his eron passes on an order from Lieutenant Goodrow chest. Then a cold warmth of pleasure, terrifying to send them ahead on point to check for the tell- because he knows it is the beginning of death. A tale signs of roadside mines: odd looking rises or cool light at the bottom of the river moving to- depressions, especially for anything hastily cov- wards him, implacable. ered with dirt, grass, or brush. “Hey!” a voice says, “McKinn. You’ll burn out Walking at the highway’s edge, he remembers your eyes facing the sun like that.” the rattlesnake at his uncle’s place on the prairie. He shudders awake. Sergeant Cameron is a It’s a hot day like this, but in the late afternoon the haloed shadow above him. young snake is out sunning on the gravel road, “Sorry, Sarge.” He sits up, spitting dust. The blended. Rye jogs in a far zone, fantasizing. Just squad is at the side of the road, Highway 1, right before he puts his foot down, he sees the snake in in the middle of “Ambush Alley.” To the south he his peripheral vision and hastily angles his foot can see the distant yellow-brown gleam of Riges- aside on the way down, watches his foot, an action tan. Country of sand, all right, he thinks, remem- beyond conscious decision, watches it come down bering the dust billowing convoys. North, Kanda- on the slight depression in the road. Of course, har is about an hour away. then it is too late for Pete. Sergeant Cameron ambles back to the armoured carrier. As if Maureen recognizes the wolf at her door. Bastion says in his ear, “That prick gonna hit a She bites her lip nervously, watching him sit in Terminator some time now.” the sun and stare at the river. He looks innocu- “Cameron’s okay,” he says. “Only reason you ous, vulnerable. But that’s always the case, isn’t it? don’t like him is because you’re such an asshole.” The vulnerable ones are the most dangerous. Like a “Me! ’E ’ave it for me, you can be sure ’bout dat, snake invisible in the road. The world lulls you into Pete.” thinking it’s a safe place until your lover, your child, He looks away into the dry, yellow-grey distance your corporate government, the voice in the whirl- of the land rising towards the north and east. wind suddenly demands: ‘What do you know? What Somewhere beyond Afghanistan are the Himala- can you do if we take it all away?’ yas. Cool snow. Lakes. Water rippling over rivers Thankfully, he’s a stranger now. Yet there’s of stone. Fantasies of the Rockies. something deathly familiar about him, as if her “Bastion, I don’t like you calling them Termi- body remembers why. Something that locks into nators. They’re just fucking roadside bombs, eh.” a place inside, a heartbreaking place where she is “Hah, Pete. I ask you again when you step on young and susceptible, long before the stone in ’im.” the graveyard—whose is it, really? A time, like “Ya, ya.” He pushes himself up through the hot now, when Rye suddenly appears and seems to be air, bends to pick up his rifl e, then twists swiftly the answer to every question about her future, but towards Bastion. “What did you call me?” God help her not her past. Bastion laughs. “I call you lot of tings, eh.” She shakes her grey-streaked hair; glad the “No, not that. You called me ‘Pete.’” child is at her mother’s and not here. What will Bastion gives him a strange look. “Oui, I call she do with this bizarre coincidence that can’t you Pete. C’est vrai.” possibly be, this new yet strangely familiar man? “Why? That’s my brother, he’s in—” My brother A man who would throw his life away to get it Pete is in Afghanistan. back. As she did. » << FICTION >> It Seems Like Sex Is A Weird Thing That Used To Happen To Me Sometimes

by Jon Paul Fiorentino

he truth is I was a very disturbed individu- to take your own life back in your hands instead al. I still am. But I am at peace with it now. of just taking it? If you’ve answered yes to at TNot too long after I began to experience all least two of these four questions, then you may of the panic attacks and all of the sadness attacks, be a suitable candidate for cognitive therapy!” I I signed up for a screening interview to ascertain thought about it and my answers were yes, no, whether or not I was a suitable candidate for cog- no and yes. Since I had answered yes to two or nitive therapy. more of these questions, I decided I should really My sadness was profound and it struck me call the number of the Twin Spirits Homeopathic at particular times. It had little to do with the Cognitive Therapy Centre for Wellness. The re- weather or whether I was alone, which of course, ceptionist said I was lucky—it turned out they I was. In fact, the sadness was acutely linked to had an open appointment the very next day! the observation of other people’s happiness. For As I strolled home that night, I looked up at instance, if I were on the bus and I were to see two the stars; the sky seemed to have been covered people laughing or enjoying each other’s com- with some sort of epiphanic spackling. The cool pany in any way, it would strike—as if all of the Montreal air was soothing and the evening sky heartbreak and depression and anxiety that ever reminded me of my bedroom when I was a child. existed was heaped upon my shoulders and, more I’d had glow-in-the-dark star stickers all over my accurately, my brain. I would imagine enjoying bedroom ceiling and when my mother would such moments with someone who surely does not turn out the light, I would stare at the astronomi- exist and never will. The thing about the sadness cally correct star field until all of the worries, was that it was too unpredictable, and yet way too embarrassments, and bruises of the day seemed predictably abject to bear. The task at hand was to inconsequential. Or less consequential. I guess distract myself, to immerse myself in new life ex- I’m trying to say that the night sky was soothing periences. I had to move away from a life of intro- that night. I got home, slid into my Buck Rogers spection and self-torture and move toward a life pajamas and tucked myself in after a brief Google of many interests, of even more experiences. But interlude in which I discovered some of the tenets I would need help. I was only one man. Still am. of cognitive therapy. My eyes closed as I dopily be- gan to formulate my responses to the questions I The flyer on the bulletin board said: “Are you de- was anticipating. pressed? Are you tired of taking antidepressants? It turned out that the Twin Spirits Homeopathic Do you want to take your own life? Are you ready Cognitive Therapy Centre for Wellness was located

30 I think to myself: well done, Steven. I am thirty-six years old. I’m diabetic, asthmatic, photosensitive, and wickedly depressed, but I have most of my hair and I have avoided hard drugs for the most part.

in the Royal Victoria Hospital’s psych ward. It was “Number two. At times I worry about . . .” a pristine and promising environment. I headed “This is not a true or false question is it? If it toward the nurses’ station and announced my ar- is, I suppose I would have to say true. I worry rival. A perky bee-hived nurse in a teal uniform about sharks. I know it’s irrational, being so far greeted me with what seemed like a forced smile away from sharks, as I am in the middle of the and gestured for me to sit down and so I did. A city. But defi nitely sharks. Real sharks and also striking teenage girl with glassy eyes shuffl ed by animatronic talking sharks. Also, I don’t want to in a hospital gown and smiled at me. I couldn’t be seen as needy. In fact I would say I need to ap- help but feel a sense of peculiar sadness. I won- pear that I’m not needy.” dered what mental affl iction she had. I wanted to “Mr. Marr, You didn’t let me fi nish the question.” ask but that seemed inelegant. Another patient, an “Oh, I am sorry. I do tend to ramble when I get older gentleman with long, wispy grey hair, shuf- nervous or aroused.” fl ed by. He sipped on a Diet Orange Crush through “OK. Number two, again. At times I worry about eight straws that had been crammed into the open- my mortality.” ing of his can. He offered me a sip and I declined. “False. Because there is no God. And if there After about half an hour, two thirty-something were a God, he would be mortal too, like that guy bearded men, one with a blue argyle sweater vest, in the Bible, Moses?” and the other with a light brown tweed blazer, ap- “Right. OK. Number three. I tend to ruminate proached me. about the past.” “Mr. Marr?” The man with the sweater vest “False. Although I must add that I regret never asked. having lived with anyone other than myself. But, “Yes.” recently, it occurred to me that I prefer to live “I’m Dr. Galloway and this is my associate, Dr. alone. I’m not saying that because I’m alone. I Scholl.” have just acquired a particular contentment with “Hello!” I said, in a tone entirely too enthusiastic. the company of my own thoughts, as demented I guess I was nervous. and disturbing as they may be. Also, I’m not sure “Please. Come with us.” if what I just said about my preference and con- tentment is true.” The room was completely unfurnished and com- “Number four. Nasty names naturally hurt pletely white. There were three chairs. Two were people.” quite nice: expensive rolling and swiveling offi ce “False. Except for words like fucking asshole chairs that looked like they provided more than and fucking fuckface and fucking cunt and so adequate lumbar support. The third was a simple forth. Those words can sting.” old wooden chair. I was ushered to the wooden “Number five. Most impulses should be chair, facing my two inquisitors. I thought it squelched.” would have been a nice gesture, as I was techni- “True. However, I just had the strangest desire cally the guest, for them to offer me one of the to get my hair cut in a Wal-Mart and so you know comfi er chairs. But alas. what I did? I went and got a haircut in a Wal-Mart. The questions began: No joke. Can you imagine? I wish my mom were “Please answer with a ‘true’ or ‘false’ to the fol- alive to see that shit go down! But I guess, in the lowing statements, Mr. Marr,” Sweater Vest said. end, I don’t know what the real point of giving “Number one. Others make me angry.” into one’s impulses is. It turns out that life is a “They most certainly do! But only grown-ups swirling vortex of despair. But the new ikea cata- and cruel people. I have nothing against the kind- logue looks promising!” hearted, children or the child-like. They are the “Number six. I have some fl aws right now that inheritors of the Earth! I think that’s in the Book I could stand to fi x.” of Mormon.” “True. But you know what? When I look in the When I mirror, that is to say, when I look at myself in the versation between myself and you and your col- mirror, I think to myself: well done, Steven. I am league! I hope to have many more of these con- don’t get thirty-six years old. I’m diabetic, asthmatic, pho- versations in the very near future! And I meant tosensitive, and wickedly depressed, but I have to say, by the way, that you looked very fetching in most of my hair and I have avoided hard drugs for that sweater!” sex the most part. Oh and by the way, diabetes is just “Yes, well. Thanks for that. However, based on one of an astonishing number of things I have in our screening interview, it has been determined I get very common with Howard Hughes!” that you are not a suitable candidate for our cogni- unhappy. “Number seven. It is healthy to revisit your tive therapy program.” youth on a frequent basis.” “But,” I said, “but . . . I’m sad.” And I have “False. Although I was watching the movie “I am sorry, Mr. Marr.” to admit Teen Wolf recently and it occurred to me, and stay Since I was deemed to be an unsuitable candi- with me here: Teen Wolf is actually a metaphor for date for cognitive therapy (which, by the way, is to- I am in a puberty.” I paused to gauge their response to this tal fucking bullshit), I went to the Metro Montreal bit of a epiphany but they remained stone-faced. They Medical Walk-in Clinic of Medicine in order to were either true professionals or truly clueless. speak to a doctor about my lingering depression. dry spell. “Do you guys know what a metaphor is?” It was only a walk-in clinic, but these practitioners “Yes, Mr. Marr. Let’s move on, shall we? Num- had surely taken the same oath of Hippocrates as ber eight. When I don’t get what I want, I often all doctors must! get unhappy.” Dr. Marwhani was a frail man with kind eyes. “True. Especially sex. When I don’t get sex I get He asked me to pop off my shirt and take a seat on very unhappy. And I have to admit I am in a bit of the examination table. a dry spell. Fourteen years. So I guess you could “You are a very fat man,” Dr. Marwhani said. 14 say that I have been often unhappy in the last “Yes sir, I’m a little overweight. Mildly over- fourteen years. It seems like sex is a weird thing weight.” that used to happen to me sometimes.” Dr. Marwhani cackled. “Oh! Please! My father years “Number nine. I would like to fall in love and is called sir! But my father is dead, so yes, indeed, share my life with someone.” call me sir. Or doctor. In any event, show me “True. Oh, very true. Falling in love can make some respect!” you do strange things like brushing your teeth or “Yes, Doctor.” showering. And I would love an excuse to mans- “You need to eat much, much less.” cape. Like, to truly manscape. As it stands right “Yes, Doctor. But you see, my problem, I feel, is now, I have no real reason to trim my pubic hair not primarily my weight.” into fun and amusing shapes. Also, I feel like my “Hmm. Well it is no asset!” sense of humour could really wake a slumbering “Right. Well I came here to see if you could do lady from her slumber!” something for my sadness.” “And finally, number ten. My symptoms are the “Your sadness?” result of how I have conducted my life.” “You see . . . I have not been with a sexual part- “False. I drink a litre of gin a day. And, at first, I ner of any sort for fourteen years and . . .” thought the gin was sort of making me crazy. But “Well, I can understand that. It seems dubious I truly believe that what is making me crazy is my for a girl or sexual partner of any sort (as you put psychosis. My craziness, if you will.” it) to fall for such an unattractive emotional eater. Perhaps you should stop thinking about it.” At 3:17 pm the next afternoon, my olive green ro- Finally, I snapped. Just a little. “Doctor. Could tary dial vintage telephone rang. I skipped into you please lay off the weight comments? They are the kitchen and answered somewhat cheerfully, hurting my feelings and making me angry. I’m expectantly. here for antidepressants. I want strong antide- “Hello?” pressants. The strongest you have.” “Yes? Mr. Marr?” The voice said. “Fine. Here’s what I will do. What’s your name?” “Yes. Speaking. Thank you. How are you?” Dr. Marwhani looked down at his patient file. “Fine, thanks. This is Dr. Galloway from the “Steven Marr. OK, Steven, I will take you on as my Department of Psychiatry at the Royal Vic.” personal project. Do you have a family doctor?” “Yes! Dr. Galloway! I really enjoyed the con- “No.”

32 “You do now. It is me. Dr. Marwhani. I am your a different pitch to reality now. It was as though family doctor now.” He began to scrawl on a pre- there was a vise tightening on my skull. It was as scription pad. “Here is a prescription for six months though God himself had taken two of his godly of Citalopram. And another for six months of fingers and pinched my temples and just held on, Clonazepam. Come see me in six months on the guiding me through this oddly patterned exis- nose. You will be a healthier person if you use tence. I felt like God’s action figure. It felt urgent these drugs to cure your sadness instead of always yet pleasant and very real. More real than any using pizza.” Dr. Marwhani handed the prescrip- dream of realness I have ever known! I felt that tion to me and then quickly snatched it back. I was amused and touched more than I ever had “Also, let me add a six-month supply of Finaste- been and often by very simple things which were ride. It’s for prostate health, but if you section the becoming stunningly beautiful, like chipmunks pill into quarters, you can use it to regrow hair! eating out of Doritos bags, or homeless men mas- On your head! Isn’t it delightful that the future is turbating daintily behind very large, regal trees now? With luck, in six months, you will no longer with weeping branches. I was growing accus- be balding or obese! Then we will possibly see tomed to this new pressure that was being applied about getting you some sex with a brand new lady to my head and the small joys that accompanied where you wouldn’t even have to pay!” it. It all felt right. Something very new and excit- I smiled a thankful smile and left the office and ing was happening to me. I discovered that I had headed straight to the pharmacy. a desire to try new things; I discovered that I had the ability to follow through. And that’s when I The first week of reuptaking was an adventure took up competitive eating. » in the surreal. I trudged through my routines, soy coffee stops, bookstore perusals. There was

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“Fans of satirical fiction will love this.” “Kathy Page is a massive talent” “...with brass balls, and a heart of gold.” — National Post — Barbara Gowdy — Jonathan Evison www.biblioasis.com << FICTION >>

SlEEp ON

by Caroline Szpak

wo weeks later, Bridget still sleeps on a tat- The only time she and Bridget spoke was in the tered line of blood. The brown scarps of it laundry room. The girl fl ipped through her wal- Tspattered on the bedsheets in the shape of a let as she waited for her cycle to end. Before she steep hill, sloping towards the wall. Blunt glass had said anything, she pulled all her bills out—fan- damaged a nerve in her middle fi nger—she can’t ning them at her chest as if synchronizing a fl eet feel anything there at all, except when she reaches of swimmers in her hands, and started going on for something, hand fl exing, and the wound on the about paper money being all different colours, joint snaps open like the jaw of some scabby dog how she recognized a bill by its colour alone and about to bite down. Then the pain shoots through never by the face printed on it. everything at once, and she can do nothing but Bridget asked if she was from here, and the girl bend in half and clench to become numb again, said, “No. I came on an overnight bus. I’ve been the bandage fraying like an old pulse from the following the new math.” Bridget didn’t know curve of her hand. what that meant but started to think of equa- Hours ago, the heat creaked back in through tions and limbs poking out from water at right the pipes after weeks of broken chill. Things have angles—let cause equal x. started to slip from her grip because of the sweat. The timer blasted like a foghorn and the girl Kitchen utensils thud against the carpet, a few bent at the waist to yank out her soggy load, soft bumps at her bare feet until the motion stops the bundle dripping against her stomach. Her under her gaze. clothes were the colour of wet sand, thick sodden She draws an angular face on the steam cling- materials like waterlogged bodies washed up on ing to the bathroom mirror. It remains name- a beach—she could have been cradling a soldier, less—pain jolts through her hand before she’s facedown in Normandy, Operation Overload. Af- able to recognize its features. Bridget decides to ter this run-in, Bridget heard her singing about leave her bathrobe on for the evening. chain gangs through the wall. She was sure the The bottom lids of her eyes are lifting, thinning girl made the words up as she went along. She the room as the freckled girl next door lets out the was sure she sang them to herself. fi nal squeaks of an hour-long cry. The yelps are Bras are draped all over Bridget’s room—on muffl ed but amplifi ed, as if her mouth was fl at- the backs and arms of wing-backed chairs, the tened right up against the other side of the wall. worn corner of Saka Chandni Chowk—a Punjabi She can chew her way through. opera record she couldn’t have listened to more

34 sleep on a Tap, Tap-Tap ON ThE dOOr. than twice. Side one is drum-heavy, each song one arm and swings the other around the room starting with strings on the verge of screeching, behind her. “Nothing.” The arm swoops back then a man says something measured before the down to her thigh where it fl aps like a dead end. woman comes in with her high octaves. Though She’s still stiff from the electric shock though sometimes the men strive to join her up there in there’s no coursing anywhere in her body. the height of her cries. The front of the album has “Oh,” the girl says. “Oh. So.” Copper earrings a bare-chested man with murky brows lifting a swing from her lobes. Peeling traces of silver curl wide sword above his head. He’s about to swing out like stunted ribbons. Traces that probably down, and people are carrying the heads of other used to cover the whole thing—plated. people. This makes Bridget think they’re singing “So,” Bridget tries. about battle. “You’ve been listening to me cry. I can tell. The kettle, yellowed from heat or exposure, is There’s a very practical look to your face.” quiet on the counter. Its low, round form satu- “It’s diffi cult not to hear everything you do rated like the molting fur of prey in spring. It’s when the walls are so thin.” plugged in for tea but isn’t getting anywhere. The elevator dings open at the end of the hall. It Bridget pinches the fi ngers of her good hand makes a deep rumble when the door slides closed. against the cord at the kettle’s base. Its sides are Bridget cinches her robe until the sash digs into cold as when the water fi rst entered it. She pinch- her stomach, so tight she’d be able to make out es hard to wake it up, and an electric surge shoots each organ if she gave herself the chance. through her index fi nger, coursing up her arm “I’m headed to a funeral,” the girl says. and over the top of her brain. She rips her hand Bridget’s hidden leg shifts behind the door. away and the backs of her eyes are still. “Oh,” she says, “I’m sorry to hear that.” A tap, tap-tap on the door. Sounds like the stiff “He’s in another place.” Something clinks. tip of a fi ngernail. She turns to answer it, head Bridget looks down to the girl’s fi ngertips. A frozen like a buried seed on her neck and there’s metal chain trails down from them, brushing another tap-tap and a sudden itch from some- the fl oor. It’s slipping slightly, like an escape knot where on her throat. It’s impossible to tell where lowered from a window. the itch is coming from—on or under her skin— The girl’s hands spread beyond the outline of so she doesn’t scratch as she shuffl es towards the her body to display the metal—a necklace. Ex- pause in sound. tended, the chain forms a V and the girl’s lips She hadn’t locked the door. Bridget squints at stretch out for victory. the red-lettered In Case of Fire sticker and turns “It’s a Persian one-and-a-half,” she says. “These the knob, pulls the door into her shoulder so only things are named after the way the rings link up.” part of her shows. The freckled girl from next The way the rings link up looks entirely illogi- door stands there with her hands clasped at her cal. Bridget can’t make sense of the pattern. The groin, out-turned arms draped fl awlessly over her whole mess has the effect of a gnarled beard. breasts. She looks at Bridget through a red-tart She has an urge to pet the thing, or unravel it. glaze. A bulky black purse juts out behind her “It’s very—textured,” she says. Soft, pliable metal shoulder like a wing missing its partner. Bridget coiled in on itself. squints again to thin her out. The top of her head The girl brings the two ends of the necklace up is the fi rst thing to go missing. until they meet. Surprisingly, nothing tangles. “So,” the girl says. Her black-collared shirt is Though it may be impossible for the thing to tan- rumpled—it looks slept in; a thick line of dust cov- gle more than it already seems to be. “The latch ers her arm. “So. Haven’t seen you in the laundry is a bit of a hack job, but I’m still burying him room lately.” There’s something shut and soapy with it. I can’t not.” Her arms fall below her chest, about her face when it moves. It looks washed out, elbows bent like the caving roof of some rundown diligent as steel wool. tourist stop. She drops the chain into the bottom- “No. I haven’t really been sleeping enough less purse, each link clinking upon another on its these days to get any washing done.” way down. “Oh. So, what’s happening in here?” “Why not?” Bridget steps back, holds the door open with “I can’t not. It took him fi ve months to make.

36 SOuNdS lIkE ThE STIff TIp Of a fINGErNaIl.

All this care. Each coil clamped and cut individu- into the main room of the bachelor. The light here ally. Can I come in?” is dimmer. The girl’s shoulder buckles and her ShE There’s dust around the girl’s breath that stops purse slides down her arm. Her wrist fl ips up, the TurNS TO short when she speaks so it doesn’t really cloud purse bumping against the barrier, its sway jag- anything but her face. It may just be the stuffy ged at her hip. aNSwEr IT, hallway, but her mouth is attracting some kind When Bridget asks for the girl’s name, her voice hEad of particle. She’s looking at the top of Bridget’s is peeling tape. The girl tells Bridget her name is ear, and when she steps forward, she’s still look- Deirdre and Bridget gives her own. That’s when frOZEN ing at it. they discover they were both raised Catholic, and lIkE a Bridget feels the weight in her legs when she Irish, and that Bridget must have the Moors in her steps back—a horse with a full carriage at its because her hair is so dark, while Deirdre’s burns burIEd haunches. She doesn’t know what her backing so classically red. Bridget lets out that her own SEEd up means—a cue for the girl to step inside, or if name always makes her think of brides, which she was just going to give herself enough room to is strange, as she’s been celibate for almost two ON hEr close the door—but the girl steps in. years and Deirdre says she understands the asso- NECk As she walks past Bridget, the girl starts to ciation, but Bridget’s name means strength. She sway like a tissue held to a trumpeting nose. tells Bridget she used to read a lot of name books, aNd Her motions get thin and subtle. She stops at the back when she ironed her hair and thought she ThErE’S hall closet, turns to the light coming through its might want to have something small as a child as wooden slats. Bridget stares along with the girl. soon as possible. aNOThEr You can’t really make out what, exactly, is behind “I’m like a retaining wall for names,” she says Tap-Tap that door, but can tell much of it’s piled in disor- as she drops into the pink chair with a bra slung dered clumps below. over its wing. She doesn’t look at the cups, though aNd a “The closet in my place is painted. White metal— they hang right over her head. The black purse is SuddEN no light comes through. I know this kind, though,” in her lap, and she opens it. Her whole arm disap- the girl says. “I used to live here, before I moved pears into its mouth and shuffl es around until it ITCh frOm into my suite. It’s much bigger.” stiffens and pulls out a green bottle containing a SOmEwhErE “It gives a good, warm glow to the room,” magnum of wine. She can hardly wrap her hand Bridget says. around it, but sets the bottle on the coffee table ON hEr “Just like those red bills, remember?” in front of her and the same arm reaches into the ThrOaT. “You didn’t just mention red ones.” purse again, this time pulling out a metal cork- “It’s that red of the fi fty. Stumps the sun.” screw that she stabs hard into the cork. Bridget wants to tell the girl she’s said all this “I need a glass,” she says, when the thing pops out. before, instead she lays two fi ngers on her arm, Bridget steps into the kitchen, bare feet sticky latches her thumb to its underside and pinches as against the linoleum, and Deirdre calls out that if she were testing a new formation on a beach—a she better fetch two. When she returns, a glass in shell, a rock, a shell-covered rock. The girl’s arm either hand, Deirdre is tilting the whole bottle is a knot, but Bridget can tell it was that way long into her mouth, looking at Bridget from the cor- before she touched it. Below the dust, the weave ners of her straining eyes. The liquid slides down on her shirt seems brittle, tight, pursed hard as a her throat, bulging up the front of her neck like the whistling lip. It feels so good to grip, put calculat- back of a cautious dog. She sets the glasses down ed pressure on the wound in her hand, like tying in front of them and Deirdre pours wine into both a string to the base of a tooth about to be torn out with the fi nesse of an expert diver—not a drop of by the slam of a door. backsplash. The amounts are perfectly equal. She Bridget lifts her fi ngers, leans in to look for the pinches the stem, handing the goblet over. Peer- pattern of her prints. There’s nothing but a cav- ing down, Bridget sees a glassy outline of her own ity of space—disturbed dust enclosing the fi nger- face in the red murk and asks who died. sized emptiness. It’s diffi cult to tell what Deirdre’s looking at but Somehow, the girl understands the quick touch it’s not at Bridget. Maybe she’s trying to see her- and looks straight ahead. Then her steps follow self, in the mirror with the yellow jalopy painted her eyes and she walks past the hall and turns on it. Her head titled high as a refl ection would take. Deirdre plants both elbows on either arm- to the front. Bridget looks for rust but all she fi nds ExpOSEd rest at the same time. Her hair spurts past the is more and more brilliant shine. kNEES sides of the chair like a lawn infestation. Bridget “Actually, that’s about all she said to me. Other sits on the settee kitty-corner to Deirdre and tells than that she knew who I was and never wanted quIvErING her she’s sorry, she shouldn’t have asked. to see me again. Imagine when the will was read IN ThE “No,” she says, “you think I would’ve come here out. We’re both going to have to imagine it togeth- if I didn’t want you asking?” er, as I wasn’t there. I got him.” brEEZE lIkE Bridget takes a mouthful of drink that stops her “What’s that box for?” EGGShEllS breath for long enough to catch up. “I don’t know “He’s in here.” why you came here in the fi rst place.” Deirdre swirls her wine and her hair undulates pOISEd “It’s my lover.” like seething marination, simmering from the bot- abOvE ThE “You came here because of your lover?” tom up. She swirls the glass in the other direction “Yes,” Deirdre says, “because he’s dead.” and the hair settles back onto her shoulders. The EdGE Of “You came here because he’s dead?” stillness releases the reek of soft, oiled carrots. a bOwl Deirdre makes the sign of the cross and it dawns “In there?” like bricks that Deirdre must remember a lot more “He’s in this box. This is his urn.” of her childhood than she does. One hard surface The box has the shine of a bleached knife. The after another: kneeling, standing, sitting. The kind of shine Bridget would try to catch glimpses cross paraded in, the cross paraded out. Avoiding of her refl ection in throughout the day, just to make the priest’s dry, extended hand when she passed sure there was enough gleam to throw her back to him to the light on the other side of the door’s sul- herself. The dust from Deirdre’s mouth starts to len, engraved weight. Exposed knees quivering in settle around it and the lustre fades. She exhales the breeze like eggshells poised above the edge again and the urn’s square shape perches as if it’s of a bowl. But that’s about it. She can’t even re- about to lift off in a cloud, hover above the table, member the smell of that many candles together the tops of their heads, their very different hair. in their many rows, but can see them all there— Bridget yanks the side of her bathrobe to cover each white pillar melting with a different prayer. her crossed thighs. Everything on Deirdre becomes muted fl y wings “Why would you want me to ask about it? Why except her mouth—she takes another two sips of would you bring that thing in here?” wine before she sets the glass down and unzips “I got him. It was in his will.” her purse. The same arm as before reaches in. A seagull glides past the window. Its out- “Looks like you’re digging in the mouth of Go- stretched wings and belly lit underneath by the morrah.” Bridget approximates a couple of match- white glow of the insurance sign on the next ing swigs. block. Bridget watches it soar and waits for it to “I came here because my lover’s dead and I need- make a sound until it’s out of sight. They rarely ed you to ask about it.” Her arm stiffens and pulls cry at night, not in this neighbourhood. out a metal box with a protruding gold anchor on “Deirdre?” one of its sides—some kind of nautical relief. “He asked me what I thought of the clasp on the Bridget asks her what it is. Persian and I told him it works. I said, it works.” “He died at sea.” She eyes the box. “Should’ve told him it was hack, “What’s that box?” because he died later that day. The same day he “He washed up where the mud was soft. He gave it to me.” was sinking into it by the time they found him. “Why is that thing sitting on my table, Deirdre?” No one knows exactly how this happened. The Deirdre tops her own glass. Wine spatters the waters were so calm that day. His wife told me sides of the goblet on its way down. Bridget wants he usually wore a lifejacket, so the drowning was to plunge inside, see if she could get red enough strange. But I already knew that. He always wore to capsize. a life jacket and his wearing the thing was strange “What’s that thing doing here?” for a man with his kind of boat—not many do. Deirdre swings her arms to top the other glass. Not if there’s a motor. I knew all that stuff. That Bridget lifts it to her face before she gets the wasn’t why I was fucking him.” chance. The bottle circles sharp until it plunks There’s a chain wrapped around the anchor on back on the table. the box. It weaves behind, then fi nds its way back “You know, when he said he wanted to move in

38 with me all I could think of was how many coat “Leaving it? What? I never knew him. I don’t hangers he’d bring into the place? What about even know who he is. Why would I want him?” room? It’s a type of music. The hangers make a “He was a local man. They showed his body on tv. clink whenever you reach for something.” Deirdre No one mentioned me. Fucking me in that corner tilts her glass at Bridget, the liquid slopes towards there was fi ne.” Holding the box to her chest pre- her like a tongue. “My clothes starting to smell vents her from pointing in any specifi c direction. like his, his clothes starting to smell like mine. Bridget looks at the unmade bed, the exposed Always wondered how long something like that blood, the spattered covers trailing down to the would take. How long it’d take to become a kind fl oor. She pictures the box left behind in the mid- of appendage. Then breathing would be a trick.” dle of the room, its metal shining harder than She sets her glass down. “You know, facedown in a stove, refl ecting all sides of the room and ev- the mud with a life jacket that’s no help at all.” ery little thing in it. A point when the box itself Jesus Camp in a Cold War summer. The bunk becomes all the broken heat and stains that the rooms had those hangers that are closed off with room can ever give back. an infi nite loop—you can’t take them off the rod “This is where I lived when he fi rst met me. I unless you tear the whole thing down. That would was terribly isolated then. This is where we fi rst take a lot of force. New math, it’s applicable. You slept together. This is what he wanted—to stay could really use a good diagram of an infi nite loop here, sleep on. Keep him here. I’m leaving the in times of war. chain with it. You decide how to arrange the two The metal box stands its ground. It seems bolt- together.” » ed to the table. Deirdre asks what happened to her hand. Bridget tells her the heat in the apartment was broken and she was sitting on the fl oor at the << POETRY >> coffee table, holding an empty mug, rent money stacked in front of her, hair pulled back like a bab- ysitter’s. The cold fusing the cup to her hand in a slow enough way that she thought the glass would persimmon imprint and never leave her. So she smashed the thing on the edge of the table, and it shattered. One of the larger shards sliced through the un- by Emily Davidson derside of her fi nger. She tells Deirdre she’s never bled like that before. She bled right through the white shirt she wrapped her hand in. in No Frills, a little girl “When I lifted my hand to see, the blood ran has learned the word persimmon down and coated my arm as if I’d dunked the and practices near the potatoes thing in a bucket of paint.” “Or glued a stack of fi fties on it.” persimmon, persimmon, persimmon The stained shirt is bunched like the fallen, desiccated remains of a tightrope walker under her mother buys the fruit the table they sit around. Let red equal red. to try at home Bridget swigs her dregs and sets the goblet down to wait for the swing of Deirdre’s arm. She at home, a sparrow presses her hand against the glass, and there’s has come in through the open window nothing. “I can’t feel my fi nger.” and beats its wings against the glass Deirdre places a fl at palm on either side of the box, as if the metal was between a prayer—inter- chirping rapid-fi re cepting, or conducting it. She lifts it as she stands. sweet, sweet, sweet “To Deirdre Avery, my last love, I will my urn, and the cremated remains therein.” She looks down the persimmon is split into quarters at the box in her hands. “It’s like he knew he was the sparrow escapes under the sash going to die.” Her head turns to scan the room. Her body doesn’t move. “I’ll be leaving this here.” << POETRY >> I read the news

by Philip Quinn

About a lucky man who thirty-two years ago Waited outside the Dakota, pumped four hollow-point bullets Into the victim’s strange boyfriend, charged with fi rst-degree celebrity

The who neuter rising, sorry so sorry Suri cruise missile homing in holmes kills in Colorado theatre bill at midnight grisly slaying a domestic crime. Is the Canadian economy in trouble? Former neuroscience student put under microscope in courtroom

The killer of ex-Beatle John Lennon says he used hollow point bullets to shoot the singer “because he was very famous something that would keep me alive and boost me,” Mark David Chapman told the parole board in his most recent bid to be released. “society just geared toward celebrity like crazy.” The reason for the crime, according to Chapman: “Attention, bottom line.” “Fame is ridiculous. It holds no value.” California moves closer to banning ‘gay cure’ therapy Baby bobcat injured by fi re recuperating at wildlife shelter Two men reunite with wayward boat Queen Bee that washed up in Spain Veterans rely on patchwork safety net during hard fi nancial times Armed customer shoots dollar store robber, killing him Preserved body of dmitri Isaac’s storm surge 250 million of tom’s money, no prenup, no entitlement to Slithered body parts, the Qi and hua still missing, an elaborate hoax The pieces of a machine to dupe humans (on the other side of the screen realtalking Siri)

40 today oh boy

news of the arrest spread Monday, more details of Liu’s mysterious life revealed in interviews “It was a very selfi sh act and I deeply regret it,” Chapman told the parole board. “I’m sure suri (will understand) [for] my crime.” police, poultice george-zimmerman, bobby-zimmerman, politics, los-angeles, close to true AI, et all, than we possibly programmed to think The innocent always in opposition Latent holmeys, it’s not impossible to think a major actor so thoroughly gay He said he also considered targeting television host Johnny Carson and movie star George C. Scott. But Lennon more famous, computers missing something says roger penrose, can’t exactly say what they’re missing

Waited outside the Dakota, travelled all the way from Hawaii Carried Catcher in the Rye Record-breaking Giant Burmese Python Caught In The Florida Everglades the celebrity of of Forget Me Not holistic spa 4,000 killed in monthly installments in Syria The neuroscience of murder, the rampage of chess, and remains found in the Credit River Kasparov found not guilty Conversations to kill people The celebrity tom kat conscious robots Drifter who skinned cat, wore its tail sentenced to two years in prison << NON-FICTION >> ChaNCE or “you probably won’t believe this, but . . .”

by Jim Christy was at the Y working out and got talking to a woman from Riga, Latvia. I told her I had a friend from Riga and that her mother was I a popular writer named Aina Zemdega. She had read some of Zem- dega’s poetry. When I got home, I had an email from Michael Mirolla. We’d been trying to set up a meeting for the following week. I told him Monday morning was good for me. He had replied, saying he would be jet-lagged Monday morning because he was fl ying in from Riga, Latvia. The very next email was from Brian Kaufman at subTerrain magazine, who wrote, “A guy who travels around like you do, you must have encoun- tered a coincidence or two along the line. Our spring issue . . .” Well, of course. And, of course, everyone’s life has been enlivened, or titillated, by chance and coincidence. The telephone rings just as you were going to call the one on the other end. An event like that, common to all, is a little bit of the marvelous dropped into the everyday. I even “I’vE collect clippings about other people’s coincidences. Here’s one, dated Saturday, 11 August, 2007: a man had been hit by lightning three days TakEN before, on Wednesday, the eighth; it was the second time it had happened to him; the other time he was hit by lightning was thirty-seven years ago Off, TOO,” to the day. While staying at a lodge in the Alps, Arthur Conan Doyle began to I SaId, write a story about several people being trapped in a similar hostelry in the mountains, how they grew to detest each other but couldn’t escape “buT NEvEr because of heavy snowfall. Later, he discovered that Guy du Maupassant had not only written a story exactly like that but had done so in the same laNdEd. hotel and in the very same room. My friend, the late Paul Murphy, told a story about fi nding his class whICh, ring from a high school in Montreal in a glass bowl on the bedside table of a Japanese woman he had met the night before in Tokyo while on leave COmE TO during the Korean War. It is my own good fortune to have had a close relationship with chance ThINk Of IT, and coincidence my entire life. In the early summer of 1968, I was stay- ing in Carbondale, Illinois under an assumed name. I had failed to re- may bE ThE port for induction into the armed forces but had not yet left for Canada; I couldn’t take off because I was needed as a character witness at the STOry Of murder trial of my best friend. While waiting to appear in court, I took a job, under one of my aliases, driving a delivery truck for the New Era my lIfE.” Dairy in the town of Edwardsville.

42 Twenty-fi ve years later while working in Peach- fi shermen or geologists into remote areas or not land, B.C. for Eddie Haymour, the only person to taking them, depending on how she felt that day. ever take a Canadian Embassy hostage, I met a Her name was Louise. fi lmmaker named Kevin Brown. He and his part- I told Louise about the bush pilots in Canada; ner had come to the Castle Haymour, a Middle I’d spent a lot of hours in the air in the Yukon Eastern themed hotel, with the intention of ob- and Northwest Territories. Although I didn’t have taining the rights to Haymour’s story. They gave a license, I’d fl own planes, including a couple of up after Haymour made outrageous demands and times during medical evacuation fl ights where insisted on a ridiculous sum of money up front. the pilot had been needed in the back. “I’ve taken Anyway, we had talked at length about fi lms and off, too,” I said, “but never landed. Which, come travel, and several weeks later, after I moved out of to think of it, may be the story of my life.” the Castle, Kevin, who is eight years younger than Louise told me I was a real joker. me, drove out from Vancouver to visit and we spent She was interested in conditions in the north- a weekend hanging out and becoming friends. west of Canada, and we compared the terrain to Kevin was born in England and raised in the the rugged south island. I told her I’d been along States. Before emigrating to Canada, his father the Mackenzie River and up to the Arctic Ocean taught at Southern Illinois at Carbondale in the and fl own through canyons made by sheer granite late 1960s. cliffs only a few metres, or so it seemed, from the “Was he there in 1968?” tips of the wings. We talked about pontoons and “Yes.” seat-of-the-pants fl ying and the drinks went down “And where did you live?” and time passed. At midnight, she informed me I somehow knew the answer. that she had to be out of the house at six and in “Edwardsville.” the air by seven to make a delivery at a lodge in He told me what part. the Abel Tasman National Forest. “There’s really “And did you get your milk delivered by a driver no point now in trying to sleep so I might as well for New Era Dairy?” stay up. You want to come back to my place and “Yeah, but that’s a weird thing to ask. Why do keep me company?” you want to know that and how the hell do you She was a smart and interesting woman, a know the name of the dairy?” good talker, and if she was twelve years older, as it “Because I was your milk man.” turned out, what did that matter? “Just think,” she said. “If I hadn’t gone into the In 1990 during a long trip through New Zea- pub tonight, and if you hadn’t. Chance brought us land, I landed in the town of Nelson, at the top of together. You know, a woman of a certain age, the south island. Nelson had only recently been around here, anyway, and I suspect most every- discovered by the trendy crowd; it was sophisticat- where else, has a hard time of it fi nding male ed yet relatively inexpensive. At the local cinema, companionship. At least, of an appealing sort. I was able to watch an Italian movie and drink a You have your rich older ones, of course. With glass of Italian wine. The Wearable Art Festival their bank accounts and their bellies and nothing had only just made it to television. on their minds. They only want to leave the house There were still old-fashioned pubs, however, to go to the golf course. And when they fi nd out where everything had a glow of old wood to it— what I do, they’re usually intimidated. Younger the mahogany of the bar refl ected in the glasses ones don’t want anything to do with a desiccated hanging above—and to one of these I repaired on old broad like me, even if I do have a penchant for my second night in town. drinking and fucking.” I sat at the bar and met this guy and after a few She asked me if I wanted to fl y into the park drinks began talking with a woman whom I guessed with her in the morning and I said that I did. to be at least ten years older than me, who looked She was all business going over the plane mak- like she sat in the sun a lot, smoking all the while. ing her checks, didn’t say a word as she tested the She asked me what I did and I asked her what she controls, all business as she took off and leveled did. She was a pilot, self-employed; the owner of out. When she was done all that she looked at me two planes. She never lacked for work; with the and smiled, big white teeth and pale blue eyes exception of a few weekly or monthly contracts, framed by headphones. It was too loud to talk. she was able to fl y whenever she wished, taking Louise put a hand on my leg and squeezed, then returned her hand, dark with prominent veins, to and for an hour crept along the surface of a lake the stick. until we came to shore where a pickup truck was We came down low over a bush of tea trees and waiting at the end of a dirt road. The lake lived giant ferns that gave way to a golden beach. She only when the tide was in. You could get across it in made a sweep over the water and turned back to a flat-bottom boat, as we had done, or in a canoe bring the plane down on a grass strip cut out of but when the tide was out, it was all just an ex- the bush. There were some people from the lodge panse of impassable mud. We unloaded the truck to meet the plane. On the ground, I helped the and loaded the barge and made our way back. men, two Maori and a pakeha, unload boxes from The night before I left the lodge, Frank and I the hold. stayed up ’til the wee hours, sitting at a table snug “Got an all right fellow here, wants to stay in among the fern trees, drinking beer. Toward the one of your rooms,” she told the white man who end of the night, he told me about his two tours was the manager of the lodge. “I tried to warn working construction in Antarctica. “This last him but he insists.” contract ended with me getting fired. About five They had a laugh about that and then she shook months ago. I was working in the American quar- my hand and climbed back into the plane. I sat in ter and the Americans have a no-drinking policy. the back of a Toyota pickup with the packages and Well this one night I went and had dinner with watched the plane take off as we drove away. some Italian friends over in their area. Naturally, The lodge manager—a compact man in his being Italians, they served wine with dinner. I thirties with short blond hair and a ridge of bone didn’t think anything of it but when I got back to across the base of his brow—and I got along well base camp one of the bosses smelled the wine on and when I mentioned writing for magazines, he my breath and sent me packing. Literally. I was on let me stay in a little cottage without paying. One the plane to Christchurch the next day.” afternoon I went with him to his own place that I commiserated with him. It was pretty small- was away from the lodge property, a bigger cot- minded of the Americans and he was losing all tage hanging over a bluff looking down on the that good pay over a couple of glasses of wine. sea. A spectacular spot. We sat in hammocks and “Yeah, but that’s not the bad part. What really drank tequila, talked about Canada and New Zea- hurts is that I had fallen for this woman. Fallen land, about travel. He never felt the need to do any hard. I mean, I loved her, man. She was the one. traveling, and when I asked why, he stretched out She’s a Kiwi but I never asked her where her an arm and gestured towards the cove below and hometown was or anything like that. We just met the sea beyond, as if introducing his beloved host. two days before I was shipped out. I don’t even On the second day I went to fetch supplies with know her last name. It broke my damned heart, I the manager and three other men, the two Mao- can tell you that.” ris that had met the plane and another fellow, a The next day after breakfast, I said my good- pakeha without a New Zealand accent, a tall lanky byes, thanked the manager, shook hands with the guy with a handlebar moustache. I took him for Maoris and wished Frank the best of luck, told a Canadian. him that something might happen and he might “No, I’m from California originally. But I’ve been meet the woman again. Hollow words, just trying in Canada. In British Columbia, working in log- to be polite, sympathetic. ging camps north of a place called Powell River.” I had a great hour-walk out of the bush, along “I live just south of there on the Sunshine a trail through the tea trees. The first part was Coast, in Gibsons.” spent climbing a rise at the top of which I saw the “No kidding. I’ve been to Gibsons plenty of golden beaches and the blue green sea. For the times. Been drinking at the pub there. Forget next half hour, I had that vista before me. Finally what it’s called.” I emerged on the beach. My instructions were to “Gramma’s.” head right and to keep walking until I came to the “That’s it.” third bay. It’s there I could catch a small passen- His name was Frank Chance. When he first told ger boat that would take me to a village and the me his name, I asked after Tinker and Ever, but bus to Nelson. he just looked for a moment before saying, “Huh?” It took nearly half an hour to cross the first We all climbed onto a flat-bottom boat, like a beach, and I saw no one. It was all very beautiful small barge, powered by a small inboard motor and perfect. Reaching the second cove, I was able

44 to make out a fi gure coming my way. After several trail; it leads to a lodge. It’ll take you an hour or minutes, I saw that it was a woman. Five more so. There you’ll see Frank. He works there. Frank minutes and I saw that she was wearing a bikini Chance.” and had long brown hair. By the time we met up, She stood perfectly still. I was a little worried. we were both smiling like old friends. She hadn’t “Give him a note for me.” seen another person all morning, she said. I tore a page out of my pocket notebook, and The woman was a New Zealander and on R-n-R scrawled, Frank: told you something might happen. after a four-month stint working in a lab in Ant- Jim arctica. She took the note and remained looking at me “Are you having a good time?” for another long moment before turning her back “Well, yes and no. Awhile ago down there I met to me. She put the note inside her bikini bottom this guy and fell for him. Fell really hard but he and began running down the beach toward the disappeared. He was with the American camp but trail and the lodge and her Frank Chance. when I went there no one could tell me anything I continued on my way and caught my boat and about him. Just that he was gone. It felt very strange, went back to Nelson. him just disappearing like that. He left a vacuum. I wish I could have been there when she and When I was there it was bad enough but I was stuck Frank saw each other. Often I try to picture the in Antarctica and I accepted that. But now being woman wandering onto the grounds of the lodge away from there, being outside, well, I know it’s a in her bikini and Frank looking up from where he big world but, still, he’s in it somewhere.” was sawing boards. People use that expression about a chill run- I hope they’re still together and that they tell ning through them, and whenever I’ve heard it or the story often about how they were reunited. read it I think of it as just a lazy cliché, but that’s I hope they begin the story with “You probably what I felt. A chill running through me. I knew. won’t believe this, but . . .” » “Maybe it’s not such a big world after all.” “What the hell do you mean by that?” “What was his name?” “Frank. Why?” There we were standing on the edge of the sea in a swooping curve of a cove on golden sands. I pictured us from above, as we’d look from the cockpit of Louise’s bush plane. “Is his last name Chance?” “Oh, my god. Oh, my god!” She shook her head, shook it back and forth, as New books from if there were bees in her long brown hair. , “How do you . . . how can it be? You know him?” , is a collection of short “He doesn’t know your last name. You never How Does a Single BladeDoretta of Grass Lau Thank the Sun? told him.” by Journey-Prize shortlisted author “Oh, my god. That’s right. How do you know stories that represent whimsical new ,perspectives a Governor General’sfrom young and Asian- ,Trillium his that? Were you down there?” Rob Winger Old Hat “No.” Canadian characters. by bestselling novelist Award nominee, shows off his linguistic Pluck,dexterity in “What? Are you a psychic? Who the hell are you?” tackle issues of sexuality, “I’m just a guy who happened to be in the right third collection of poetry.Laisha The poems Rosnau, in a member place at the right time.” and award-winning poet Adrienne Weiss, She couldn’t speak. Her mouth just hung open female vulnerability and parenthood. . as she stared at me. of Toronto’s first all-female sketch comedy troupe, explores the nature

“Frank is only about an hour and a half from here.” of performance, identity, self-mythology and the desireCanoodlers, to find a happy “Don’t do this to me. I don’t know how you ending in There are No Soliddebut Gold collection, Dancers Anymore andrea bennett’s know his name but don’t fucking do this to me.” Meanwhile “Go across this beach and across the next one. offers a hilarious, yet harrowing, study of contemporary consumerism and When you come to the end of that beach you’ll how relationships with families, friends and lovers function within it. see a trail leading back into the bush. Follow that www.nightwoodeditions.com << FICTION >> GENE,GENIE by Gerilee McBride

or weeks I’ve been catching glimpses of beer either. He caught one of my rolling coins and him everywhere. The grey of his hair on slid it back to me. fa crowded bus. His skinny legs walking “Better watch your loose change in here. These down the street in front of me. His jean-jacketed people have no manners. They’re just as likely to torso with old-man neck poking out the top. There grab it up and pretend they dropped it themselves.” was a moment when I thought he must have died “Now, Gene, you know you’re just describing and I was seeing his revenant—like seeing a the yourself. Let this young woman have her drink in afterimage of a recently deceased pet, the fl ash of peace.” The bartender, who’s name tag read Brett, familiarity until your brain catches up with real- gave me a wink, and went back to sorting out the ity. But I know my dad hasn’t died. Yet. He just dishwasher at the other end of the bar. drunk-dialed me last week. Still. I can’t shake off the feeling that he’s somehow here and not four- Gene? Not the right name and yet the voice was teen hours away tucked in his own home as he instantly familiar, the long drawling of the vowels should be. that makes dad sound like he’s a 45 on a 33 spin. Why didn’t he know it was me? I was trying to I saw him again today. We were opposite in a gulp down the last of my pint and grab my bag to crosswalk and I made the decision to turn around go, fi guring it was just a bad coincidence, when and follow because there was no mistaking him Gene started talking to me. this time. And when he pulled open the door to “What’s yurrr naaaame?” a down-and-out bar in the middle of a dead-end I told him and he nodded long and slow, seem- street I wasn’t even surprised. When I caught ingly satisfi ed. I decided to stay a while. The eyes up with him he was already seated at the counter that I thought were like mine were just a little bit and had a cold pint of beer to his lips and was on the glacial blue side, more light than grey. His drinking thirstily. The inside of the bar had dark voice was so close as to be almost better than the corners and a handful of what I would guess were real thing and it made me want to listen more the regular patrons of this not-so-fi ne establish- closely. I leaned in and bought us another round ment. It was only half past fi ve but I couldn’t since Gene started making a sour face with his imagine the place livening up much more. I sat lips which I could only guess was his way of in- down at an end corner of the bar, keeping a seat dicating he was parched. Dad would have just between us, waiting to see if dad recognized me. asked or scrounged some change to buy some It had been a long time since we saw each other off-sales to drink at home. I didn’t mind drinking but there was still enough of the Norwegian in with Gene. Gene was quite pleasant company. I us both that couldn’t be denied; same ski-slope would never have drunk with my real dad. He’s a nose, same pale skin, and the very same grey-blue genuine drunk, the kind that has a pickled liver eyes. I could see the resemblance in the mirror and the pigmentless hair to show for it. The kind over the bar. It was him, wasn’t it? Catching the that buys a six-pack of the cheapest beer and is attention of the bartender I ordered a beer in the slurring, falling-down drunk after two cans but noisiest way possible to see if dad would look up. always, always fi nishes off the six. Not a mean Only when I fumbled my change on the counter drunk but one that you don’t really want to spend did he sweep his eyes my way. There was no sur- any time with as his conversation skills deterio- prise of recognition but he didn’t seem in a hurry rate like the dead-end pathways in his brain. The to get back to pondering his now almost fi nished kind of drunk that drunk-dials his daughter twice

46 NOw ON my ThIrd bEEr, I’vE had TOO muCh TO drINk aNd my vISION IS a year to ask how she’s doing and who won’t re- member he had the conversation the next day. I’ve STarTING TO paN lIkE learned not to answer the phone after 3 p.m. a bad STudENT fIlm. This guy Gene, he seems different. Instead of start- ing to slur his speech upon the downing of his sec- through the bar until I’m outside taking huge ond beer, his underwater voice has actually cleared gulps of the fresh and crisp winter air into my up a little and we’re able to have a fairly viable con- lungs and trying not to vomit. versation about the recent Ryan Gosling movie. I say ‘fairly’ since I’m now the one concentrating I went back. Of course I did. It was like sniff- on not slurring and trying to keep up with Gene’s ing milk from an expired carton to see if it’s still drinking skills. I’m not a big drinker, though, like good. I got so used to the smell that it was a little dad; it only takes me two beers to get loaded. over two weeks later and I still found myself walk- “Gene, want another one?” I can’t resist, it’s ing into the now familiar doors to sit at my now like watching my dad in reverse. He’s even started usual seat at the bar. I was also now up to a fi ve to sway less. beer minimum and Gene’s stories were getting “Well, aren’t you generous. Why yes, I would funnier with each telling (he sometimes forgot like another drink.” he was telling the same ones but I didn’t mind). I ignored the fact that he hadn’t offered to stand Gene played dad so well that I would pretend for us a round, that and his vision seemed sharper, a beer or two that he was dad because that was more calculating as the night wore on wondering a nice warm feeling that went well with the nice just how many drinks a girl like me will buy a warm feeling of inebriation. Then he would tell skeleton like him. I like Gene, but his seeming a story that wasn’t particularly nice and would sobriety was making me nervous. It wasn’t just the sneer while telling it and I would be reminded of kind of sobriety that drunks try to mimic—the that knuckle-crunching grip and feel little shiv- careful drawing out of words, the slow consider- ers run up the back of my neck. That’s about the ation to a question asked—Gene has none of that point in each night where the drink would catch pretense. He’s even stopped sloshing his beer up with me and my memory would fl ood out and around when he makes a particularly impassioned yet somehow I made my way home to sleep it off. argument about why Gosling is the new Pitt. Tonight was the fi rst time that I arrived at the bar Now on my third beer, I’ve had too much to drink and had to wait for Gene. I was already two pints and my vision is starting to pan like a bad student in (and fi nishing a third, but who’s counting) fi lm. I gather my scarf and coat and pat my pock- when he made an appearance. ets making sure my phone and keys are where “Hey, Gene-genie,” I laughed a bit to myself as they should be. I’m ready to say Seeya Gene, nice he climbed onto his stool, “Where’ve you been?” chatting with ya Gene, gee you look an awful lot like “None of your fucking business,” he said, bar- my dad Gene but I guess I’ve drunk too much and ring his teeth. That aggressive response blanked should really get home now Gene when he grabs my mind and I could only stare at his perfectly my hand, squeezing my knuckles together until straight, bright white and solid teeth. They were they’re grinding within his grip. miraculous really, how could they be so perfect “You’ll come back again, won’t you?” with all the drinking he did? I imagined he “Um, sure Gene.” I respond and try to pull my could do all kinds of things with teeth like that. hand out of his grasp. We stand there for a full Visions of Goya’s murderous father entered my minute with my hand in his as he stares at me head; chewing and spitting bloody bits of arm. through his now cold eyes. Then, like nothing is So cavernous was Gene’s great tooth-fi lled maw amiss, he drops my hand, smiles with a vague that even though that terrible mouth had closed grin on his face (just like dad would), and slaps in a frown I couldn’t manage more than a gasp me on the shoulder. and a long draw from my now-warm beer in re- “Okay! Good. I’ll see you tomorrow night then.” sponse. I also had a real need for the bathroom, I can only grunt in reply, looking around to see since my traitorous body decided to put up a fi ght if Brett noticed anything off but he’s serving an- in response to Gene’s aggressiveness even as my other customer so I turn away and walk quickly brain said fl ight. Slipping from my seat, I wound my way to the poorly lit hallway leading to the washrooms, try- ESSENTIAL POETRY • FICTION • CREATIVE NONFICTION ing not to piss myself along the way. It was close but I made it, just. A hard prickle of sweat trickled under my arms and when I looked in the mirror my skin was tinged green and my eyes sallow. I Up the ante! felt my mouth water and spots were forming at the periphery of my vision. The drink was catch- Commit these deadlines to memory ing up with me. Crouching down to lay my head against the cool ceramic of the sink, I waited for May 1, 2014 the nausea to pass. I had to get out of there but Far Horizons Award for Poetry I couldn’t make my body cooperate. It wanted to $1000 throw up and I was fighting it. I focused on count- Emerging writers may enter up to ing the small black squares of the black and white three poems tiled floor and eventually my breathing became less erratic and my stomach settled enough for me to pull myself up, wash my face and get the August 1, 2014 hell out of the bathroom. Constance Rooke

Contest Calendar Creative Nonfiction Prize Before I could pull open the door I felt my leg $1000 vibrate. Reaching with a shaking hand into my Enter an essay, memoir, literary pocket I grasped my phone, reading the display, journalism, or a work so cutting edge and before I thought about it too much I answered in form no one’s thought of it yet the call from ‘Dad.’ My hello was greeted with si- lence, which while not unusual, as it sometimes November 1, 2014 takes dad a few seconds to kick in, my earlier un- Open Season Awards ease was returning. Finally, I could hear breath- $3000 in prizes ing on the other end and a voice slowly asking if they had the right phone number. The voice was Three categories: poetry, short fiction, his and not his; it was playing at being dad. That and creative nonfiction fucker. Vibrating with an anger so furious my jaw ached from it I ended the call, locked my knees, February 1, 2015 and flung open the bathroom door ready to stomp Novella Prize back to confront Gene only to see that he had van- $1500 ished from his perch. I whipped my head around, Enter a single work of long- form fiction sure I would find him lurking in the corner wait- of between 10,000 and 20,000 words ing to see the result of his little gag. When it was apparent that Gene hadn’t stuck around I went back to my seat to gather my coat, still grinding my teeth at having been played. “I was just about to put that in back,” Brett said, nodding to where I had gathered up my coat. I paused in my perusal of the bar, “Why would you do that?” I asked. “You’ve been gone for almost an hour,” he stat- All deadlines are postmark dates ed and then gave me a puzzled look. COMPLETE GUIDELINES: malahatreview.ca “Yeah, sure.” Was he in on it too? I gave him a INQUIRIES: look to accompany the sarcasm in my voice. “Tell [email protected] Gene, good one, but I’m too tired to play whatever game this is.” I turned around and slammed out Defining excellent writing since 1967 of the bar. »

48 << FICTION >> Spectacles

by Rachel Shabalin

he man with the spectacles will look at his pocket watch in three, two, one. The crest T of his left index finger abrades the crown. The man with the spectacles, his watch. Whenever the train passes a light in the tun- nel, the man with the spectacles winds his pocket watch. His fingers revive internal aerial wheels. The click, clicks mutedly. Fresh waves shock the ceiling of faded rainbow plastic, politics, cook- ing advice, into a vivid spectrum. A hallow glow wends its way around statue feet, the edges of soles. All dissolves, returning to a sepia fluores- cence. Another light will arrive in exactly twenty- seven minutes—the process will happen again. The lady in the velvet hat is aware that this tun- nel does not end, that this train does not stop. She does not ask the other passengers how they feel. She sits across from the man with the spectacles. The man not looking at his pocket watch. The lady in the velvet hat focuses, blinks, ad- the spectacles reawakens time. She remembers justs the ring of her hat. She watches the sepia this tunnel does not end, this train does not stop. tableau with roaming eyes. The girl with stiff And she also remembers there is a mucous cov- platinum curls has an eyebrow marginally higher ered box in her throat. It bothers her. The fact that than the other. The gentleman’s bottom lip sags to no one speaks on the train, that she is shy. She one side. Someone—no one—with eyes off-centre. wonders if the child is not shy. How she knows There is also a child. there is a mucous covered box in her throat she A forty-five degree line connects his right el- does not know, all the lips on the train are petri- bow to an unblemished hand clutching a lollipop. fied supple lines. Is it possible that the girl, gen- The lady in the velvet hat no longer sees the par- tleman, and someone, have a box in their throat ticles of the child’s lollipop. She knows the child too? Probably not, probably because they are the holds a striped red, pink, blue lollipop, but it has sepia tableau. Yet isn’t the lady in the velvet hat neutralized to unify the sepia tableau. also the sepia tableau? No. The lady in the velvet The sepia tableau and the roaming marbles ir- hat is aware that this tunnel does not end. This retrievable in continuous ennui. The lady with train does not stop. What about the man with the the velvet hat does not know the word ennui, al- spectacles? The man with the spectacles knows though she suspects she is experiencing it. The the word ennui. And the child? tableau’s staggered two-dimensional faces make The man with the spectacles will look at his the lady in the velvet hat feel there is no lapse of pocket watch in three, two, one. The man with time. Every twenty-seven minutes, the man with the spectacles. His watch. » << FICTION >> LUSH TRIUMPHANT RUNNER-UP Richard

here are too many clocks,” Richard says. We are walking up the by Adam Elliot Segal stairs from the subway platform, the smell of cinnamon buns and “TJamaican patties slamming into the brisk winter air sifting from the station doors, this sharp breeze that’s traveled all the way from the Arctic Circle on an Alberta Clipper to sting our faces. Richard looks at me. “And too many people, Matthew. There are too Richard many people.” A whirl of puffy cheeks and laptop bags flash before our eyes, bodies squishing their way down the stairwell. Richard usually injured walks very quickly, except when he is scared, so he ascends the stairs of the subway station trepidatiously, hugging the handrail with one arm, a man clutching my bicep with the other. “There are too many pigeons, Matthew,” he says, watching a series of rogue birds flutter below our legs, willful inmates in the nether re- once, gions of the city’s bustling underground. “Too many pigeons.” I can’t tell which he dislikes more, clocks or pigeons. It’s always something with very Richard. His brown eyes have grown sallow with time, but that’s one thing he doesn’t seem to want to pay attention to, the passing of time. badly, I always want to know exactly how long it will take to get somewhere, the best route to follow, as if knowing arms me with the ammunition to with only turn the key in my front door every day. One morning on my way home from work, I listen to an off-duty streetcar driver, stealing a ride up to the his bare station, tell stories to the operator about how best to take advantage of the inner-workings of cities while on vacation. When bus drivers take holi- hands. days, he says, all they think about is transportation. The driver laughs He didn’t and nods his head. “Always going somewhere, right?” he says, and I wish he were referring to me. They discuss the intricacies of shuttle services, mean to, above ground travel, the proximity of major metro stations to airports, he says, gabbing away like old ladies playing bridge. I miss my stop. Staring out the window of the streetcar, my dark, heavy eyes squinting and he into the harsh winter light that’s surfing the horizon, I remember a story doesn’t I heard years ago about a train conductor in Nova Scotia, who after retir- ing from 40 years of working the Halifax-Moncton corridor, spent the like to talk twilight of his years riding the rails between Halifax and Toronto, back about it. and forth, back and forth on his lifetime free pass, always sitting in the He calls it same seat, sometimes never even getting off the train. Someone said he “the incident.” died looking out the window, location undetermined.

50 Richard’s hair is greying now. He is built like a incident.” That’s how he arrived in my offi ce one boxer but hunched at the shoulders, possessing afternoon. After nearly a decade working as a be- the gait of someone who looks much older. I sus- havioral therapist, I had never become close to pect he is in his 40s, but he’s never mentioned his any of my clients, but something about Richard was exact age, which I fi nd odd, since Richard always different. He was shy and withdrawn but warm asks strangers how old they are when we are gro- when asked about the things he loved, like sky- cery shopping. scrapers and the Latin names of things. Extremely “When’s your birthday?” Richard says to a intelligent, the paperwork explained, but hindered middle-aged lady examining cantaloupes in the by layers of emotional resistance and occasional grocery store, the winter fruit selection reduced to outbursts. Instead of talking, we would often play insipid-tasting melons and pesticide-laden straw- chess on a park bench for several hours, saying berries. very little. Richard would rattle off the names of “June 22nd, 1955,” she politely replies. common fl owers—“Taraxacum offi cinale are dan- “Wednesday. You were born on a Wednesday.” delions Matthew, clovers are trifolium”—before “Are you sure?” she asks, mildly astonished. checkmating me. I only win if he becomes dis- “He’s never wrong,” I say. tracted, or if he remembers the incident, and then “Mangoes, Matthew. I like the mangoes.” it’s something else altogether, and it takes hours for Richard to become himself again. Later that spring, the emergence of dandelions and red-breasted robins juxtaposes against a grey, When my wife fi nally left me, she said I loved lifeless landscape. Richard walks effi ciently when Richard more than I loved her. “You don’t un- he’s thinking and it’s hard to keep pace, the bulge derstand,” I said. She grabbed the antique lamp over my beltline preventing an all-out jog. “There shaped like a swan that we bought together at a are too many buildings,” Richard says, looking fl ea market in Tweed and stormed out the front up. “Too many buildings, Matthew. There are door. I drank steadily for some time—a stark dif- 348,656 buildings in New York City, you know.” ference from heavily and much worse—but there “This is Toronto, Richard. Don’t you want to were those nights, too. What I remember most know how many buildings there are in this city?” from that period is a slow, steady descent, realiz- “Nobody cares about that, Matthew.” ing the ritualistic motions of other lonely-hearted men occupying the barstools beside me. Drink- Richard hates the sound a shovel makes scrap- ing over the dinner hours. Slurring my words ing against concrete after a snowfall; the suction and stumbling home before darkness arrived. I sound a hand pump makes at the ballpark, mus- haven’t had a drink since. tard oozing onto a hotdog; the tick-tick-tick of my During that time, I realized some people are left-turn signal. “Go right, Matthew. Go right.” like oil and water. Others, like the two of us, sur- Richard has no control of these dark places, the vived somewhere in the middle, negotiating a fail- inter-cranial chasms he retreats to without me, ing relationship over the course of many drawn- the corners of thought he hides behind when the out years, begging silently for an end. She said world outside becomes opaque. But he likes the she wanted a husband, a man, a father, as if I was way yellow spring fl owers smear across the grass none of these things any longer. I simply wanted and the pump-pump motion a robin makes bob- someone who cared less about French manicures bing its head into the soil. He enjoys watching and throw pillows. television, but has trouble focusing for long peri- One night, two years after I’d met Richard, she ods of time. “There are too many channels,” Rich- walked into the bedroom and slowly slid her fake ard says. “Too many channels.” He likes shows plastic nails beneath the elastic of her waistband, about the ocean, programs that deal with infi nite tugging the drawstring, her pants dropping to the spaces, and he seems especially delighted when a ground. man catches a fi sh, no matter how small. “They “Matthew.” gotta throw it back, Matthew,” he says. “They gotta “Hmmm.” throw it back.” “Stop reading.” Richard injured a man once, very badly, with “Not now.” only his bare hands. He didn’t mean to, he says, “When?” and he doesn’t like to talk about it. He calls it “the “Not now.” “Just once I’d like you to at least pretend you’re “How old are you Matthew?” mildly interested.” “I’m forty-two. You know that.” “You want a deviant,” I said. “You’re old.” “I want a man.” “I know Richard.” “You don’t know what you want.” “When’s your birthday?” “Just once, just once I would like you to come “April 27, 1971.” up from behind me and hold me. Is that too much “Tuesday. You were born on a Tuesday.” to ask?” “I’m sorry.” My ex-wife, on the day we fi rst met, told me there “Do you know the fi rst time we slept together is something dangerous about a man with just you asked me ‘Is this okay?’ three times?” a coat and a book. She said a man like that has “We never should have moved to the city.” nothing to lose (except the book, I offered) and “You’ve become obsessed with helping him. He nothing to gain. What about knowledge, I replied, has problems, Matthew.” and she smiled, and we were together from that “There is a difference between love and devo- day forward. But now I imagine myself before tion. You’ll never understand that.” all this ever happened, before I met her, before When she slammed the door to our semi-de- I started taking care of Richard, when I was a tached home, the swan lamp and her other spoils younger man without an ex-wife, armed only with of war sticking out from under her skinny, tanned a navy seaman’s coat and a copy of On The Road arms, I could see through the tears in her eyes sticking out from the front pocket, dreams like that she wished for a stronger man, a convicted stars in the sky. man, one who built things made of metal in a garage and wore the same pair of faded jeans ev- Richard has a diffi cult time ignoring things. This ery Sunday. Years later, I can still remember the is especially true with the ubiquitous tv screens look on her face, a pair of defeated eyes pulsing hanging above the subway platforms, a rolling 24- with disappointment when I told her that it wasn’t hour news channel complete with hockey scores, worth arguing about, that I’d rather be alone. That headlines and a clock. It’s too much information I’d rather be with Richard. for Richard to process, and he gets impatient en route to his doctor appointments. Richard wants to be good. He wants to be good “There are too many clocks,” he says. more than anything in this world, but he doesn’t “I know, Richard.” know what that means, and doesn’t know how to “I know what time it is already, Matthew.” express it. He understands, despite the things “I know you do.” he’s done and the limitations of his ability to em- “I know what day your birthday was.” pathize, that the desire to be better is something “I know you do.” worth fi ghting for. He fi ghts every day for this “April 27, 1971. Tuesday.” feeling in his own way. And it makes me want to “Do you want to get on the next train, Richard?” be good, too. In our world, this shared, noble act “Not yet, Matthew. Not yet.” means something. And on the days when I’m not Richard likes to look out windows, even on the with him, I think about how the two of us have subway. He doesn’t like to thumb a cell phone, or distilled the noise of the city and reduced our lives scroll through a handheld music device like teen- to the simplest of things: being good. agers do instead of just sitting there, instead of In a bookstore he says to me, “There are too just thinking. Richard doesn’t like to read while many stories. We don’t need that many stories, traveling, either. He leans into the window, face Matthew.” Inside a coffee shop, he hears a song pressed against the glass, processing a cacophony on the speakers. “There are too many musicians, of sounds and myriad blurred images. Richard Matthew.” “Yes, there are a lot of musicians, Rich- has never fl own in a plane—he prefers viewing ard,” I reply. “They sold their songs to car com- the countryside—so we take train trips together mercials, Matthew,” he says thumbing a Norah in the summer, north of the city, Richard in the Jones cd sitting on the front counter. “There are too window seat, myself in the aisle. He never under- many sequels and too many Panini sandwiches.” stands where we are going until we get there, or “You’re right. They don’t need to make another how far we’ve traveled. He likes watching sunsets Star Wars. And I don’t like Panini’s very much.” and dipping his feet off the dock into the lake.

52 Richard sits there, his lumbering frame wiggling my bedroom, and I raced to the front door. I could its toes, singing songs under his breath, holding see the man’s lifeless body on the pavement. It a fi shing rod, never catching anything. He never was hot that summer, too hot to stay outside for speaks of the word happiness, but I often wonder an extended period of time, but the guide dog if that’s exactly what this moment is for him—late stayed there, in the searing heat of a country sum- summer sun catching his neck, water stretching mer, refusing to leave his owner’s side. Neigh- for miles, the thought of a small minnow on his bours brought water, trying to coax the devoted line—happiness. animal away, but the dog stayed there, even when Richard is always looking back, remembering the body was removed, licking the ground. something, unable to envision the future. Most When Richard died of a brain aneurism last people can picture a spouse or children, but Rich- fall, it felt like a black emptiness had ripped it- ard retreats deep into a set of numbers and objects, self open in my chest cavity and everyone could dates and events when asked where he sees himself see the details of my dark heart. The world feels in fi ve years. There are no other people in Rich- bigger now, noisier, like a racetrack in the dead ard’s imagination. It’s as if they don’t exist at all. of July. But I carry him with me, like a book in A butterfl y lands on a bicycle in the middle of my coat pocket. I sit on the aisle, even when the the city on a bright spring morning and Richard train is empty. And there are days when Richard’s gets excited, because he knows the average lifes- voice grows soft, barely a whisper, and his face pan of a butterfl y is twenty to forty days. This is blurs into the fading light of the day. Often I sit how he classifi es beauty. He doesn’t grasp the ug- graveside with a chessboard, waiting for Richard liness of the world. He doesn’t know about pan- to make a move. And I think about how there are creatic cancer and car accidents, oil spills or slea- too many clocks and not enough time. » zebag landlords on trial for raping female tenants. He doesn’t grasp good and evil as moral ques- tions to answer. He doesn’t know the greed in- volved in building pipelines through endangered habitat, or broken love. He simply knows things and doesn’t pass judgment, and sometimes that is what I wish for, too, for all the noise to dissipate, BRAVE NEW WORDS for all the regrets to disappear, so it’s just Richard wondering aloud about things in the world, and me answering. And sometimes, just when I think arsenalpulp.com he is wandering off into some unfamiliar place, he looks at me and grabs me by the arm. “You can’t drink oil, Matthew,” Richard says. “No, you can’t,” I say. “We shouldn’t harm anything, Matthew.” •

“We have a hard time forecasting the implica- tions of our choices.” BLOG OUR READ “There’s too much noise, Matthew.” “The whales you mean. The whales we kill using sonar equipment. Do you think we need : acoustic sanctuaries, Richard?” arsenalia.com “Do you think they know?” GENDER FAILURE ARTIFICIAL CHERRY “I think they do.” Rae Spoon & Ivan E. Coyote Billeh Nickerson “We should love more things, Matthew.” “Thoughtful, revelatory, brave, Sweetly flavored with a hint of “There’s a difference between devotion and intermittently angry, and often cheeky, Artificial Cherryis the love, Richard.” quite touching, Gender Failure latest collection from one of “I know that. You do too, Matthew.” acts as a terrific primer about Canada’s showiest poets. transgender politics.” —Vancouver Sun When I was seven years old, a blind man was ARSENAL PULP PRESS killed crossing the street outside my parent’s home. I heard the shrill shrieking of tires from << POETRY >> luSh TrIumphaNT ruNNEr-up SIlENCE SplaShING EvErywhErE by Raoul Fernandes 5 pOEmS

mixtape an Online friend He collects his friends’ broken walkmans dies Somewhere and builds a fl ying machine out of them. Straps in and launches from his rooftop in the fading light, Outside The Internet just after the crows have passed. These are the controls: rewind, fast-forward, play, and stop. All other variables Freezes, goes blue screen, shuts down. Dead pixel, dark. are left to the music on the cassettes, old mixes Ghost echoes, lossy in the source code. Time-zones away he has received from friends. One of the tapes people who have actually shaken hands with my online friend ribbon is wrinkled in places from a recent unspooling. stand around a box of his remains. I’m left to click through data, It murmurs and crackles, but it still works, two-dimensional and without decay, in multiple windows. Close all still lifts the rickety machine. Another tape contains, in the last empty minutes, rainfall, a train in the distance. until I’m left by the one that renders birds, sky, Someone says something he strains to hear. and keep-moving-nothing-to-see-here clouds. Nothing At this particular height, the landscape below to see here. I go for a walk to the edge of town, daydream seems toy-like, a miniature model, despite what all hell a closed-loop whirlwind in a fi eld of tall grass. he has been through down there. The blue eyes Cast a rock into the dark old sea. of backyard swimming pools. A soccer fi eld like a green diary, locked. What all hell. When you return, return with the strength gathered here, a charged battery, a wheel inside a wheel.

54 white Noise driftwood Generator Let leaping embers burn through the open journal, for Amanda Todd the shoes, the army surplus jacket, the skin.

The autumn air feels guilt, the trees feel guilt, the cables Let the driftwood fi re converse and the pixels, the birds and the ditch. A tornado forms, with something in your chest tries to suck a ghost back down from its slow lift. Fails, as if you weren’t there. Let it continue then roars through the town then toward the next town over. Makes a point to hit every billboard on the way. until the police come down and instruct you to kick sand over the fl ames. And before that Horses run through sea-foam, white horses running through a calendar. The cold chemical smell of a someone always hefts a log, burning at one end, permanent marker squeaking over rectangles of into the low tide. It hisses darkly. Nobody knows paper. A mood-ring on her hand rotating through the what it means, but it’s not like we are in the business spectrum. All the strength needed in the narration, the thorn that digs deeper with the telling. What happened of meaning things. You take off your grey-green jacket and is happening and the strength needed still. and offer it to a shivering girl but she shakes her head.

Friend request like a conch shell left on your doorstep. You set the jacket down and it crawls into the ocean, Friend request like devil-horning every face in my old starts swimming out. Swims back an hour later, dripping yearbook while on the phone into the wee hours. Friend and wiser. request like would you like to see the portal I found in the school’s darkroom? Friend request like lets cover What we feared: spiders, snakes, ourselves, drowning, ourselves in wet leaves and mud before math class. embarrassment, girls, ourselves. A chord fumbled Friend request like I’ll be your white noise generator. at a crucial moment, killing the song.

An ocean is a good listener. An ocean works the teen Later, outside a 7-Eleven, a man says watch out suicide hotline 24-7 throughout the year. A conch shell for the bombs tonight and I don’t get it. (stay with me) is a telephone. Later, in a car window refl ection,

Friend request like a poem typed in an empty chat-room I do. We pretend we are so gentle, so gentle at the end of the night. Friend request like I got a rooftop, we are not capable of a fi st in a face, a joint, and a handful of stars with your name on it. until we are, and then we are Friend request like what is diffi cult is what is necessary is what is actually listening to another human speaking. frightened by our own wolf eyes in mirrors, shivering at a breakfast table in the early dawn Picture a pear tree in the middle of a wasteland where the after the long what-have-I-done-night. Or the pear tree is you and the wasteland is the comment section. what-have-I-thought night. Never interrupt a girl while she is trying to draw a horse. Never laugh when she whisper-sings under her Your jacket still smells of driftwood smoke breath walking across the soccer fi eld. She may be after a few washes. Even after summoning dragons, she may be summoning them you get it together, move out, get a job against you. wearing a staticky headset, receiving Flashcards held in front of a window. Another then calls from strangers miles away. another. Trust and we shall be the receiver, love and we shall be the amplifi er. Until the amplifi er short Let the ember burn through. circuits, the windows blow out, and silence splashes Set your jacket down and it crawls everywhere. into the ocean and doesn’t come back. Let it stay there. In her way,

she’s wearing it and while she’s wearing it, thinking of you. attachments jamessmokingmarijuanathroughapotatopipe.jpg lightsmearedghostsonthegreencouch.jpg thiskidnobodyknowswearingthepuffi estjacketeverandweallcallhimlittlelionwhichheseemstolike.jpg marysshouldershighintheroom.jpg jakeplayingwishyouwerehereonmyguitarforthethousandthtimeandallofusreallywanthimtostop.jpg storytellinginthegreenhouse.jpg thisiswhyevelynleft.jpg sunsetpasthepowerlines.jpg postsunsetcrowsfl yingeastward.jpg someoneborrowedmycameraandtookpicturesofmysiamesefi ghtingfi sh6of18.jpg thisamazingspreadoffoodmycuporunnethoveretcetc.jpg colininaskirtsweepingbeerbottleglass.jpg aliciagivesthislookthatalwaysmakesmewonderifthiswillbethelastpictureofher.jpg headphonesonadeerskull.jpg adaminmidair.jpg mydogcodysleepingonthebalconysurroundedbylonglegsgoingupforever.jpg

56 << REVIEW >>

He writes of reading, travel, sex. He pays tribute to the comic purity of a fart. He goes to Paris with little money and much misery, though it was “in almost every way, a perfect life.”

nitiated one year to the day after viting an NFL quarterback to his birth- The Incredible Shrinking Man and I am a starting his exquisite Winter Journal, day party; of his belief in the existence Fugitive from a Chain Gang. Young Auster IPaul Auster’s Report From the Inte- of secret letters in the alphabet; of how strongly identified with the shrinking rior, like its predecessor, explores new his father’s isolation drove him inward, man, who was, in a sense, turned into a strategies for customizing this amor- turning him “into a man who has spent writer by his freakish disease. But why phous genre we call “memoir.” Like the better part of his life sitting alone in devote so much of this Report to narrat- Winter Journal, it’s written in the second ing films with little pertinent digres- person, a logical form of address for a sion? The narration says more about book that both mirrors the act of talking sextegenarian Auster than pubescent to oneself and uses the specifics of an Report from the Interior Auster. individual life to speak about the mys- by Paul Auster My favourite part of Report is com- teries of life in general. posed of letters Auster wrote during col- Unlike Winter Journal, conceived of McClelland & Stewart, 2013; lege to the woman who would become as a history of Auster’s body and com- 341 pp; $30 his first wife, fellow author Lydia Davis. posed as a single sustained piece, this These letters brim with ambition and Report, which does something similar uncertainty, the feeling of being in love, with the formation of Auster’s con- reviewed by and of longing. He writes of reading, sciousness from childhood to early Jose Teodoro travel, sex. He pays tribute to the comic adulthood, is divided into four sections. purity of a fart. He goes to Paris with Inevitably, it lacks the same coherence. little money and much misery, though At times, it almost reads as nostalgia; at a room.” He describes sudden eerie in- it was “in almost every way, a perfect others, as a well-executed exercise only terludes of disassociation (the second- life. Absolute freedom […] dining out tenuously connected to the book’s os- person address works especially well with your friends, watching movies at tensible raison d’être. Call these flaws, here), recalling similar experiences re- the Cinémathèque, taking long walks failed experiments or idiosyncrasies, corded in Paul Bowles’ memoir Without through the city […] pining for your there is yet much that’s fascinating, cu- Stopping: “a feeling of anticipation and absent love…” At times the letters are rious and moving. unease, as if you were both there and clumsy and obviously under the sway of, The first, eponymous section, cover- not there at the same time, no longer say, Henry Miller, but in this lies their ing birth to age twelve, exudes Auster’s inside your own body, in the way one authenticity and verve. They are evoca- control of reverie in prose both radi- disappears into oneself in the grip of a tive, funny, inventive, a portrait of an art- ant and economical. He writes of his dream.” ist’s formation more deeply informative first sense of the world’s injustice, first In Two Blows to the Head, Auster revis- than any conventional autobiography. book purchase (Poe), first awareness of its a form he clearly enjoys: film narration, But convention is anathema to Auster’s Judaism (and Jewish invisibility); of in- offering scene-by-scene descriptions of entire body of work. » << REVIEW >>

... what Fiorentino is doing with these report cards is much darker. In stark contrast we finally see the individual, a young boy from Transcona (Fiorentino’s hometown) being abused by the education system, and also by those who hold the power within that system—and yet we feel compelled to laugh.

ast autumn saw the release of Jon role as a young student in Winnipeg and Abruptly Fiorentino inserts an experi- Paul Fiorentino’s book of experi- his current job as a University professor mental piece that is neither entirely po- Lmental poetry Needs Improvement, in Montreal. There is a clear relationship etry or prose. It is a series of report cards published by Coach House Books. The between being the subject of a grading that reveal interactions between parents title, Needs Improvement, taken from the system and being the benefactor of that and teachers over the behaviour of the egregious system for monitoring chil- same system; one must negotiate their hopeless student “Leslie Mackie.” Giv- dren’s proficiency in assigned subjects, identity in relation to their own power en a surface reading, the piece is sharp is a tongue-in-cheek play on institution- within that very system that once de- and funny. Leslie’s parents confess to alized processes for valourizing or dis- his second grade teacher: “Thanks for crediting individuals based upon their your patience. We love Leslie but some- ability to comply within certain norma- times we wish he didn’t exist.” Howev- tive modes of performativity. Needs Improvement er, what Fiorentino is doing with these One of the earlier poems in the col- by Jon Paul Fiorentino report cards is much darker. In stark lection, “Winnipeg Cold Storage Com- contrast we finally see the individual, a pany,” is appropriated from Judith But- Coach House, 2013; 88 pp; $17.95 young boy from Transcona (Fiorentino’s ler’s Excitable Speech: A Politics of the hometown) being abused by the educa- Performative. However, in these little tion system, and also by those who hold poems, Fiorentino replaces “gender” reviewed by the power within that system—and yet with “Winnipeg” or allusions to popular Julie Mannell we feel compelled to laugh. Is the read- Winnipeg-based references. This re-ne- er letting down Leslie Mackie too? Why gotiates the signifiers of Butler’s work, duced them to powerless. should we care about him? taking it from the theoretical realm of Reading deeper into the book, one Fundamentally this book is a pointed systemic oppression and instead engag- encounters mechanical drawings of ma- critique of societal models of behaviour, ing with performativity as a sedimenta- chinery, a washing machine that details models of which Fiorentino himself is a tion of identity with relation to place. the parts and functions as they relate to part. The way the cover is laid out is to Place, in and of itself, can imply certain “ideology,” a showerhead representing imply that Fiorentino is grading himself, other forms of compulsory performance “displacement.” The reader begins to it is addressed to himself (if you look with relation to class, cultural practices, conflate theory with simple mechanics, closely, the address cites experimental specific dialectic identifiers, amongst models of production. Perhaps such im- Canadian poet bpNichol) and reads others. Fiorentino, who is from Winni- personal modes of analyses problema- “Jon Paul Fiorentino Needs Improve- peg, may have simply chosen the place tize the role of the individual within that ment.” The author deprecates himself, as a site of his own nostalgic conscious- system. The individual disappears and sacrificing the authority of authorship to ness—however, one cannot help but all that is left is a model for how a thing that invisible system the book continu- ponder the relation between his past might be used. ally harps back to. »

58 << REVIEW >>

Reading these poems reminds me that literature and myth are inseparable, and that so many of our core narratives—fables, myths, religions—all come from a stone’s throw away from the same place. “So let’s cast our stories into the sea / and move on,” as the speaker says in “The Old Olive Tree.”

hen reading poems I don’t begins “In Iraq, / after a thousand throughout. Tablet 12, for example, is immediately “get,” like these and one nights, / someone will talk to a near-oriental love haiku: “Dates piled Wones by acclaimed Iraqi- someone else,” steps out of mythologi- high / beside the road; / your way / of American Dunya Mikhail, I think of cal history into the ordinary present in kissing me.” Tablet 21 is more politi- Heidegger’s dictum, “Tell me how you the sense that these “nights” become cal, resonating with the “Arab Spring”: read and I’ll tell you who you are,” be- metaphors for the recent war that her “Instant messages / ignite revolutions cause it takes time to figure out how to country has experienced. / They spark new lives / waiting for a read them. I took the “advance reader’s country to download.” Or 24, a loving copy” mostly because the poet has a but despairing diamante: “How thrill- cool name, her book is short, and draw- The Iraqi Nights ing to appear in his eyes. /…She looks ings accompany her series of twenty- at the mouth she’ll never kiss, / …and by Dunya Mikhail four “Tablets.” But also because in the at the ground where their shadows first piece, “The Iraqi Nights,” I saw a translated from the Arabic meet.” reference to Ishtar, the Sumerian god- by Kareem James Abu-Zeid Reading these poems reminds me dess of love, war and sex whom I re- that literature and myth are insepara- member from The Epic of Gilgamesh, New Directions, 2014; 84 pp; $15.95 ble, and that so many of our core nar- the world’s oldest work of literature, ratives—fables, myths, religions—all which in turn always makes me think of come from a stone’s throw away from the “Darmok” episode of Star Trek TNG reviewed by the same place. “So let’s cast our sto- that was about metaphor and myths. Peter Babiak ries into the sea / and move on,” as the The first piece consists of seven po- speaker says in “The Old Olive Tree,” ems that form a narrative about Ishtar The intertext here, and elsewhere in which is my favourite. I don’t know and Tammuz, the god of food who was Mikhail’s collection, is The One Thou- how else to read poetry like this except also the finicky Ishtar’s faithful lover, sand and One Nights, the well-known to scurry around looking for touch- until they were separated by agents of Middle Eastern narratives compiled stones, and looking up historical ref- the underworld. Mikhail’s speaker as- in Arabic about a thousand years ago. erences is the only way I know how to sumes the voice of Ishtar, who wrote In each, Scheherazade tells stories by read poetry that is about the fictional on each of the seven gates to the un- night to escape death. It’s the arche- narratives, the metaphors, that hold derworld. “He would cross thousands typal narrative about the significance life together. » of miles / for the sake of a single cup of narrative itself. Unlike her, Mikhail’s of tea / poured by my own hand,” says speakers aren’t always narrating from the speaker in the third, “I fear the tea the same perspective, and aren’t faced is growing cold: / Cold tea is worse with literal death, but there’s a sense than death.” The seventh poem, which of existential and romantic urgency << REVIEW >>

With his extensive fashion and portrait work, Clarkes brings a street-style photography aesthetic to Cyclists. Just about everyone in this book looks like they are on their way to a modelling job. But despite the fact that they were captured in a public place, I do feel some discomfort with the camera’s invasion into private mo- ments of each apparently unaware subject.

hat is your image of a cyclist? cafe with Clarkes watching “the city’s visibility strategy in use at all; and even Sidewalk-riding scofflaw? most elegant cyclists glide by,” there is the bikes are minimalist, betraying few WSpandex-clad racer? Com- no text accompanying the photographs. practical attachments such as brackets muter decked out in reflective stripes? With no names, stories, dates, times or for water bottles and locks, baskets and Whatever their plumage, people on locations attached, the viewer is free racks. Many women wear flip-flops and bikes stand out in a sea of cars, slip- to focus purely on the physical details very short-shorts with reckless aban- ping gracefully or perilously (depend- in the frame—the style of the bicycle, don. Free of most encumbrances save ing on your point of view) through the expression on a face, the length of a bag slung low around the body, these choked city streets. people do not even appear to sweat. Lincoln Clarkes busts these stereo- Of course, the images Clarkes se- types somewhat in his new collection lected for Cyclists are perhaps but a frac- of photographs simply titled Cyclists. Cyclists: Photographs tion of the hundreds of images he shot Taking candid portraits of cyclists riding by Lincoln Clarkes over two years. There are about twice as down the streets of Toronto between many “ladies” pictured as “gentlemen,” spring 2011 and fall 2012, he focuses on Quattro Books, 2013; 150 pp; $35 though many studies of cycling show the most breathtaking and stylish mem- women have only just started to catch bers of the cycling species. up to men in terms of owning and riding Clarkes is well known for Heroines reviewed by bikes. But hey, they don’t look as pretty. (Anvil Press, 2002), his collection of Christine Rowlands (Some of the guys wear athletic gear, portraits of women on Vancouver’s even.) And as alluded to in the intro- Downtown Eastside. With his exten- duction, the risk of retribution for an sive fashion and portrait work, Clarkes a skirt or shorts—as well as each sub- unwanted picture is greater. brings a street-style photography aes- ject’s relationship to surrounding traffic One of the stated goals of this col- thetic to Cyclists. Just about everyone and apparent accordance (or not) with lection is to glamourize the act of in this book looks like they are on their rules of the road. cycling, not only to make it look cool way to a modelling job. But despite As a cyclist, I found myself looking but also to contrast it with the environ- the fact that they were captured in a through the pages for evidence of “bike- mental danger and “false freedoms” of public place, I do feel some discom- ness” among the photographs, admit- automobiles. He certainly succeeds in fort with the camera’s invasion into tedly to compare my own attempts choosing beautiful subjects who em- private moments of each apparently at cycle chic (i.e., dressing for cycling body youth and fashion and sustain- unaware subject. without looking like a “cyclist”) with able transportation choices to boot. Aside from the introduction by Judith the people on these pages. Accessories Now if only there were a wider range of Tansley, which invites readers to im- such as helmets and pannier bags are people who were considered beautiful agine themselves sitting at a sidewalk in scant evidence; reflectiveness is not a enough to be Cyclists. »

60 << REVIEW >>

Kay has artfully fashioned her multi-storied debut novel into a highly-readable organic unit, with all of its elements falling neatly into place. As the riveting narrative unfolds, the fleshed-out characters act as we expect, like them or not, given their circumstances and environment.

n De Niro’s Game Rawi Hage mined back and side stories of Tibor’s affair But what should be revealed is that the underworld of 1980s Beirut for with his best friend’s wife and his moth- Kay has artfully fashioned her multi- Iits literary gold. Now, Ailsa Kay has er Agnes’ coincidental trip to Budapest storied debut novel into a highly-read- done the same for 1950s Budapest, to visit the turista hot-spots, lesser- able organic unit, with all of its ele- rooting around several storeys under known back alleys and an underground ments falling neatly into place. As the the city’s floor, searching for tunnels cellar to research the infamous tunnels. riveting narrative unfolds, the fleshed- and cells rumoured to have housed nu- As well, there’s the 1956 disappearance out characters act as we expect, like merous lost souls imprisoned during of her younger sister Zsofi. She’s also them or not, given their circumstances Hungary’s Communist “Reign of ter- tracking her own long-ago love affair and environment. The tenuous moth- ror.” The search, of course, in Kay’s en- er-son relationship, for example, is il- gaging, gold-standard Under Budapest lustrated when Agnes repays Tibor’s is for more than legendary tunnels and slight by vowing “to order an over- cells—it’s for a missing sister, a long- Under Budapest priced lunch and charge it to her son.” lost lover, memories of “the girls they by Ailsa Kay Stark images stand out like the one of used to be,” and a murderer. a guard dumping a pail of feces over The grit and crime of the city is intro- Goose Lane Editions, 2013; a prisoner’s head. Dialogue quickens duced with two teenagers, Csaba Bekes, 256 pp; $19.99 or slows the narrative while the use of an angry, penniless Hungarian, and Janos Hungarian phrases and references to Hagy, a Canadian on a re-visit, flush with turrista sites reinforce the authentic- Canadian cash, chasing down and beat- reviewed by ity of the setting. And the detailed ac- ing a homeless man while the turistas see Wayne Cunningham counts of the bloodied street fights in “Just the usual turista shit. Vaci Utca, October 1956 with Hungarian pistols the market, Castle Hegy, whatever.” with a former rebel leader, Gyula, now and rifles against Soviet machine guns But we soon learn that this is not a an established “businessman,” but with and tanks are as evocative of pain and novel for the turistas as the naive Janos previous ties to the sisters as well. As suffering as any of today’s television becomes a stand-in for Csaba’s broth- paths of various characters cross and images in Syria’s continuing conflict. er Laci, a role that leads him to lose his re-cross during the scenes of the ’50s In an end-page note, Kay refers to head, literally, when it is lopped off and conflict, a noose tightens around Ti- the Hungarians’ many years of “nation- rolls past Tibor Roland, a York Univer- bor’s neck as he slip-slides from witness al amnesia,” about the Russian occu- sity academic. An unwitting witness to to framed murder suspect when images pation of the ’50s. Her masterful novel the killing, Tibor is convinced he knows on his camera are twisted into evidence should do much to shake loose the rec- the unseen killer’s voice. of his wrongdoing. Whether he escapes ollections and bring the story forward But Kay has more to serve up than the noose is best left for potential read- with a new face for today’s readers. » mere mystery as she cleverly introduces ers to discover. << REVIEW >>

When the title story which opens the book fulfilled the promise offered by the book’s design, I was hooked. As it describes the rise and fall of a relationship, it employs the structure of a recipe, using such directives as Sift through all your childhood memories together. Fold in your family histories at medium-high speed.

here’s something appealing about overly cute, the author has taken this thing that’s nowhere near true, slams a retro photograph. You know into account and offers a half-cup of her against the wall: “I felt the snap in Tthe kind I mean—a black & white apology with, “Eve has met someone. my arm all the way to my teeth. John image of a housewife from the ’50s, His name is Adam. Their friends find kept me company while I whimpered on perfectly coiffed, engaged in some this funny, and fortuitous.” the floor untilG ram came and took me mindless household task. I can’t help The other stories are less about to the hospital. John signed my cast with but think that much of the appeal may romance than about not-always-easy a bunch of different names: Ike New- lie in reminding us of roles women no relationships with aging parents, sib- ton, Charlie Darwin and Al Einstein.” longer have to fill, tasks they no longer lings, close friends—and, yes, even This combination—where the horrific worry about. situation is faced with humour creates The cover of A Recipe for Disaster de- much of the charm in her stories. picts the perfect Mrs. Wifey, aproned A Recipe for Disaster & Other Unfortunately, not all the stories live and staring rather glumly at what I sus- Unlikely Tales of Love up to this standard. Too many charac- pect may be batter for an item once by Eufemia Fantetti ters come across as whiney and self- known as popovers. This cover shot is centered. Sure, they’re supposed to accented with wedding-cake turquoise Mother Tongue Press, 2013; be that way—that’s why somebody’s and pink. Heck, even the end pages 100 pp; $18.95 breaking up with them, leaving them make me blush for the design: pink. for someone who might be more in- Drawings inside extend the metaphor; teresting. But darn, after encountering each story is introduced by a sketch of reviewed by a few of them, I couldn’t help but find some kitchen tool—rolling pin, grater, Heidi Greco them tiresome. the proverbial rubber licker. Design- Fantetti has won a number of awards wise, the book looks fresh out-of-the- partners. Considering there are only six for her writing—and I’m sure she’ll win oven irresistible. stories in the entire book, they manage more. As for this book, some of the When the title story which opens to cover a fair bit of territory, not all of batter seems a little bit thin. » the book fulfilled the promise offered it especially happy. by the book’s design, I was hooked. As My favourite, a piece called “Sweets,” it describes the rise and fall of a rela- conveys something of the reliance-on- tionship, it employs the structure of each-other developed by siblings in a recipe, using such directives as Sift desperate situations. Told in first per- through all your childhood memories son, much of it is nicely understated. together. Fold in your family histories at Consider this brief scene where her medium-high speed. Although the char- brother John comes to her aid when acters’ names, Adam and Eve, seem their mother, accusing her of some-

62 << REVIEW >>

Amber Dawn does not fit into the oppressive structures and boxes society has laid out for women. As a queer, femme, feminist, assault survivor, activist and artist who worked in the indoor and outdoor sex trade, her multi- layered identity and experiences transgress socio-cultural expectations of class, gender and sexuality. Likewise, her story cannot be told according to hierarchical structures and rigid categories of genre.

ow Poetry Saved My Life: A ning “Everyone Hearts a Virginia Girl” ond person might not have worked Hustler’s Memoir is a love let- by describing an orgasm, before say- well in a straight-prose memoir, the Hter to experimental writing. ing, “But you can’t begin a story at the eclectic format of the book allows such By combining poetry and prose in her climax.” transitions to work well, and bridges memoirs, Amber Dawn demonstrates The second person voice used in art with activism. how genre-crossing can open the door many pieces in the book, works beau- Amber Dawn does not fit into the to empowering possibilities less acces- tifully in these “postcards,” which sit oppressive structures and boxes so- sible in more traditionally structured in the “Inward” section. By writing in ciety has laid out for women. As a formats. the second person, Dawn invites the queer, femme, feminist, assault sur- The book is a series of poems and vivor, activist and artist who worked personal essays divided into three in the indoor and outdoor sex trade, parts: “Outside,” “Inside,” and “Inward,” How Poetry Saved My Life: her multi-layered identity and experi- which speak to the author’s life in the A Hustler’s Memoir ences transgress socio-cultural expec- outdoor sex trade, the indoor sex trade, tations of class, gender and sexuality. and her reflections after exiting. The by Amber Dawn Likewise, her story cannot be told ac- poems and essays are not discrete from Arsenal Pulp Press, 2013; cording to hierarchical structures and each other; they flow well together, and 156 pp; $15.95 rigid categories of genre. The brave many pieces carry elements of both combination of literary forms we see in genres, such as the ten-page prose How Poetry Saved My Life is the result poem, “Bikini Kill Lyrics,” which is told reviewed by of Dawn speaking her truth using me- in six parts as a succession of events Natasha Sanders-Kay diums that can deliver it authentically. that almost feels like a short story. Poetry, of course, is the ultimate star, In “Self-Addressed Postcards,” Dawn reader to look inward, too. Although the form Dawn finds most capable of continues to play with form, while the “you” she writes to is clearly her- articulating her holistic self and story. revisiting memories of sex outside a self, the device opens the door to iden- She writes that “poetry can make even Parisian nightclub, visiting a Virginia tify with the writer. Since her story is the highest concepts concrete,” echo- sorority house after a neo-cabaret per- one laden with stigma from the public ing Audre Lorde’s statement that “Po- formance, and swimming in Horse- eye, this is a brilliant move to challenge etry is the way we help give name to the shoe Bay during summer nights with readers to look deep inside our own nameless so it can be thought.” Com- her future wife. Each of these pieces is prejudices and vulnerabilities. ing from a social location packed with delivered as a textual snippet rather In other pieces, Dawn addresses the stories but accosted with silence, Am- than as a story with a beginning, mid- reader directly, urging us to break our ber Dawn has transgressively named dle, and end. Dawn is self-reflective own silences and tell our own stories. the unnamed. » when playing with the structure, begin- While switching between first and sec- << REVIEW >>

While these stories return repeatedly to a fairly specific sort of character and narrative, they pose interesting questions about the nature of the self in the Internet Age, in prose that’s easy to read and often funny.

ow have sex and dating been with their babies strapped on in very and that our identities are composed affected by mobile and digital cool Swedish baby carriers, consulting of everything we’ve ever done, good or Htechnologies? Elizabeth Co- about avocado condition.” shameful. hen’s debut short fiction collection The Many stories follow a standard tra- The role of disabilities and illness in Hypothetical Girl offers answers to this jectory: Woman meets man online, social perceptions of attractiveness and question. While these stories return re- they (sometimes) meet in real life, and worth is a recurring theme. In “The Op- peatedly to a fairly specific sort of char- things (usually) don’t work out for one posite of Love,” Rita learns about her acter and narrative, they pose interest- reason or another. The occasions when great new teaching job, and her stage- ing questions about the nature of the Cohen steps out of these bounds are two breast cancer diagnosis, on the same self in the Internet Age, in prose that’s when things get more interesting. day. Rita wrestles with the question of easy to read and often funny. disclosure, not wanting anyone to know Cohen’s protagonists are generally about her illness or treatment—until she white, heterosexual women she describes The Hypothetical Girl can no longer disguise that clumps of as “of a certain age,” usually meaning by Elizabeth Cohen hair are falling from her head. Meanwhile they are at the cusp of forty, or just past she finds solace on an anonymous In- fifty. Reaching these milestones today Other Press, 2013; 256 pp; $16.95 ternet message board where she can be means re-negotiating romantic and sex- completely truthful. ual agency. In “Dog People,” Clarissa “People Who Live Far, Far Away” meets Harry at a dog park, and this ini- reviewed by turns a commonplace idea—that peo- tial face-to-face encounter is an anoma- Shawn Syms ple are dishonest online—into a short ly—which she recounts to her best but complex and satisfying story. Miko friend via Facebook chat. In “The Hardness Factor,” Estelle, is not an Icelandic yak farmer and Misty Though there are similarities between a secretary at the God Bless America is not a twenty-three-year-old model— Cohen’s characters, they aren’t com- meatpacking plant, prepares for a first and when each reveals their “true” self, pletely monochromatic. There are mul- meeting with self-described “ugly man” they’re still lying. In actuality he is a tiple references to Jewish identity, and Charlie while fending off non-stop mes- paraplegic war veteran, she a caretaker more than one Jewish/Latino cross-cul- sages from her septuagenarian texting- for a severely disabled twin sister—the tural relationship. These women are for addict mother. Throughout the day, Es- irony being that each may have under- the most part middle class: they teach telle views herself in mirrors and sees stood one another if they had taken the yoga, have memorized Shakespeare, someone different looking back at her, a risk to be honest. cook with pine nuts. Cohen’s gaze is reflection upon the constructed nature Despite frequent tonal similari- knowing and occasionally satirical. In of the online self. Cohen reveals how ties, the stories in The Hypothetical “Life Underground,” the single Alana beauty and ugliness are as much about Girl offer smooth prose and thematic observes her local grocery: “Couples social and economic class as looks, complexity. »

64 << REVIEW >>

Filled with drama, thrilling action, and surprising wrenches of plot, the narrative is enhanced with more than fifty pages of “authentic, vintage, found photographs” that Riggs took several years to collect, and which have been left unaltered save for a few.

“Peculiarness is determined by genes, not senses the hollows nearby, Olive Abro- Filled with drama, thrilling action, geography. But large portions of the pecu- holos Elephanta floats like a balloon to and surprising wrenches of plot, the liar world have simply not been explored.” spy upon the enemies below, Millard narrative is enhanced with more than Mullings is invisible and wreaks his own fifty pages of “authentic, vintage, found o says a character in Ransom Riggs’ havoc, Emma creates flames with her photographs” that Riggs took several Hollow City, Riggs’ second unique hands while Hugh Apiston belches bees years to collect, and which have been Snovel about the riveting adven- to attack intruders. As they travel into left unaltered save for a few. Besides tures of the peculiars first introduced and out of time loops, they encounter those depicting such examples in pe- in Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar hens that lay bombs, a talking, pipe- culiardom as an emu-raffe and a house Children. Picking up where book one left perched on a mountain of railroad ties, off, Hollow City recounts with an admi- there are portrait shots of “peculiar rably imaginative mix of dated black Hollow City: The Second personae,” such as Enoch O’Connor and white photographs and sparkling Novel of Miss Peregrine’s who can bring the dead to life for short prose just how peculiar the genes and Peculiar Children spans of time, Claire Densmore who talents of its characters are, and just by Ransom Riggs has an extra mouth in the back of her how widespread the world of peculiar- head and Fiona Frauenfeld, “A silent dom is. It’s a fascinating read for young Quirk Books, 2014; 400 pp; $17.99 girl with a peculiar talent for making and old, peculiar or not themselves. plants grow.” The group, like the boys The several characters are led by on the beach in William Golding’s Lord sixteen-year-old Jacob Portman and reviewed by of the Flies morphs into an ensemble Emma Bloom, “an old crone hiding in Wayne Cunningham cast of memorable characters with a the body of a girl,” because of the time blossoming romance between Jacob loop in which she, Jacob and their friends smoking dog, a teenager with a circular and Emma, fierce leadership rivalry find themselves. They’re on a three-day hole in her mid-section that will “fill in between Jacob and Enoch, and strong mission to deliver their ymbryne, Miss in a day or so,” another who can encase ties between the excessively powerful Alma LeFay Peregrine, now trapped in a building in thick ice, and a folding Bronwyn Bruntley, and the excessively a large bird’s broken-winged body. man who fits neatly into a suitcase. fragile Olive who must wear lead-lined They must get from Wales to London When they arrive in London and travel shoes to keep herself grounded. during the Nazi blitz of the early 1940s through Sir Christopher Wren’s sub- Whether in portraying the genes and to have her returned to her former self. terranean crypt, they find the city isn’t talents of Miss Peregrine’s peculiar Pursued by wights and hollows, they a safe haven for themselves and Miss children or in exploring portions of the need to use their peculiarities to save Peregrine. But there’s more to be told world of peculiardom, Ransom Riggs themselves from various dangers: Jacob in Riggs’s next volume. He promises has done a peculiarly fine job. » suffers pain that makes him puke as he it’s coming soon. << REVIEW >>

Bolen, who writes with Proust’s hallowed sense of history and Chandler’s knack for sharp metaphors, is just so damn good with words that you find yourself stepping up your reading, transfixed by the effects of syntax and wondering at the remarkable things language can do in the quietest moments of a poem, even as you want to push further in the captivating narrative arc he’s built.

oetry, if it’s read outside class- tive syntax. And so part one is a series “On the Supposed Road,” an homage rooms, isn’t something most of trenchant memories few would con- to Kerouac where the speaker unfolds Ppeople like. Reading a poem isn’t sider worthy of tender poetry, as are The a road trip but pauses, wistfully, on the just reading; it’s work. And the object Great Wander, poised on moving away immanent nostalgia of impermanent of that labour can, to average minds, from Vancouver Island, Federal Parole relationships: “and I knew in a certain seem pretentious and self-involved, an Officer, about Bolen’s working life, At- moment/…There would come a regret/ unproofread mess of language that pre- tractions, and Somme Wheat Field, the and the thing most piteous/is how soon tends to be, through its head-scratching last part, an eerily melodic coda to a life it came.” And another from “Witness words, all deep and momentous. Black and the remembrance of its past. Statement”—which is hands-down my Liquor is one of a handful of poetry favourite because it reminds me of Al books I can think of that are decidedly Purdy and is every bit as good—about not like that. Black Liquor: Poems a car accident near the Vancouver train This book, which reads like a memoir by Dennis E. Bolen station and a beautiful woman who wit- pared down to lyrical episodes tracing nesses it: “In me/or might/if time al- the contours of a distinctly West Coast Caitlin Press, 2013; 128 pp; $16.95 lowed/circumstance stood apart/from working-class life, is social realism at its present necessity/or whatever/As long best. Youth, travel, romance, death, his- as she said something.” Yes, charm- tory, and, above all, the work of living. reviewed by ing occurences happen to all of us but One of the works in Growing up Indus- Peter Babiak the attentive syntax, which stands out trial, the first of five parts that structure as Bolen’s signature technique, dem- the volume, is “Mr Rage,” about a WWII But structure isn’t everything. Poetry, onstrates that the thought such events war vet who, in the speaker’s recollec- like Northrop Frye once said, is “lan- produce is never quite so simple. tion of being in grade six in 1964, was “a guage used with the greatest possible According to the book’s epigraph, haunted house on lurching legs.” Some- intensity.” And Bolen, who writes with “black liquor” is a “by-product of the day, he writes, “we would be at history’s Proust’s hallowed sense of history and kraft process”—how you get pulp from displeasure/like him/Ragged and en- Chandler’s knack for sharp metaphors, wood—and each of these poems is flamed.” In G “ reen Canticle,” the only is just so damn good with words that crafted with the exacting meticulous- poem I know that makes a lumber mill a you find yourself stepping up your read- ness of an industrial process of me- sublime object, nine years have passed. ing, transfixed by the effects of syntax chanical and chemical distilation. I It’s 1973 and at work “We are/with cal- and wondering at the remarkable things know Bolen mostly as a writer of gritty lus and leather apron/resin souls/amid language can do in the quietest mo- stories, prose that renders urban ugli- true boards travelling.” Bolen doesn’t ments of a poem, even as you want to ness so lyrically. His movement into mythologize labour, but a mythology push further in the captivating narrative poetry has only honed that ability. » of work is etched out in his delibera- arc he’s built. Here’s an example from

66 << CONTRIBUTOR NOTES >>

Jordan Abel is a Nisga’a writer from Jon Paul Fiorentino is the author of the Brian Palmu is a gambler living on BCs Vancouver. His chapbooks have been poetry collection Needs Improvement, the Sunshine Coast. His reviews have appeared published by JackPine Press and Above/ novel Stripmalling, which was shortlisted for in Canadian Notes & Queries and Ground Press, and his work has appeared in the Paragraphe Hugh MacLennan Prize for Maisonneuve, as well as his own site, numerous magazines and journals across Fiction, and five previous poetry collections, brianpalmu.blogspot.com. Canada, including Prairie Fire, CV2, and including Theory of the Loser Class, which Canadian Literature. Abel’s first book, The was shortlisted for the A. M. Klein Prize and A graduate of Trent University and Ryerson Place of Scraps, was published recently by Indexical Elegies which won the 2009 CBC University, Philip Quinn lives in Toronto and Talonbooks. Books “Bookie” Award for Best Book of online at www.philipquinn.ca. Published Poetry. He lives in Montreal. books include: Dis Location, Stories After the Joanne Arnott is a Métis/mixed-blood writer Flood (Gutter Press 2000); The Double, a and arts activist. She lives in the river. Beth Goobie’s two collections of poetry are novel. (Gutter Press 2003); The SubWay Mother to six young people, all born at Scars of Light (winner of the 1995 Pat Lowther (BookThug 2008); and The Skeleton Dance, home, she has published six books of Award) and The Girls Who Dream Me. She is a novel (Anvil Press 2009). poetry. She edited AWCWC’s Salish Seas currently on a Saskatchewan Arts Board anthology (2011). New books: A Night for writing grant for poetry and lives in Saskatoon, April Salzano teaches writing in the Lady (Ronsdale, 2013); Halfling spring Saskatchewan. Recent publication credits Pennsylvania. She is currently working on (Kegedonce, 2014). include: Descant, The Antigonish Review, and two poetry collections and a memoir on The Malahat Review, with poems forthcom- raising a child with autism. Her work has Peter Babiak is currently working on an as- ing in The New Quarterly and Prairie Fire. appeared in The Camel Saloon, Writing yet-untitled collection of essays. He teaches Tomorrow and Rattle. She is co-editor at English at Langara College in Vancouver. Alban Goulden writes in New Westminster, Kind of a Hurricane Press and was recently BC and Empress, AB—among other places. nominated for two Pushcart awards. Juliane Okot Bitek’s writing has won awards He can’t remember whether or not he has in Canada, United States, and Britain. She an extensive publishing history, has won any Adam Elliott Segal is a Vancouver-raised is currently pursuing a doctoral degree in literary prizes, obtained any university writer currently living in Toronto. His work Interdisciplinary studies at the University degrees, or whether he has ever taken or has been previously published in subTerrain, of British Columbia. She identifies as a taught creative writing. The Feathertale Review, enRoute, Chatelaine, diasporic person, a world citizen, and a Reader’s Digest and The Vancouver Province. guest on this land. Laura Hartenberger lives in Toronto. Her His novel Tether was recently accepted into writing appears or is forthcoming in The the Diaspora Dialogues mentorship Jim Christy is a writer, artist, and tireless Massachusetts Review, Hawaii Review, program where he worked with acclaimed traveller. The author of more than twenty Cutbank Magazine, NANO Fiction, novelist Shyam Selvadurai. His book MMA books, including poetry, short stories, Dragnet and others. Now! is forthcoming in 2014. novels, travel, and biography, his travels have taken him from the Yukon to the Gerilee McBride is a writer and designer Rachel Shabalin is currently working Amazon, Greenland to Cambodia. He has working in the BC publishing industry. towards an English Honours Degree with a covered wars and exhibited his art When not watching old episodes of Creative Writing Concentration at the internationally. Raised in inner city Magnum P.I. she can be found biking, University of Calgary. She is a Research Philadelphia, he moved to Toronto when he pickling things, or dreaming of her next trip Assistant for the Zeugmatic digital was twenty-three years old and became a somewhere sunny. She also occasionally humanities project, and her poetry has Canadian citizen at the first opportunity. blogs about these things at www. appeared in local punk rock zines. talkandnottalk.com Emily Davidson writes and works in Caroline Szpak was born in Istanbul; she’s Vancouver, BC, far from her native Saint Robert Nathan’s fiction has appeared in The lived in Poland, Toronto, Calgary, studied John, NB. Her poetry has appeared in Arc, Maple Tree Literary Supplement and The writing at the University of Victoria, and carte blanche, Descant, The Fiddlehead, and Feathertale Review, and has been longlisted now calls Toronto home again. Her poetry Room. Her fiction was short-listed for The for the CBC Canada Writes Prize. His and fiction have appeared in This Magazine, Malahat Review’s 2013 Far Horizons Award literary journalism has been featured in The subTerrain, CV2, The Maple Tree Literary for Short Fiction. She reviews for the Guardian and The National Post. He is also Supplement, The Week Shall Inherit The Telegraph-Journal. a Killam Doctoral Scholar in History at Verse, and the chapbooks Expense Account, Dalhousie University. Garland Get Your Gun, and Pomeranian Raoul Fernandes lives and writes in Front (from Horse of Operation). Vancouver, BC. His poems have been Stephen Osborne is publisher and editor-in- published in The Malahat Review, CV2, chief of Geist. He is also the award-winning Daniel Zomparelli is the editor of Poetry Is Poetry is Dead, and Event, among others. author of Ice & fire: Dispatches from the New Dead magazine. He writes and works with In 2010 he was a finalist for the Bronwen World. Stephen was the recipient of the magazines across Vancouver including Wallace Award for Emerging Writers. He is inaugural Vancouver Arts Award for Writing Geist, Megaphone Magazine, Sad Mag and an editor for the online poetry journal The and Publishing in 2004 and he won the CBC formerly Adbusters. His first book of poems Maynard (www.themaynard.org) and is Literary Award for Travel Writing in 2003 for Davie Street Translations was published by currently assembling his first manuscript. his essay “Girl Afraid of Haystacks.” Talonbooks. “Poetry can’t wind clocks, but it can tell the LAST WORD (propaganda) or obfuscatory pride (iso- time.” lation). The great R.P. Blackmur: “Art keeps reason on its toes, makes it jump his Ralph Gustafson embedded what Time Is It? and shift its ground, and jump again.” aphorism, from the titular essay And prose, or reason, is paradoxical and Tfi rst published in 1949, denies problematic even at its best. Blackmur the enthusiastic and opposite claims of didn’t write poetry, and Gustafson was Brian Palmu poetry as isolation or propaganda. Arriv- frequently didactic, an unfortunate pro- ing as it did in a climate of hotly critical pensity when it popped up, unintegrat- debate, the three-page assertion picked ed, in his poetry. its way through the often contentious ar- I fi nished A Gentleman of Pleasure, guments made by either side, marshal- the biography of John Glassco written by ling the force of humanistic revelation Brian Busby, this past February the sec- against prevailing beliefs of poetry as ond. The coda states that Glassco’s fu- useless amusement or godly science. cence of 1929 Paris, Glassco’s sprightly neral was held on February the second Poet, translator, pornographer, and classicism couldn’t belie the skewered of 1981. February the second was also memoirist John Glassco demonstrated, facts and fanciful escapades. But as the the date Glassco mistakenly signed, in while wearing those different hats, his author stoutly claimed, when consider- his last written words, and on the day of friend’s typically positive assertion that ing the life of another prominent mem- his death on January the twenty-ninth, (Gustafson, in another essay) “a poem oirist, Casanova, “we grasp the truth that as an inscription to Stephen Scobie for cannot lie; its delight is spoiled.” While man is not only a living creature but the the latter’s copy of Memoirs of Montpar- Glassco’s untruths were often tele- person of his own creation.” In another nasse. Robert McAlmon, Glassco’s sig- graphed, even prominently displayed, episode from the same work, Glassco nifi cant friend from those Paris travels, in various letters and prefaces about and recounts the sculptor Ossip Zadkine’s died on February the second of the same to his prose works, his poems were me- hilarious scorn: “Geometrical forms are year I was born, 1956. February the sec- ticulously ordered, his voice navigating a pernicious nonsense. I object to the full ond is, of course, 2/2, and mathemati- complex emotional architecture with moon, for instance, as a sterile, stupid cally and in certain longstanding spiri- linguistic power and restraint. circle.” That encounter must have left a tual traditions, 2 is the fi rst number of Though Gustafson and Glassco em- mark on the Quebec writer, who, in the duality, of falsehood—the dividing of 1, bodied, in their art, the unapologetic last lines of his later and excellent “Gen- or of unity. And last (or last for now, nobility of poetry’s claims, the ironic tleman’s Farm,” transformed that thought since there’re no end to lies), February and amusing divergences in their vi- into, “[t]he grand design/Must marry the the second is Groundhog Day, and it was sions, one from the other, served to ragged thing, and of the vision/Nothing brilliant sunshine here, dawn to dusk. complicate the traffi c between appear- endure that does not gain through ruin/ The rodent’s shadow, therefore, means ance and truth. Gustafson could walk a The right, the wavering line.” the weather has to conform to freezing hundred yards from his house in winter, But despite the omniprevalence of conditions for another six weeks. (Or and note the “grosbeak/fi ght[ing] for confessional verse the past half-centu- maybe that’s only for marmots in Penn- seeds” (“Wednesday at North Hatley”), ry, poetry is manipulation. Consider sylvania. Lies are confusing, but they’re and even though “chance is against” the fantastical hyperdrama of Milton’s often entertaining.) the narrator, “a gentleness obtains.” “Paradise Lost.” Or the rhetoric of Gins- Prose is fi lled with parallels, off-centre For Glassco, this isn’t just foreign terri- berg’s “Howl.” The oversized narratives if not clumsy. Coincidences. tory (he lived only a hundred or so miles are as likely to occur as an accountant The best poetry is suffused with met- from Gustafson), but a foreign inner booming a Wagnerian aria when enter- aphors, the object as one with its observ- world. He’d walk, or direct his horse, ing his crowded morning offi ce. I’ve al- er, and with the other available objects. down milder spring lanes, but obsess ways been acutely puzzled when anyone The last alarm clock I bought was in over “[d]ull meadows that have gone to promotes a movie or novel by aping the 1981, a Westclox for eight bucks. I’d like seed” (“Deserted Buildings Under Shef- trailer-bite’s “based on a true story,” as to say it was on February the second, but ford Mountain”). if this automatically made the endeav- I don’t know. I slot in a new battery every So who’s telling the truth? Or are the our more authentic. (It’s interesting that six months or so, but it still works even if relativists correct that any assertion, pos- Glassco began submitting poetry with a I have to add three minutes once a week. itive or negative, is simply arrogance? surrealist effort, though he later decried But although everyone can readily access Both, and no. Just because wildly differ- the mode.) multiple and accurate working watches, ent conclusions result from similar ex- Any theory of “truth” necessarily fol- clocks, and microwave digital read-outs, periences doesn’t mean everything’s a lows—more exactly, puffs at the heels many still say it’s noon when it’s mid- subjective absurdity. In Memories of of—creation. Even in the realm of ra- night, and midnight when it’s noon. » Montparnasse, that well-known reminis- tionality, poetry has it over explication

68 “From the font to the cover design to the paper grade, it is a stunning object … it’s just like Anvil Press—the press that comes closest to being Canada’s answer to Brooklyn’s Soft Skull fi ction line —to care about the book as art object time and again.”—GLOBE & MAIL

“one of the country’s most enduring venues for audacious writing.” —BC BOOKWORLD CanLit with a distinctly urban twist!

I’M NOT SCARED OF HYSTERIC THE DELUSIONIST MIRROR ON THE FLOOR YOU OR ANYTHING a novel by Nelly Arcan a novel by Grant Buday a novel by George Bowering Stories by Jon Paul Fiorentino Translated by David & Jacob Homel Vancouver, summer 1962. Originally published in 1967 by Illustrations by Maryanna Hardy In this daring act of self-exami- Cyril Andrachuk and Connie McClelland and Stewart, This collection of comedic nation and confession, the late Chow are both seventeen and and out of print for many years, short stories and exploratory novelist Nelly Arcan explores they’re both falling in love. The Mirror on the Floor was the texts features invigilators, fake the tortured end of a love affair. Delusionist is a funny, sad, and debut novel from an emerging martial arts experts, buskers, Told in the same voice that heart-warming novel about love, young writer named George competitive pillow fi ghters, made her fi rst novel Whore an loss, creativity, and coming to Bowering. Now with over 100 drug runners, and, of course, international success, Hysteric terms with the horrors of history. publications to his credit, we are grad students. chronicles life among the proud to be reissuing Bowering’s twenty- and thirty-somethings, a “Buday’s writing is lean, crisp, fi rst novel. “I’m sure something scares Jon life structured by text messages, thoroughly engaging, and inci- Paul Fiorentino, and maybe it missed cell phone calls, the sive…an exceptional talent.” “Vancouver, the smell and feel of drives him toward the deadpan latest DJs, and Internet porn. —QUILL & QUIRE its fog, the beaches, the bridges, magic he wields so masterfully Stanley Park, the sleazy bars of in these pages. This is a daring “A tremendously strong current “…a great storyteller.” the dock area are all absolutely and funny collection.” runs through this story. A music —DANFORTH REVIEW there in a way that has been curi- —SAM LIPSYTE of breath, and the desire to reach ously diffi cult for other novelists down to the bone and discover the Dragonfl ies is “Deeply imagined to capture.” “This book is one of my truth about relationships between and exquisitely written.” —PHYLLIS GROSSKURTH, favourite reads in ages.” men and women.” —GOODREADS Saturday Night —CHIP ZDARSKY —JOCELYNE LEPAGE, La Presse $20 • 256 pages $18 • 160 pages $20 • 176 pages • Colour Illus. $20 • 168 pages 978-1-927380-93-2 978-1-927380-95-6 978-1-927380-94-9 978-1-927380-96-3

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