The first years of my life were exhausting.
short story
Roger was seven when he died.
I never cared for hockey.
As I step out of the rusted station wagon, the unforgettable scents of Vancouver Island strike me — lilac, gravel, and salt.
Bonnie’s parents had said they would be back in five minutes.
At night, Misha dreamt of being a witch.
I push the ocular lenses into my tear ducts until I hear a faint click.
In a bar where a flickering cocktail sign lends respite to weary travellers, a man sits and he watches his world burn.
Josh wants nothing to do with my idea of digging up half the back lawn.
Tendrils of purple vine, voices floating on temperate air—Findlay park, empty in the cold morning dew, was now brimming in the warm embrace of midday.
You must be logged in to post a comment.