Alexa, play that song that goes, “those black-eyed peas, they tasted alright to me, Earl.”
I like the slow build-up of warmth, he said, the creeping anticipation of the lengthening days and strengthening sun and—
I soon realized that having a sounding board when I’m trying to work out a sticky plot point is invaluable. Sometimes just the act of saying it out loud can help ideas to congeal into something tangible.
I am the slow spurt of water, reluctant, always too hot and always too cold. I am three hairs stuck to the shower wall in different coloured shapes and lengths that are so far from home they’ll never be un-lost.
I’m back again with ten more quality literary publications that are based in Canada. Most of these magazines accept submissions from all over the world, but for all my fellow Canadian writers, it’s a little bit special to find a home for your work that is close to home.
It’s overcast and gloomy, and the tin shacks sprinkled alongside the road look somber, as if they’re depressed too when the sun’s not out.
Perhaps that is just what the increasingly heavy state of the world does to us. It seems an insurmountable challenge to be joyfully creative when there are much weightier issues to be concerned with.
We must evacuate alike; we all will suffer loss, equal now if only in our devastation. Our memories go up in smoke as we flee. What are we running to? There is no future.
Give your readers a sense of who you are, lend credibility to your writing, and arouse interest in your work.
It’s that kind of day where you pray for a whisper of a breeze to kiss the beads of sweat that sting your eyes. You don’t move a muscle, lying on the dock, fingers trailing in tepid water. The lump of a secret too huge to swallow grows in your throat until you think you’llContinue reading “There’s a Fist-Sized Hole in the Kitchen Window”