as of June 22, we’re ONLY on Instagram with a new mandate: “One image. One sentence. One story.”
on cold winter mornings / face shrouded in black veils / girls marching to six o’clock Mass
1.5 million pounds of soil raised to the 4th floor of Calgary’s CORE shopping complex supports an inner- city oasis. The Devonian Gardens are open publically during mall hours. Oil executives employed nearby visit the green-space on lunchbreaks, eluding the paupers of Stephen Ave. in +15s returning […]
We did not talk. You were too high and I was enamoured with the symphony of sounds coming from rushing waters beating against soft rock on the bottom of the riverbed.
She heard it crack, felt it flatten beneath her. She experienced a moment of relief before the panic—if there’s one, there will be others, she thought.
I’ve known too many people who’ve left.
“Later he will associate running faucets and the shadows of mid-afternoon with his grandmother’s bloodshot eyes and tension-stooped back. Blood and screams and broken bodies are banal compared to a tap left running, to an elongation of shadow on a kitchen floor.”
“I dance around it, as we always dance around it, not wanting to make it a big deal, but wanting to make it maybe just big enough that maybe they’ll be able to help.”
“You should read this book!” “Why?” “Because I liked it!” “But you also like Iggy Azalea.” I’ve decided to fill my summer editorials with mini book reviews! The goal is to save time for my community and others to navigate which books they might want to […]
When she was little, she always ran her baths too hot. She would sit on the edge, naked flesh pricked with goosebumps, running cold water in and stirring it, flinching at the hot current that made her hand flush.
People don’t want to be rock stars or actors or authors, they want to be rock stars who act in movies and who just saw their memoir hit the New York Times Bestseller list.
Nineteen thirty-seven was Icarus in seamed stockings. My grandmother spent nights praying for the blanched bones of Amelia Earhart, femur and sacrum floating somewhere in a blackened sea. Gravity could kill a gal. Now, Google tells me that my fear of flying is an inherited nervousness, a bred-in-the-bone type […]
“if an idea is painted, a history, a desire / a colour is not just a colour”
“I wrote this in response to Xan West’s article on myths about “topping” in kink dynamics. West’s piece suggests some of the ways in which tops/dominants tend to be seen as selflessly offering an experience to bottoms/submissives, obfuscating the top’s own pleasures and desires…”
“Unlearning—unmaking the weapons with which we so easily, so automatically harm people—is part of our responsibility as settlers and a process that is necessarily uncomfortable, difficult, and destructive.”
“In my mind’s eye I saw a generic house, some generic suburbs. The home I’d bolted from.”
“Whose place are we going to?” He asks. Sylvie shrugs. It’s like this: they always feel entitled to a space in your bed.
“What makes the shot so beautiful is that I almost died taking it, almost froze myself into the landscape.”
“I was fifteen years old when she told me for the first time.”
“We can do nothing but motion forward in this jungle world, searching for those moments where our feathers shed and our trees stand taller than they have before.”
The bones in my body are frail, my sanity is fragile. The bones in my body do not form a skeleton—they form a carcass.
When we first got together (yes it was summer, and yes it was humid, and yes the light on her face through the lace curtains in her room was dappled and soft) we would talk about how we’d never cause each other any pain.
One often hears the response, “Of course I’m a feminist – I grew up with four sisters,” or, “I have two daughters.” It rarely concludes with, “and I reciprocated their effort by providing _____.”
She didn’t shudder and she didn’t say anything because she didn’t think HR would know how to deal with her boss projecting his phantom hands into her clothing.
You’d see them on the side of roads, too, with their necks twisted: bodies toward the road, eyes to the trees.
Because you are ugly, you deserve it. Because you are beautiful, so beautiful. Beautiful, don’t you know that. Because self-love is a nice concept, but not compulsory…
I was thinking about what it means to be a member of a group, to be driven by an idea, buying stuff, and how advertising can compel us to do things. The girl in the picture seems like she could inspire such a crowd.
Is it possible that skyscrapers too have roots, dug deep into the concrete that has increasingly replaced the Earth?
I believe that those who benefit the most from systems of violence are the most responsible to dismantle them.
“She’s watching herself hover above ground as the medication kicks in. Limbs go numb and the colours fade to a gentle hum of grey. Mood has been stabilized…”
“Her body is a symbol of victory for patriarchy- the self-effacing female imprinted onto the minds of millions like a postcard of a battleship at rest.”
Steady hands both shame and flaunt her
I wanted to be a part of a club but I couldn’t talk about it. There is no evidence of my membership.
“…rolling them around in her mouth until they were soft, chewing and swallowing until the whole mess was inside.”
Adam was born, struggling not to see his own self-proclaimed identity as a “loner” or “introvert”, but failing under the inescapable lights of the hotel.
Discussing the nuances of racial, class, and gender differences are imperative to the feminist movement.
“This story is about trying to disengage oneself from the loneliness of the modern world; it’s an attempt to articulate what that thing is that we’ve misplaced.”
“There’s something beautiful about learning to replace understanding with empathy, about reaching out and touching the tendril even though you can’t stick to it.”