Fiction
This dialogue is a piece of fiction. A conversation I imagined between two communications professionals within the Quebec government, attempting to write a memo to the state of New York about the refugees streaming into Canada via Roxham Road without sounding like racist assholes. In the end it doesn’t
Fiction
Four-letter words, the prompt said. Well that’s a struggle. No, not like that. I have lots of swear words swirling around my brain. I am a military-grade swearing machine. I mean, not to boast or anything, but I’m practically a walking verbal weapon. And because I swear in
Fiction
[Content warning: This piece of fiction contains sexual violence and self-harm.] She had a black eye and it hurt like hell. He told her he hadn’t meant it and besides it was her fault for not blocking him better. It was always her fault. Like she was stupid or
Fiction
She didn’t remember that grove of trees. Which, you are quite right, is ridiculous. How can a grove of trees look any different than another grove of trees? She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the low branches hitting the ground at the wrong angle. Or maybe it was
Fiction
Nobody ever goes to England for the warmth. I brought mine with me. And so did she. I came from Montréal, she from Brazil. I don’t remember her name. Only how she felt. Dancing, I like to say, is the body laughing. At least when it’s done well.
Fiction
Independence means happiness and hotdogs and fireworks. Not to me, it doesn’t. Independence requires freedom. And I am not free, my love. I am angry. I am a prisoner of my anger. I have done so much work on myself but you know, the work keeps expanding. I was
Fiction
(Artist/artiste: R. Robson) You’re not supposed to look at your phone when you cross a big downtown street, but you know how it is and please don’t judge me. L’urgence présumée de la situation et le petit bing annoncant l’arrivée d’un message sans doute
Fiction
(Artist/artiste: Catherine Robson) Once the skin on your chest stretches away from your body like mozzarella on a grotesque version of human pizza, it’s too late. Trop tard pour avertir les parents que la petite est en danger. Trop tard pour leur faire réaliser que ce qu’ils
Fiction
(Artist/artiste: Jen Robson) C'est toujours dans le coin du kilomètre zéro qui, en fait, n’est pas vraiment un coin, plutôt un cul-de-sac, that I really get my groove on and my balls up. Avant, c’est du réchauffement. Après? Ça dépend. (C’est pour la rime.
Fiction
This is a piece I wrote in 2017 that I recently rediscovered as I was decluttering my online cupboard. It’s weird how your life can change in five years. My kids are now almost all teenagers (the one who isn’t is working hard at it). I’m no
Fiction
La version originale de cette nouvelle, parue en anglais, est disponible sur le site du journal Hash. Tout devait être simple, pourtant. Débarque en Irlande, passe une semaine en compétition de karaté. Ajoute une journée de plus pour aller visiter les pierres tombales des ancêtres en banlieue de Belfast. Retour
Fiction
Early summer 2021. The grocery store. Oh look. Cookies and cream ice cream on special. My kids love cookies and cream ice cream. Bring a tub home. Look kids, I’m not just an evil vegetable tyrant, got you some ice cream! I hate cookies and cream. (Times two, the