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Benjy’s educationq&a
photography
- Foggy Day Jim Royal
graphic fiction
- Entropy Aaron Costain
nonfiction
- The Birth of a Grandmother Marianne Ackerman
- Buddy Death Michael K. Gause
- Arctic Journal Guido Romeo
- Pedalling Forward Shayne Woodsmith
poetry
- I Remember Patrice Desbiens
Translated by Alison Newall - For Emile Nelligan Kelly Norah Drukker
- Granite Music Kiril Kadiiski
Translated by Ann Diamond - Changing Winter Tires Julie Mahfood
- Emasculation Julie Mahfood
- Heart of Split Branka Petrovic
- One Stormy Night Gina Roitman
fiction
- The Day I Washed Her Hair Andrea Dyck
- Straight Down the Hall and to Your Left Lindsey Emes
- The Three Stages of Boiling Sarah Gilbert
- A Single Life Katharine O'Flynn
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nonfiction
The Birth of a Grandmother
Marianne Ackerman
I have nothing meaningful to say about what happened after that. Giving birth is awful, a truly violent, hideously painful ordeal. Of course it all blows over when you see the little thing. But before that, it’s wicked. [Read more...]
poetry
Changing Winter Tires
Julie Mahfood
When she tells him
the mechanic called,
her front brakes need
replacing, his reply
breaks up
into
single-
cell
organisms:
[Read more...]
fiction
The Three Stages of Boiling
Sarah Gilbert
“What kind of pot do you have?”
This line of questioning pried right into our kitchen. Touchy territory. “A white one?”
“Porcelain,” she noted, a generous term for the thick pot with a stained crack running down its side.
She made notes and disappeared behind the black velvet curtain at the back of the store. I was left in front, alone. In The Book of Tea, Okakura Kakuzo says that Teaism is a cult founded on the adoration of the beautiful among the sordid facts of everyday existence. [Read more...]
fiction
The Day I Washed Her Hair
Andrea Dyck
In one moment, I am close to her. I can smell cold cream and cigarettes, my nose in her neck. I play with the gold cross she wears there, fingering it and watching the light change it yellow and gold. My hair is wet and I can feel her shoulder getting damp. Her arms are wrapped around me, my knees to my chest, the flannel of my nightie soft against my skin. It is clean and smells like it came off the line, just like the sheets on the bed. The TV glows blue. Her breaths are slow and deep, and I am falling asleep. [Read more...]