Listen to Michael Hornburg’s story on how his children forever changed his relationship to Remembrance Day.

Michael told his story at This Really Happened at WordFest in Calgary, AB on October 9, 2012. [Read more...]

Our newly released print edition of Issue 15 is now available via http://www.magcloud.com/browse/issue/443218. [Read more...]

“Paper Person Gets Cheered Up” was created by Meg Ragauskas, a student at Westmount High School. This is the third in a series of three photo essays created by students in Miss Iulia Tripa’s art class at Westmount High. [Read more...]

“We Don’t Want Bullies” was created by Anne Huang, Dristy Barua, Van Nhi Dang, and Rong Xie, all students at Westmount High School. This is the second in a series of three photo essays created by students in Miss Iulia Tripa’s art class at Westmount High.
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“Fruit Zombie” was created by Kane Rodriguez-Tait, Jarad McFarlane, Justin Winikoff, and Evelyn Richardson-Haughey, all students at Westmount High School. This is the first in a series of three photo essays created by students in Miss Iulia Tripa’s art class at Westmount High. [Read more...]

We’re thrilled to announce that carte blanche’s storytelling series, This Really Happened (TRH), is coming to WordFest in Calgary on October 9, 2012!

Featured performers include: Calgary’s Poet Laureate Kris Demeanor, expat American and father of a Canadian war hero Michael Hornburg, puppeteer and educator Candace Ford-Taperek, memoirist Deni Y. Béchard, global adventurer Marcello di Cintio, and the journalist and author Noah Richler. [Read more...]

I married a schizophrenic man to fly. Right out of that homeless shelter on Beaver Street, the one tucked so low and in between Duane Reade and the Sanitation Department you’d hardly notice it even with its burgundy door. It was sleeping on pavement moments that uncorked me. One night of that and I dropped in to the drop-in centre. That’s what they’re calling them now. Two days homeless and he put his hand in mine. He’s all tornado and moan. He’s hearing voices and I wipe sweat off his temples. I want to grab my hand back, he’s a street guy, a vaquero, a younger guy, a muchacho malo. I don’t. I keep my hand there and he steals indiscriminately from my future. [Read more...]

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At our secret lake the smell of cedars floated on the air, water lapped at a fallen tree, sun warmed the towels we spread on a huge rock. When we went there, we’d lie around in our old pilly swimsuits, or nothing, and not worry about sucking in our stomachs or making conversation. The day washed over us. One time, after a dip in the lake, George asked me, “What’s the opposite of déjà vu?” [Read more...]

I am the daughter who left
Pacing father and busied mother
Staring out the window on the front door of yesterday
Watching as leaves fall
They look for my footprints in the grass
Parched
They sit in their tubewell
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