As a Saskatchewan writer, what is our relationship to the land, to place — where is home? It’s a question I’ve been asking myself a lot lately, for a host of reasons. The first reason being winter, of course. Many writers find solitude in the written word during the...
Day 111 - A Snippet Once a year, the small cafe with steel countertops serves a menagerie of pie; Jack Daniels and sticky walnut, lemon with meringue that beads to the roof of your mouth, pumpkin with an ever-so-crunchy lard crust; all in celebration of a day just for...
Here's a nice little snippet of things to come: 273 Days. Here's to 2025. - Miguel F. | Day 222 out of 273 Days | Her home just off the main drag in Prince George serves as a museum for me. The walls — faint egg yolk, dying sunlight, tarnished daisy yellow — are...
The frostbitten heifer with a pink peeling nose is hauled up the steps of the silver-haired farmer's steps, clunk, clunk, clunk. The two bedroom farm house is a mirage of gold in the screaming whorl of snow eviscerating the formerly flat and stubbled fields...
I am enraptured by the idea of those who live forever; who seek a future between pebbles on the side of the highway, in cracks on stone paths once wandered, the space between stars in the Andromeda Galaxy. In the early twilight — horizon sagging with the light of...
Penultimate in her revelation, life oozes from the apex of the woman lying in the truck bed beneath stars. Red-hot, startled, she explores the bulging buds, heavy with sap, virginal and exposed, a mirror of mother Gaia. She runs her fingers along the green stems,...