It's not quite as bad as Edith's dreams. Not quite. But almost. And that's because Suzette Mayr has a way of writing that pricks beneath the skin. "That night Edith dreams of hares. Hares hanging by their necks, throttled by catgut in a thicket of trees. Someone has executed
If you've glanced at the union regulations for Native writers, you'd have seen this one coming: Eden Robinson explains that it's a requirement. "It’s also a union regulation as a Native writer that you have to write a Trickster story at least once." (This is from an interview by
It is a privilege to confine one's experience of war to a particular season, to the printed page. That must be said. That is certainly a privilege in this world. Even if it should be a right. This summer I have plucked some of these nelgected stories from the
The dead fuel Jesmyn Ward's novels. She feels the weight of their stories; she shoulders them, shares them. In Sing, Unburied, Sing, their chorus of voices - even in the epigraphs but also in the novel - reverberates between and beyond the covers. Ward's are heart-shattering stories. But they
One August morning, I sat down with Angela Lopes' Bridge Retakes. The neighbourhood was pulsating with summer noise. A house was being constructed six doors down, prettifying work was underway two doors down, a landscaper's leaf-blower was out of sight but roaring, and a neighbour's grandson was cranky about
