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Past Issue

Cover Image: Party Birds by Lindsey Childs
Winter 2017, Volume 37, No.4
VOLUME 37, NO.4, WINTER 2016/2017
New works from Méira Cook, John O'Neill, Di Brandt & more! Also a tribute to Turnstone Press's 40th birthday with pieces by Dennis Cooley, Patrick Friesen, Sylvia Legris, Brenda Sciberras and many, many more.

Table of Contents

Sarah Klassen—Two Poems
Méira Cook—Pie Americana
Jeanette Lynes—Three Poems
Barbara Schott—Pelican Child
John O’Neill—Goth Girls of Banff
Ceridwen Hall—Two Poems
Julie McArthur—Red Light 262
Cornelia Hoogland—Two Poems
David Bradford—Trees
Anna Maxymiw—Timber wolf
Alice Stinetorf—Two Poems
Di Brandt—Two Poems
Karen Enns—Leaving Union Station

Turnstone at 40

melanie brannagan frederiksen—Turnstone Press and Prairie Literary Culture
David Arnason—How It Came to Be
Robert Enright —Wording Birding: A Flighty Memoir
W.D. Valgardson—No Shame
Patrick Friesen—A Memory Sketch
Dennis Cooley—On Robert Kroetsch and Turnstone
David Waltner-Toews—David Waltner-Toews (in 2016) reflects on Turnstone Press (in 1978)
Gary Geddes—How I Became Engaged
Pamela Banting—Rabbit, Magician, Thin Air, Hat: Turnstone Press as a Kind of Magic Trick
Steven Ross Smith—Turnstone Press Rocks On
Armin Wiebe—Turnstone Passages
Karen Connelly—Small Monuments
Dave Williamson—Reviewing, Writing, Editing
Sylvia Legris—Before Hashtag there was Toe Tag
Alison Preston—Special Delivery
Steven Benstead—The Door Is Always Open
Rob McLennan—My Turnstone
Richard Scarsbrook—Turning Corners with Turnstone
(Or: The Press that Said Yes)
Bob Armstrong—Brainstorming with the Big Boss
Martha Brooks—Songlines
Jeffrey John Eyamie—A Tip of the Hat to the Literary Press Marketer
Brenda Sciberras—Shore bird



Bob Armstrong
David Arnason
Pamela Banting
Steven Benstead
Melanie Brannagan Frederiksen
Martha Brooks
Dennis Cooley
Karen Connelly
Robert Enright
Jeffrey John Eyamie
Patrick Friesen
Gary Geddes
Sylvia Legris
Anna Maxymiw
Rob McLennan
Alison Preston
Steven Ross Smith
Richard Scarsbrook
W.D. Valgardson
David Waltner-Toews
Armin Wiebe
Dave Williamson


Miera Cook
Julie McArthur
John O'Neill


David Bradford
Di Brandt
Karen Enns
Ceridwen Hall
Cornelia Hoogland
Sarah Klassen
Jeanette Lynes
Barbara Schott
Brenda Sciberras
Alice Steintorf

Fiction Excerpt
Goth Girls of Banff
BY John O'Neill

Wanna add some edge to your mountain experience? To sharpen the dull blade of things, and let darkness descend, like beautiful sleep but with your eyes wide open? Call the Goth Girls of Banff. Available for photo shoots, social events, hikes, campfires, singly or in groups. Fully outfitted in deepest and darkest Gothwear, we can be more or less Vampiric, more or less Victorian, more or less Silent Film Man-Eaters and Vamps, and more or less Necromantic and Living Dead, according to special requests. If you’re tired of silly Tilley hats and Gore-Tex, cotton and khaki and crave a touch of leather and lace, we’re the gory Goth girls dressed up just for you. We’re all about Goth aesthetics, no funny business, no sticky situations, no touchy-feely or long longing gazes, and absolutely no fiddly long-term relations. Interactions start at $100 per hour. Prices negotiable for entire afternoons. Can talk evenings for a fee. Request times, locations and nature of encounters. Terms and conditions apply and must be set prior to engagements. Goth Girls of Banff. We’ll wrap dark wings around your wilderness day...

Poetry Excerpt
Projection in Teal
BY Alice Stinetorf

Show me the colour of no animal
that walks this earth. No flower’s shade.
I’ll paint portraits of a mother curled
upon a hammock, flattened blades
of grass, hereditary cloaks.

Non-Fiction Excerpt
Timber wolf
BY Anna Maxymiw

Timber wolf

It’s obvious that something nameless exists up here. This fishing lodge is so far north it barely exists on Canadian maps; we employees had to fly in on rickety floatplanes because Northern Ontario terrain is so rough that roads do not—cannot—reach where we now are. We’re beyond regulated topography. We exist between 160 square kilometres of thick water, a snarl of black-spruce forest, and a feeling: a pressure, a presence, there in the way I feel when I take a few steps into the thicket of woods and I’m clasped by silence; there in the urge to lock the cabin door at night; there in the reluctance to go swimming in the lake on my own. It’s something vaunted that exists beneath the leaves and between the trees, something that curls around my forehead and elbows. Something that has teeth, but chooses when to use them. Something that calls, announces itself: Here I am. Come find me. Come search for the part of you that the wild took...