Spring 2026, Volume 47, No. 1

$14.95

Cover photo by Ian McCausland

Fiction
Sheldon Birnie
Hannah Godfrey
Zilla Jones
David A. Robertson
James Scoles

Poetry
Jody Baltessen
Katherine Bitney
Di Brandt
Gillian Crawford
Kristian Enright
Joanne Epp
Lorri Neilsen Glenn
Kirstian Lezubski
Benjamin Paulic
Marjorie Poor
Kerry Ryan
Brenda Sciberras
Angeline Schellenberg
Jordyn Sheldon
Sabrina Spenser Smith

Creative Non-Fiction
Bob Armstrong
Tanis MacDonald
Linda Trinh

Fiction Preview

The Grandfather Clock by David A. Robertson

Silence on the rez was complete, especially where Gideon was. He lived in a prefab house in the forest to the north of the highway; he said that his home had been embraced by trees, which were insulators against the rumble of traffic, sporadic though it was, and other ambient sounds, except the sounds within the natural barrier that encased him. Those sounds, like the yawn of the poorly constructed floor under the weight of his step, were typically of his own doing, but an owl, somewhere nearby, had taken to hooting and cooing after the sun completed its journey west. The owl’s call was a relatively new, albeit prolonged, occurrence; it bothered him when it first presented itself, but he’d become so used to it that it helped him fall asleep at night. The owl was a white noise machine. Gideon began talking to the owl, so it became more than a sleep aid, although it had a limited vocabulary. Gideon tailored his questions so the owl’s responses weren’t nonsensical.

“I missed him a lot today,” he said, his gaze fixed on the window, which offered blackness, as if his eyes were already closed.

“Who?” asked the owl.

Gideon’s moshom had few possessions, but he had many relatives scattered about the reserve and even more living off-reserve. Unless somebody had been earmarked to receive a specific item, what little he owned was distributed evenly and dispassionately. Gideon had always liked his moshom’s grandfather clock; it announced itself every hour and revealed more of a song starting at 1:00 am until playing the entire song at 5:00 am, followed by a chime for every hour up until twelve, at which point it would reset. He liked the progression of the grandfather clock’s hollow ding and enjoyed counting along once it had played the complete melody and began counting down the hours.

“When I’m gone, you can have it,” Moshom said. “When you hear the notes, you’ll know I’m thinking of you.”

This promise came when Gideon was a boy. The prospect of his moshom’s death seemed impossible, so he was happy to accept the offer; he was sure that it would never be fulfilled.

Creative Non-Fiction Preview

Not Waving, Not Drowning by Tanis MacDonald

I can’t tell what time it is. The wind shrieks and doesn’t give me any clues. It’s dark. I can hear waves crashing, a steady push beneath the wind.

This is not a story with tragedy at its core.

It’s late afternoon or maybe early evening at a large A-frame cottage on Lake Winnipeg. It’s 1978. The time of day is important, though the fact that I can’t recall whether we had eaten dinner or not seems to be an error in observation, something I ought to remember given what happens next. But I don’t.

I remember feeling a little off-balance. I am sixteen and a guest at this cottage; in fact, I’m a guest twice-removed, as I am the guest of my friend Robin and her parents, and the four of us have come this

day to this other cottage on the same lake, a beautiful second home owned by old friends of Robin’s parents who have a son, Alec, just a year younger than Robin and me. The cottage that Robin’s parents own is more modest than this expensive A-frame, this swanky chalet. My parents do not have a cottage. They have a slightly mouldy well used tent-trailer. I am very aware that I am lucky to be invited here, lucky to be included. I have been reminded by my parents that I should mind my manners and not push the limits of hospitality.

On this late afternoon or early evening at the height of summer, just before the evening meal or just after, we decide to take out the canoe. Or Robin and Alec decide, as this is their summer place. In my role as guest of a guest, I do a lot of agreeing, nodding assent like I’m made of it. The sun is still high in the sky and won’t set until 9:00 or 9:30; there are hours of daylight left. Robin and Alec indulge in some jokey competition about who will sit where and relegate me to the middle spot of the canoe. Alec takes the stern and Robin the bow. He is tall in swim trunks and a tank top, while Robin is broad-shouldered, short and curvy in her one-piece bathing suit and shorts. Both are tanned by the summer sun and I am city-pale. I wear a T-shirt and shorts, with socks and runners, assuming we’d be getting out of the canoe and walking at some point. No one remarks on this gaucherie until I am climbing in and see that the other two are casually, cottage-kid barefoot. By then everyone’s too eager to leave so I don’t stop and take off my shoes, though I ask for and receive a life jacket to a chorus of mock-pained cries of “Don’t you trust us?!” Robin and Alec don’t take life jackets, each citing their excellent swimming skills; Robin has Bronze Cross certification and has passed an Assistant Lifeguard course. Alec is a year behind in the same course of study, but he’s a strong swimmer and will take the test soon. I can swim, but comparatively, I’m the weakest swimmer among the three of us, and they treat me like I’m bone china.

We push off from the dock, with their two sets of parents waving from the dock, the cedar deck, and the barbeque pit. Back in an hour, my friends shout, gleeful for this getaway, for the still-fresh thrill of navigating under their own power, for the chance to show off in front of me.

Poetry Preview

To the fawn on the offramp at dusk by Kerry Ryan

Empress Street overpass where, all summer,
wildfire evacuees have watched commuters
circulate eight lanes of Portage Avenue

You’ve been browsing the cemetery
nestled between the Assiniboine and Red Lobster,
by the little church that’s outlasted every arson attempt

Four wrong steps and now your soft body
and my car locked in this concrete chute,
halogen eyes flashing, box breathing

Traffic gazers perch on barrier meant to protect,
backpacks distending into roadway, and we both hear
my friend, speaking about the freight of her life:

I have no margin.
I edge past as you tiptoe to parking lot, lower snout,
make a meal of litter and weeds.