February 08, 2019

How To Be An Expert Persuader

This sounds like the beginning of a brutal experience, that I personally
form and continue
immediately after the first kiss is finished.
Sometimes – in broad daylight –
You ll be my
breath, and vice versa. How many of the common things I and others thought we were doing

How to Develop the Guts to Talk

another place would tell of women and people in the prime of life.
Half-Truths To Desperate Newcomers.
interspersed through her own story.

Introduction to Floating

our entire bodies have always been the most powerful form of visual expression.
efforts, and laughs,
Back that Deep
decline, where
And practical explanations
are worth the attention to create a “balance”.

Why Conditions Are Just Fantastic Illusions?

but even so, writing frequent love letters with words
Becomes A Problem, What s The
do the flowers look different in different weather conditions.
Do you feel slimy and unclean? Are you always fatigued? Are
your roses. Realize that rain water
of unpredictable weather
means rising


Clara Lynas is a Toronto based artist and writer, she is currently working on a collection of Horse Ebooks poetry.

February 13, 2019

it slipped from me for a while, but even so I could hear it sing through every passing rustling branch I could feel it through the slow victory of the roots taking stance in the ground breaking free between cracks of cement, on top of the soil I sit and feel the swing beneath me carrying me up upupward, supported by the cherry tree branches that have been cut, what that means is I’m struggling to conceptualize a world without branches once I got used to their support how do I grow my own roots so they spill out of me to try and fill the gap because I had the privilege of security for a while picking raspberries in the garden, mulberries, pears, sweet and now decaying, soil dusted particles retained in my memory struggling to recall your voice from afar, yet within as I recall, so close, I lost my branches in the fall, there were plastic jugs cut in half filled with love and cherries, now dreams signifying home, I yearn for the raspberries again againagainagain growing beside the sunflowers growing highhigher piercing the sky with bright yellow points greeting the atmosphere, I never got to say goodbye somehow you never really do you never really want to and I don’t know how I’m losing my conception of linear time searching the cellar for spirits in the hanging dried chilies among the jars of sauce, preserves, pickled green tomatoes, the unfinished doll house with its bare walls next to the full freezer filled with food and the ice cream I’d be offered: three colours: pink, brown, and white; I only wanted the pink and the brown like petals bursting through the earth the happiness swirled and melted me down into the greenhouse again where life and death intermingle, wilting leaves leave me breathless with a feeling of heaviness I’d only experienced in nightmares and I can’t wake up I’m already awake and I’m already awake and I see the cherry tree from the rooftop of the shed after climbing the rickety ladder with watchful eyes and sturdy arms at the ready behind me helping me grab the ripe red jewels before the pesky birds he still loved reached them first, and now I stand only with the wind and the leaves and I’m letting the breeze consume me as I’m learning how to catch myself so please, for now, just stay with me through the wind and trees and cherry leaves

Samantha Greco is from Toronto, Ontario, and spends her free time walking a rose laden heath to find her words by listening to the singing honey bees. 

February 17, 2019

There is no Albuquerque. And I am beautiful.

Kathy Fish, Wild Life


There is nothing more frightening than what scared us as children.


The Ghost Goes West (1935): The plot centres on a restless spirit, Murdoch Glourie, shown to have died “a coward’s death” in battle, forced to remain in the purgatory of his family castle. Decades pass, and the castle is purchased by a rich American businessman, who dismantles the building and relocates it, brick by ghostly brick, to Florida. How young must I have been when I saw this? Billed as a romantic/fantasy film, but etched into me is the scene of the clansman Glourie frantically searching the battlefield for a weapon, before he is finally killed in an explosion of gunpowder. A scene that still incites a knot in my stomach. The memory of the memory replacing the memory itself.



“The Day New York Turned Blue,” McCloud, Season 6, Episode 6 (February 22, 1976): As the IMDB entry for the episode reads: “The third ‘Alamo’ episode has a blizzard and a police walkout endangering the life of a protected Mob witness in the lockup, while outside a prostitute paints her customers blue!” Too young to recall but for a singular thread: a sequence of men who wake, naked and alone, on their living room floors, their skin head to toe painted a deep, azure blue. Why does this episode, long misfiled in my memory as a television movie, stick even at all? As each man awoke, the pretty young culprit was gone. A city of naked, blue men. I can’t for the life of me remember why she was doing this. Sometimes my recollection suggests she was killing them; other times, not.



“There Will Come Soft Rains,” from Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles (1950): The story of a computer-controlled house in the not-too-distant future (originally April 28, 1985, but updated to August 4, 2026 in later printings) that performs daily tasks such as cooking and cleaning, even as the shadows of the family, vaporized by nuclear blast, remain burnt on an outside wall. The family dog returns, terminally-injured, and is recognized, only to die on the floor. The house handles his corpse with remarkable efficiency; almost a tenderness. The thought of those shadows still cause me to shiver.

Born in Ottawa, Canada’s glorious capital city, rob mclennan currently lives in Ottawa, where he is home full-time with the two wee girls he shares with Christine McNair.

February 28, 2019

spiked raw on fresh flower cuttings
cold hand tile floor, alone

in the shopping aisle your grip’s
wearing too thin i think
you need something to believe in—

my icon is a bottle shattered
on curbside. ball of crystal ice. i

divine with eyes transfixed, mark
the future with to-do lists, see

our faces in other lights, gaze
through each blind find
rays from different suns—

plan—yearn—project, i
bring you tomorrow like a gift

an offering a quiet promise
but you tread too loud
and it’s hard to know

you’re trying
to drown
my power-symbol

Lina is a Toronto-based artist who is figuring out how to be soft and strong at the same time.