Nothing.

No…it didn’t start here. Not with the pissed man clutching a crushed beer can in fear on his knees. Not with the other over the wall…somewhere…split. 

After all, it’s only been how many hours? since I stopped staring at the blank wall of the TV. Only so many hours since I’d finally started listening to that other voice, like I should have been all along. I just walked out of the house and into the concrete cold, aiming for the usual trip to the WORLD’s BIGGEST MALL, or so it was once. That should have been the nothing of it. 

And then the surprises came.  

“M-mac…?”

Nothing much else comes out of him, the beer-piss puddle beneath the man growing as grows the effects of the adrenaline I know I can’t let go of now, no, not now. Not ever. There wasn’t a “going back”. I’d already let go. 

No, it didn’t start here. 

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Spill

A while back I had the honour of having both a short story and a small book review published in the inaugural issue of The Bolo Tie Collective‘s annual anthology. While the book review takes a lighter approach to a local author’s short publication, the short story below casts a dark shadow on Edmonton’s 104th Avenue, where “Spill” takes place.

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