Currently, I am working on my debut story collection, to be published in 2026. The collection will feature the pieces below + many more.
Stay tuned!
WE ARE BUSY BEING ALIVE
Selected for Biblioasis Best Canadian Stories 2026 anthology
subTerrain, vol. #97
Print Only
3,000 words
🖼️: Melanie Choi
///
After dropping Tommi to work, Maxine drives aimlessly through the gated community. Folks sit on shaded porches, watching sprinklers spout water over the spiky St. Augustine grass from a community system which rations out the water every third day between eight and nine. The porch-sitters shift their gaze to her passing car, the movement surpassing slightly the excitement of a sprinkler.
Initially, she was tempted to embrace the attitude of her husband: teens will be teens, he said this morning, before scurrying out the door an hour earlier than he’d ever left for work. But this response too much reminded Maxine of her own parents. You’ve emerged from oblivion, well congratulations, we’re entering it, her mother once said, to dismiss a debate with a fiery, teenaged Maxine. She shudders, driving past identical stucco homes, lawns without sidewalks, and a man-made lake dyed turquoise. If oblivion is anywhere, it is here.
Maxine initiates a benevolence meditation, channelling a universal force which merges her hands with the leather of the steering wheel, the rumble of the engine, and the forest surrounds. This is one of many daily activities which constitute a holistic campaign to preserve her well-being and longevity. Without a clue which expert’s claims to believe (she has consumed them all), she took the kitchen-sink approach: retinols, fasts, blue zone diet, ten-mile walks, 4 a.m. wake-ups, cold plunges, and an $100 monthly spend on vitamins and supplements. She recognizes that, beyond her physical maintenance, Tommi is her ticket to the youth, the zeitgeist. In exchange for access, Maxine would be Tommi’s champion. No — Maxine will be her champion (best to use affirmative language). At book club and oyster Thursday, when the ladies groan about their teenagers, Maxine will be the youth’s representative.
To close the meditation, she recites a brief maxim — lapses in mindfulness are the root of all your perceived flaws. In her spellbound moment she allows the car to drift to the shoulder and, before correcting the wheel, runs over a cluster of small turtles. This she does not notice thanks to the suspension of the Range Rover.
///
-
///
After dropping Tommi to work, Maxine drives aimlessly through the gated community. Folks sit on shaded porches, watching sprinklers spout water over the spiky St. Augustine grass from a community system which rations out the water every third day between eight and nine. The porch-sitters shift their gaze to her passing car, the movement surpassing slightly the excitement of a sprinkler.
Initially, she was tempted to embrace the attitude of her husband: teens will be teens, he said this morning, before scurrying out the door an hour earlier than he’d ever left for work. But this response too much reminded Maxine of her own parents. You’ve emerged from oblivion, well congratulations, we’re entering it, her mother once said, to dismiss a debate with a fiery, teenaged Maxine. She shudders, driving past identical stucco homes, lawns without sidewalks, and a man-made lake dyed turquoise. If oblivion is anywhere, it is here.
Maxine initiates a benevolence meditation, channelling a universal force which merges her hands with the leather of the steering wheel, the rumble of the engine, and the forest surrounds. This is one of many daily activities which constitute a holistic campaign to preserve her well-being and longevity. Without a clue which expert’s claims to believe (she has consumed them all), she took the kitchen-sink approach: retinols, fasts, blue zone diet, ten-mile walks, 4 a.m. wake-ups, cold plunges, and an $100 monthly spend on vitamins and supplements. She recognizes that, beyond her physical maintenance, Tommi is her ticket to the youth, the zeitgeist. In exchange for access, Maxine would be Tommi’s champion. No — Maxine will be her champion (best to use affirmative language). At book club and oyster Thursday, when the ladies groan about their teenagers, Maxine will be the youth’s representative.
To close the meditation, she recites a brief maxim — lapses in mindfulness are the root of all your perceived flaws. In her spellbound moment she allows the car to drift to the shoulder and, before correcting the wheel, runs over a cluster of small turtles. This she does not notice thanks to the suspension of the Range Rover.
///
IN THE WESTERN CITY
The New Quarterly, Issue #170
Peter Hinchcliffe Short Fiction Award, Longlist
Print and Online
2,600 words
🖼️: Andrew Wyeth. Christina's World. 1948
///
Our plane arrives at the Western City. Somewhere out these oval windows are the forest fires which have painted the country grey. People in Toronto kept saying the west is on fire like it was a regular turn of phrase, sending my imagination into overdrive with scenes of ash falling like flurries, refugees drifting the streets, and plumes of smoke engulfing my childhood home. I came to witness it for myself.
But my childhood home is idyllic as ever and the city is unaffected by the fires, aside from a dull grey tinge to everything and a lingering odour of campfire. No one here seems to want to talk about it. I bait people with vague complaints about thwarted summit views or waking up with a parched mouth, hoping to commiserate and gain insights, but nobody bites.
“Apparently three billion animals died in the Australian bushfires last year,” I announce, unprompted, at my parent’s dinner party. “I wonder what the stats are in BC.”
“As long as they keep tasting like this!” says my dad’s friend, pointing with his fork to the glistening slab of beef on his plate. He is a senior partner at an oil company, which shouldn’t be relevant, but it is. My mother shoots him a scathing look. The act of solidarity warms my heart, as she too is openly annoyed by my obsession with forest fires.
I resolve not to talk about it anymore while I am here in the Western City.
Lately, I have given up on talking about all sorts of things people don’t want to talk about. I have stopped forwarding petitions and attending fundraisers. My apartment has become infested by landfill from Amazon / China with 12,000 five-star reviews promising to optimize my life. Three musicians I like are cancelled for sexual misconduct, but I keep sending them two-hundredths of a penny per listen on Spotify, the ethics of streaming services not really plaguing me either, as they once had. I accept single-use coffee cups and plastic bags without blacklisting the establishment, and even enjoyed a wild-caught tuna on my birthday.
///
-
///
Our plane arrives at the Western City. Somewhere out these oval windows are the forest fires which have painted the country grey. People in Toronto kept saying the west is on fire like it was a regular turn of phrase, sending my imagination into overdrive with scenes of ash falling like flurries, refugees drifting the streets, and plumes of smoke engulfing my childhood home. I came to witness it for myself.
But my childhood home is idyllic as ever and the city is unaffected by the fires, aside from a dull grey tinge to everything and a lingering odour of campfire. No one here seems to want to talk about it. I bait people with vague complaints about thwarted summit views or waking up with a parched mouth, hoping to commiserate and gain insights, but nobody bites.
“Apparently three billion animals died in the Australian bushfires last year,” I announce, unprompted, at my parent’s dinner party. “I wonder what the stats are in BC.”
“As long as they keep tasting like this!” says my dad’s friend, pointing with his fork to the glistening slab of beef on his plate. He is a senior partner at an oil company, which shouldn’t be relevant, but it is. My mother shoots him a scathing look. The act of solidarity warms my heart, as she too is openly annoyed by my obsession with forest fires.
I resolve not to talk about it anymore while I am here in the Western City.
Lately, I have given up on talking about all sorts of things people don’t want to talk about. I have stopped forwarding petitions and attending fundraisers. My apartment has become infested by landfill from Amazon / China with 12,000 five-star reviews promising to optimize my life. Three musicians I like are cancelled for sexual misconduct, but I keep sending them two-hundredths of a penny per listen on Spotify, the ethics of streaming services not really plaguing me either, as they once had. I accept single-use coffee cups and plastic bags without blacklisting the establishment, and even enjoyed a wild-caught tuna on my birthday.
///
TOY GRENADES
subTerrain, Vol. #96
Lush Triumphant Fiction Contest, Winner
Print Only
2,500 words
đź“·: Robert John Paterson
///
“There’s an option to sit around and be twenty-seven or to do something else and hallelujah my people are doing something else. We helped each other define it and now we’re doing it.”
Her words lingered and she watched them linger, searching for a fault. There was no fault. She poured the last of the bottle, laid back in the grass, and kicked off her boots.
At the time I was reading Rilke and wanted everything in my life to change. Amongst my own people (whom I would never un-ironically refer to as my people) I saw no promise of it. If anything, we were settling into the coffins we built at school — engineers, lawyers, and the like — for a comfortable, eternal sleep. Of course, I did not tell her that. I spoke disparagingly of my corporate job and avoided the fact that I was a homeowner. I did not mention my five-going-on-six-year war with a living, breathing to-do list in my Notes app.
Inspired by her candour, I recall almost reciting a quote:
“I think when you are truly stuck, when you have stood still in the same spot for too long, you throw a grenade in exactly the spot you are standing in, and jump, and pray. It is the momentum of last resort.”
A quote by Renata Adler which I found inspiring at the time. I almost said it out loud. But the words seemed too prescriptive for someone who just did things. They would bounce right off her. She was rolling around in the grass describing how she shrieks like a banshee from night terrors, how more than once her neighbours have called the police.
“Pour us each a big glass,” she said, as I opened another bottle. She tipped her glass towards me. “Whatever. It’s the last time we’ll see each other anyway, which makes me sad if it’s true. But I think it’s the truth.”
///
-
///
“There’s an option to sit around and be twenty-seven or to do something else and hallelujah my people are doing something else. We helped each other define it and now we’re doing it.”
Her words lingered and she watched them linger, searching for a fault. There was no fault. She poured the last of the bottle, laid back in the grass, and kicked off her boots.
At the time I was reading Rilke and wanted everything in my life to change. Amongst my own people (whom I would never un-ironically refer to as my people) I saw no promise of it. If anything, we were settling into the coffins we built at school — engineers, lawyers, and the like — for a comfortable, eternal sleep. Of course, I did not tell her that. I spoke disparagingly of my corporate job and avoided the fact that I was a homeowner. I did not mention my five-going-on-six-year war with a living, breathing to-do list in my Notes app.
Inspired by her candour, I recall almost reciting a quote:
“I think when you are truly stuck, when you have stood still in the same spot for too long, you throw a grenade in exactly the spot you are standing in, and jump, and pray. It is the momentum of last resort.”A quote by Renata Adler which I found inspiring at the time. I almost said it out loud. But the words seemed too prescriptive for someone who just did things. They would bounce right off her. She was rolling around in the grass describing how she shrieks like a banshee from night terrors, how more than once her neighbours have called the police.
“Pour us each a big glass,” she said, as I opened another bottle. She tipped her glass towards me. “Whatever. It’s the last time we’ll see each other anyway, which makes me sad if it’s true. But I think it’s the truth.”
///
IN THE EASTERN CITY
subTerrain, vol. #91
Lush Triumphant Fiction Contest, Runner-Up
Print Only
2,500 words
🖼️: Karen Justl
///
I am back in the Eastern City. The fires in the west have turned everything grey. People keep saying the west is on fire like it is a regular turn of phrase. They shake their heads and stare at the sky and everyone around does the same.
The smoke is affecting us. Even I have become vegan and I want people to know. Usually when we repeat talking points from The New York Times it is as benign as discussing the weather, but tonight the atmosphere is manic. Each statement is a gauntlet thrown and tiptoed around, like the question of whether the host’s pet is a malnourished dog or a tall rat. We are in a six-hundred square foot box on the fifty-ninth floor and all anyone can see is smoke and faint shimmers of city light.
“How can we have a fair debate with them,” she says, while swaying on her feet. She points to the broadcast of men in biker jackets hanging a noose from a tree and the headline which includes the words RIGHT WING. At the next circle I join, someone exclaims that his religious uncle is a racist (and not vice versa!), and that all religions are ultimately a Ponzi scheme. I am waiting for the toilet and the woman beside me is doing cocaine and giving me career advice.
At the next party I am standing alone when someone nudges me and points at a woman who is also standing alone. “Look at this asshole,” the person says. She holds a full banana with the peel removed, gripping the flesh with her bare hands. I approach the woman in awe. She pours me a drink and we observe the room. After avoiding the topic for some time, I mention that her handling of the banana is making at least one guest uneasy. She looks at it in surprise, as if she’d forgotten it was there, then laughs and takes a bite. She says that everyone here has an opinion.
///
-
///
I am back in the Eastern City. The fires in the west have turned everything grey. People keep saying the west is on fire like it is a regular turn of phrase. They shake their heads and stare at the sky and everyone around does the same.
The smoke is affecting us. Even I have become vegan and I want people to know. Usually when we repeat talking points from The New York Times it is as benign as discussing the weather, but tonight the atmosphere is manic. Each statement is a gauntlet thrown and tiptoed around, like the question of whether the host’s pet is a malnourished dog or a tall rat. We are in a six-hundred square foot box on the fifty-ninth floor and all anyone can see is smoke and faint shimmers of city light.
“How can we have a fair debate with them,” she says, while swaying on her feet. She points to the broadcast of men in biker jackets hanging a noose from a tree and the headline which includes the words RIGHT WING. At the next circle I join, someone exclaims that his religious uncle is a racist (and not vice versa!), and that all religions are ultimately a Ponzi scheme. I am waiting for the toilet and the woman beside me is doing cocaine and giving me career advice.
At the next party I am standing alone when someone nudges me and points at a woman who is also standing alone. “Look at this asshole,” the person says. She holds a full banana with the peel removed, gripping the flesh with her bare hands. I approach the woman in awe. She pours me a drink and we observe the room. After avoiding the topic for some time, I mention that her handling of the banana is making at least one guest uneasy. She looks at it in surprise, as if she’d forgotten it was there, then laughs and takes a bite. She says that everyone here has an opinion.
///
STORIES FROM DRY LAND
The New Quarterly, Issue #162
Print and Online
3,800 words
đź“·: Brent Lewin
///
There is no land, not a breeze, nor a striding bug to break the reflection of the sunset sky on the water. She leads by a kayak’s length and stares ahead. It is a view that seems edited, too vast and colourful to be true. Her solitary figure is frozen like cardboard against it.
“...we should stop.” Her words are disinterested, the tone dull.
“we haven’t reached.” He does not want to explain that they are paddling across the sky.
“there’s nothing out there.”
Their campsite, two hours in the other direction, is a private island under a blanket of auburn leaves. Hammocks are hung by the firepit, a meal is prepped, and their tent waits shoreside with a window facing the lake.
But we could carry on instead. There is as much ahead of us.
At her lead, they return to paddling. She is hurried now. Some of her early strokes splash noisily across the surface. They’ve stumbled into this impossible world, protected like the inside of a snow-globe — each of her disruptions is a violent shake. He focuses on his fluid, silent strokes. In time, her strokes regain rhythm. Their movements fall into synchrony. The snow-globe settles, and he wonders how long an illusion can last.
///
-
///
There is no land, not a breeze, nor a striding bug to break the reflection of the sunset sky on the water. She leads by a kayak’s length and stares ahead. It is a view that seems edited, too vast and colourful to be true. Her solitary figure is frozen like cardboard against it.
“...we should stop.” Her words are disinterested, the tone dull.
“we haven’t reached.” He does not want to explain that they are paddling across the sky.
“there’s nothing out there.”
Their campsite, two hours in the other direction, is a private island under a blanket of auburn leaves. Hammocks are hung by the firepit, a meal is prepped, and their tent waits shoreside with a window facing the lake.
But we could carry on instead. There is as much ahead of us.
At her lead, they return to paddling. She is hurried now. Some of her early strokes splash noisily across the surface. They’ve stumbled into this impossible world, protected like the inside of a snow-globe — each of her disruptions is a violent shake. He focuses on his fluid, silent strokes. In time, her strokes regain rhythm. Their movements fall into synchrony. The snow-globe settles, and he wonders how long an illusion can last.
///