I was yanked out of a deep sleep in the wee hours of this morning by an overwhelming, high-pitched tinnitus in my right ear—but this time it was so loud I could hear nothing else in the room. And I cried out in fear and frustration, because there is no cure.
After so many years of boastful posts on social media about my exploits with grape jelly, people have begun to drop grapes off at my door. I have both friends and family who grow their own, but can’t be bothered with the labour-intensive process of turning them into wine or jelly.I didn’t set out to […]
As well all know, subways are underground transport lines. They move groups of busy strangers from place to place. Home to work. Work to home. Here to there and back again. Subways are endless grids of stops and starts. So be advised, they are not social places. Do not smile at strangers—they might think you’re […]
Rhonda saw the strangest sight during her evening run. A Long Brown Snake reposed at a tiny table, set for tea just off the woodland path. He invited Rhonda to join him.
There was a stand of rosebushes at the end of the lake, in furious bloom. The dark pink kind with yellow centers, like the ones you planted at home. Their sweet scent was thick on the breeze.
A man doesn’t plant a tree for himself. He plants it for posterity—Alexander Smith. Earlier today, Glad Tidings church in Moncton, New Brunswick, dedicated a green space on its property to the memory of three fallen RCMP officers killed in the line of duty June 4, 2014. They were killed by a lone gunman in the city’s north end, where the church is situated.
Dear New Brunswick: I am ashamed to tell you that people have been saying terrible things today, my love. They say you’ve made so many ill-thought decisions, leaving you poor and without status in our country and in the world.
A couple of weeks ago I woke one morning after dreaming about houses. I dreamed that in addition to the house we own currently, my husband and I bought an additional house. It was the first house we ever owned and lived in for nine years in another community.
Mr. Milner was my grade four teacher and he had the loveliest handwriting. On the chalkboard, I admired the way he wrote in flowing, classical strokes and perfectly straight lines. By grade nine, when I had him as a supply teacher in science class, I didn’t worry so much about perfection.
Do you wonder what Christmas is all about sometimes? Other than a pile of self-indulgent gifts, high-caloric intake and a credit card bill to choke on in January, I mean? I’m about to tell you.
