Vol. 1 Issue 1
Vol. 1 Issue 1
Vol. 1 Issue 1
A new vision for a new era
Well, the floorboards will not betray you if you choose; the doorhinge will stay complicit as you walk away and into the morning fog, alone and if you never say another word then he might never know; your shoes on the mat will aid and abet and you will be gone at dawn, silent. He will wake up alone and call it a draw, call it breaking even or breaking up. This house will tell no secrets of yours, it has centuries of memory more interesting than the thousand repetitions of these same sad waltzes to the familiar beat of heartbreak on hardwood.
[This very short story was written in response to the editor’s request for a creative commentary on the NL tourism industry. The views and opinions expressed do not necessarily reflect those of The Independent or its affiliates. No tourists were harmed in the creation of this story.]
The following is a work of complete and utter fiction, which may or may not bear occasional resemblance to things which may or may not have happened. But lest you have any doubts, depression, or distress, please rest assured it is decidedly, determinedly and delusionally fictional.
The Slave-Girl Maybe she wore her hair in long charcoal tresses, fallen wisps tucked and re-tucked behind an ear when she was nervous. Maybe she walked alone in the desert when she wasn’t scouring clay pots, perspiring over fires, grinding her knees into the ground while brushing flecks of dirt from the entrance, her darkened skin peeling and burning in the Arabian sun. Morgiana Jade eyes wide and bright, boyish figure only now budding, slave to the poor woodcutter, Ali Baba. He was an honest man, they told her. As honest as the day was long, and the summer days felt very long in the dust and dry heat of the desert. Iftah ya Simsim! * Felling firewood, Ali Baba chanced upon the secret cave, heard the magic words. It was too much for poor Ali Baba. He took away the gold, and as many gems as he could hold.…
I On Tibb’s Eve, one of the MacDonald brothers (nobody was sure which) told the little Kerry boys that Santa Claus lived in the woods, up where Abe Leroux cut his wood. He said that was how Abe got nice things for his children when they were small, that he used to meet Santa Claus there and trade him slab wood for toys. Stan, the youngest, was suspicious, but he was only 4 years old and did what his older brothers told him. They were 5 and 7, and knew better than him. Sam, the oldest, said he knew the way to the place where Abe cut his wood, because their father had taken him there once. He was proud that their father had taken him and not the other boys. He had in fact ridden there in the sled with his father, but had fallen asleep. But he was…
Reflections of an ex-pat experiencing their first winter in Newfoundland in 10 years
PHOTO ESSAY: The NL Media and Kathy Dunderdale’s Jan. 24 resignation as the 10th premier of Newfoundland and Labrador.
Local literary journal Riddle Fence has much to celebrate – and to be celebrated for