A safer space for writers of all kinds and experience, both as a place to work & a place to share.

The Latest


The Rabbit in The Fever Dream

The weeping lady in the ivory dress, within the high pitch fever dream,
screams at the kettle with bare feet, while wandering the grasslands.
The blonde man, strolling on top of graves, where the caskets hide, greets her.
He hands her a golden plate of vegetables and offers to peel her skin.

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The Annual

The spring is humble in the prairies⁠ — she does not boast, nor does she shine. Instead offering a gentle, cold wind. Air for the metallic, uneasy blossoms to grow within. Every so often⁠ from the garden ground⁠ will sprout — the landed lighthouse! A simple vessel⁠ springing up from the soil⁠ — like a lost, wandering watercraft. She does not truly know her place, nor does she care.

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Magnum Opus (Revisited)

Each day, we inch closer towards the supermassive black hole That gives us a stability, and will one day inevitably consume us.

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nonfiction travel

Love Letter to Bow Trail Assessment Centre

“When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire.” —Stars, “Your Ex-Lover is Dead”

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nonfiction travel

The Tragedy of Wanderlust

(Put your shoes on. Where are you going, and why are you going there? There is will when it comes to the coming and going. A voluntary compulsion. Perhaps this autotomy is mandatory, for if we do not choose our traveling then it no longer is travel. It is then a forced migration.)

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Usual Diary Entry

Dear diary, you are completely worthless.
For the past fifteen years I’ve filled yr pages
I’ve hurt my hand trying to describe
Each & every joy & trauma to you.
In intricate detail.
These endless notebooks that compromise yr soul,
Yellowed paper, faded graphite, bleeding ink
A lifetime of stories, of people, of places
All of which don’t matter.
Or rather, will be forgotten.
In spite of my best efforts throughout the years,
Why didn’t you just tell me?

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Her Modern Prophet

Hello, I’m glad I wasn’t late today. And then we begin again, again.
For the day cannot break without me paying the usual toll:
The willpower required to unearth myself from these cotton bedsheets,
The mechanics laying underneath my arm to lift this red plastic toothbrush,
The thousands of hours of labour that allowed this cereal to go
from rural farmfields to this urban decay.
The quaint characteristics of trying to figure out today’s newspaper
with ten-thousand serif words spilling bad news that’s yet to come.

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My Writing Process

The craft of writing, detailing how exactly to go from a simple and disorderly idea to a completed and coherent piece. here are many steps to this process — from brainstorms to an outline, from drafting to revisions, until you have something publishable. Writing is a mysterious and elusive artform. Whether it’s technical, creative, or copy — good writing contains something that cannot be taught.

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