Happy Monday! This week’s snippet from Issue 20 is “Phoenix” by E. V. Bell, an American poet living and teaching in Prague.
Do you think a phoenix knows
it will rise from its ashes?
Or do you think its horror grows
at the sight of burning matches.
Another update for our supporters and writerly community: starting next Thursday we will be launching bi-weekly interviews with contributors and/or grad students in the Calgary area. These interviews will alternate with the Editor Features so be sure to check our page every week! Thank you for all your support, we couldn’t do it without you!
Hello all! As promised, here is our first Editor Feature. Amy LeBlanc is our Editor in chief and is completing her English Honours degree this year. This feature piece is a brief excerpt from her Honours project– a creative endeavour that discusses issues of feminism and food through prose/poetry. (As a side note, if you’re in Calgary and want to hear more of this piece, Amy will be presenting a larger excerpt at the U of C on March 18).
Echo chamber, n.
My mother told me that she was pregnant with twins when she had me. With Vanishing Twin Syndrome, there generally are no warning signs; one week– two heartbeats, next week– just one. The missing embryo usually dissolves back into the mother’s body. In rare cases, the second twin absorbs and consumes the embryo. Their skin cells can contain hair, teeth and bones from the second fetus (eyes, torso, hands, feet, and other limbs, only in the rarest cases). Small pockets often remain undiscovered until much later in life. They rarely occur in other mammals, but can be found in the occasional mountain lion.
Half Baked, adj.
Are you paying attention? You may have one medium sized carrot or one piece of carob as a meagre substitute for chocolate. Listen to the chorus that sings in a rolling boil; Picture your stomach sitting in a sidecar, propped against a leather jacket, a burning cigarette tucked behind your ear. Reduce the heat to a simmer and take off your hat –take off a layer or two. Tie a piece of twine in a bow around your pointer finger and say don’t forget the oatmeal. Smell the sweat in a pot of chicken stock. Close the door behind you and when you hear it shut, you’ll remember that you left your oatmeal in the microwave years ago.
Hello NōD fans, supporters, contributors, readers, and any of you who randomly stumbled across our magazine and website! Starting today we will be launching a bi-weekly “Editor Feature” where one of our editors will contribute a piece of their own writing! We’re excited to show you the creative side of ourselves, and we hope it bolsters your confidence to submit and share your work with us! Happy reading, from the NōD team
Hello! This week we bring you another snippet of Issue 20–a poem by Sara Wilson!
The Mortality of Bees
Bees bumble through
blooms, the many-hued looms
spring weaves upon,
and with lowered toes
caress corollas to crack
and naked sweet nectars.
Bees reel breezes,
rumble the brambles
and drop themselves
into silver furred grasses
to flower even the frosts.
Hello! This week’s Issue 20 feature is a poem by Erin Emily Ann Vance– a Master’s student here at the U of C.
My lips around a head of garlic
The oil leaks around my teeth
A sludge of dirt and pungency
The white acid.
Into their ridges.
Silent, blistered woman,
The blanket stained with pink.
Her neck-skin loose
Like second-hand carpet
She steps on the stained glass window
with grandmother’s boots,
The laces drag on the kitchen floor
scabbed with mud.
Hello! As you know (or maybe you don’t) our Issue 20 was released December 9th. In case you didn’t get a chance to pick up your copy yet (or if you picked it up but haven’t read through it yet) here’s a chance to read a snippet! We hope you enjoy 🙂
“Crow” Adeoti Fashokun
Far up in the spaces the public keeps a secret, idle witches sit. Stoking the fire and haggling over burnt pieces of copper cut like demented teeth. They are the landlords of the monastery in our abode. Sorcerers are scarce because they lack wit. So, with the witches, we will make do. Ten tenants toe the troubling terrain. Cinched dimples. A file. A mile long. Down the aisle of the Nile, ten tenants saunter. It riles the vilest of the witches-Abigail. She laughs. It sounds like the cranking engine of a car. We refer to it as thunder. Then she smiles. Her skin looks like stretched elastic bands. Then water spills from the sky. We believe it is good fortune and the will of providence. But Abigail directs it to our cages and ten of us drown.
When frogs chuckle and turtles hiccup their disdain, we nod ferociously. Hannah drops down dried dates. She is the most pleasant of them all when she’s unenvious. We inhale and sing her praises as she dances and insects spout from her red cloak scratching the metal. We eat them too. Birds have wings, we have cages. The guards have storehouses. On fortunate days, we listen to the story of the single toothed guard who lives in a boat. He says he can drink as much water as he wants. Can you imagine? He gets two cups a day! I wonder is there’s a devil in the details or an angel in the embroidery. Because in preceding years, silence was far from mind. Our greatest worries were background singers, corrupt winds, and desperate audiences.
Father tells of a time when sorcerers were on their best behavior. When they used to amuse the people. He never tells us the aftermath; he says it’s a blemish. All he says is danger struck at dawn. He says we can leave only if we are reborn. Sister cautions him and tells him she can hear Abigail staring. But I hear her snoring. Hannah is busy spurning the treads of repression. We will get a beating for whispering. I ask father how and he whispers. He’s telling me to scream. I ask for something stronger. He replies whistle. But I don’t. I’m reborn. I crow.