Spittle rests in the corner of the old man’s white pressed lips. In his sudden rage he tosses
the hospital bed sheets to the floor. Thick fingers grasp at his scrotum, stretching it so that the
skin is a blue spider web of blood vessels.
Grandpa Sid and Uncle Lyle had always been good friends, even though they are related by marriage and not blood. They are strong men, salt-of-the-earth men, built-their-business-from-the-ground-up men. Both lived and worked the stubbled plains of Southern Alberta, a pl...
Every day you said you were dying. You chronicled symptoms on crumpled bar napkins: achy spine and shoulders, hard to concentrate, everything is loud. You told the girls at work you had to leave because you were sweating into the pixels around you and they...
I listen to the brothers in the dining room where hotel guests gather and sip weak cocktails out of glasses that drip long fingers of condensation. They sit with their wives and tend to their father, who dines at the head of the table.
I told Lyle before he’d even bought the house, “They’re going to widen this road.” And that it would end up as a busy street, “Probably a bus route.” And that the traffic would be loud, “It’s going to make it hard to sleep.”