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Short stories by Canadian writers

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Deep-Holes. Sally packed devilled eggs—something she usually hated to take on a picnic, because they were so messy. Ham sandwiches, crab salad, lemon tarts—also a packing problem. Kool-Aid for the boys, a half bottle of Mumm’s for herself and Alex. She would have just a sip, because she was still nursing. She had bought plastic champagne glasses for the occasion, but when Alex spotted her handling them he got the real ones—a wedding present—out of the china cabinet. She protested, but he insisted, and took charge of them himself, the wrapping and packing. “Dad is really a sort of bourgeois gentilhomme,” Kent would say to Sally a few years later, when he was in his teens and acing everything at school, so sure of becoming some sort of scientist that he could get away with spouting French around the house.

“Don’t make fun of your father,” Sally said mechanically. “I’m not. Face. Alice Munro’s “Train” (2012) Dimension. Doree had to take three buses—one to Kincardine, where she waited for one to London, where she waited again, for the city bus out to the facility.


She started the trip on a Sunday at nine in the morning. Because of the waiting times between buses, it took her until about two in the afternoon to travel the hundred-odd miles. All that sitting, either on buses or in the depots, was not a thing she should have minded. Her daily work was not of the sitting-down kind. Fiction: Meneseteung. The narrator describes "Offerings," a book of poems by Almeda Joynt Roth, published in 1873.

Fiction: Meneseteung

Writer describes the poetess from a photo in the book. In the book's preface, Roth wrote that her father brought the family to the wilds of Canada West (as it then was). She was 14, the eldest child. The third summer after they moved, her brother and sister grew ill and died. Three years later, her mother died. Alice Munro. Leaving Maverley - The New Yorker. In the old days when there was a movie theatre in every town there was one in this town, too, in Maverley, and it was called the Capital, as such theatres often were.

Leaving Maverley - The New Yorker

Morgan Holly was the owner and the projectionist. He didn’t like dealing with the public—he preferred to sit in his upstairs cubbyhole managing the story on the screen—so naturally he was annoyed when the girl who took the tickets told him that she was going to have to quit, because she was having a baby. He might have expected this—she had been married for half a year, and in those days you were supposed to get out of the public eye before you began to show—but he so disliked change and the idea of people having private lives that he was taken by surprise. Fortunately, she came up with somebody who might replace her. A girl who lived on her street had mentioned that she would like to have an evening job. Morgan said that that was fine—he didn’t hire a ticket-taker to gab with the customers. Amundsen. On the bench outside the station, I sat and waited.


The station had been open when the train arrived, but now it was locked. Another woman sat at the end of the bench, holding between her knees a string bag full of parcels wrapped in oiled paper. Meat—raw meat. I could smell it. Haven. All this happened in the seventies, though in that town and other small towns like it the seventies were not as we picture them now, or as I had known them even in Vancouver.


The boys’ hair was longer than it had been, but not straggling down their backs, and there didn’t seem to be an unusual amount of liberation or defiance in the air. My uncle started off by teasing me about grace. About not saying grace. Deep-Holes - The New Yorker. Sally packed devilled eggs—something she usually hated to take on a picnic, because they were so messy.

Deep-Holes - The New Yorker

Ham sandwiches, crab salad, lemon tarts—also a packing problem. Kool-Aid for the boys, a half bottle of Mumm’s for herself and Alex. How_i_met_my_husband_by_alice_monroe. Growing Pains in Wingham, Ontario. I lived when I was young at the end of a long road, or a road that seemed long to me.

Growing Pains in Wingham, Ontario

Behind me, as I walked home from primary school, and then from high school, was the real town with its activity and its sidewalks and its streetlights for after dark. Marking the end of town were two bridges over the Maitland River: one narrow iron bridge, where cars sometimes got into trouble over which one should pull off and wait for the other, and a wooden walkway, which occasionally had a plank missing, so that you could look right down into the bright, hurrying water. I liked that, but somebody always came and replaced the plank eventually. Face. I am convinced that my father looked at me, really saw me, only once.


After that, he knew what was there. In those days, they didn’t let fathers into the glare of the theatre where babies were born, or into the room where the women about to give birth were stifling their cries or suffering aloud. Fathers laid eyes on the mothers only once they were cleaned up and conscious and tucked under pastel blankets in the ward or in semi-private or private rooms. The View from Castle Rock.

On a visit to Edinburgh with his father when he is nine or ten years old, Andrew finds himself climbing the damp, uneven stone steps of the Castle.

The View from Castle Rock

His father is in front of him, some other men behind—it’s a wonder how many friends his father has found, standing in cubbyholes where there are bottles set on planks, in the High Street—until at last they crawl out on a shelf of rock, from which the land falls steeply away. It has just stopped raining, the sun is shining on a silvery stretch of water far ahead of them, and beyond that is a pale green and grayish-blue land, a land as light as mist, sucked into the sky.

“America,” his father tells them, and one of the men says that you would never have known it was so near. Boys and Girls. Runaway. Carla heard the car coming before it topped the little rise in the road that around here they called a hill.


It’s her, she thought. Mrs. Jamieson—Sylvia—home from her holiday in Greece. Passion. When Grace goes looking for the Traverses’ summer house, in the Ottawa Valley, it has been many years since she was in that part of the country. And, of course, things have changed. Highway 7 now avoids towns that it used to go right through, and it goes straight in places where, as she remembers, there used to be curves. This part of the Canadian Shield has many small lakes, which most maps have no room to identify. Wenlock Edge. My mother had a bachelor cousin a good deal younger than her, who used to visit us on the farm every summer.

He brought along his mother, Aunt Nell Botts. His own name was Ernie Botts. Dimension. Free Radicals. At first, people kept phoning, to make sure that Nita was not too depressed, not too lonely, not eating too little or drinking too much. (She had been such a diligent wine drinker that many forgot that she was now forbidden to drink at all.) She held them off, without sounding nobly grief-stricken or unnaturally cheerful or absent-minded or confused. She said that she didn’t need groceries; she was working through what she had on hand. She had enough of her prescription pills and enough stamps for her thank-you notes. Deep-Holes. Gravel. At that time we were living beside a gravel pit. Not a large one, hollowed out by monster machinery, just a minor pit that a farmer must have made some money from years before.

In fact, the pit was shallow enough to lead you to think that there might have been some other intention for it—foundations for a house, maybe, that never made it any further. My mother was the one who insisted on calling attention to it. “We live by the old gravel pit out the service-station road,” she’d tell people, and laugh, because she was so happy to have shed everything connected with the house, the street—the husband—with the life she’d had before.

I barely remember that life. It was summer when we moved to the trailer. Train. Amundsen. The Bear Came over the Mountain. Alice Munro 18 Free Short Stories, Interviews, Review & Articles. Writer My novel is currently being read by publishers. My BBC Radio 4 comissioned short story aired on March 14th 2014. A short fiction will be published in The Stinging Fly literary magazine in July. Dear Life by Alice Munro – review. Margaret Atwood: “Stone Mattress” At the outset Verna had not intended to kill anyone. Margaret Atwood: “Stone Mattress” Margaret Atwood. Molly Light returns, oh how simple faith is justified! HappyEndings_Atwood - HappyEndings_Atwood.pdf. Fifty-Two Stories » 7. Sunshine Cleaners. Any weekday in Brookline, drivers caught in Beacon Street traffic might see Sergei hurrying along a certain stretch of wet sidewalk.

AGNI Online: Man from Allston Electric by Daphne Kalotay. AGNI Online: Calamity by Daphne Kalotay. They had been in the air for less than an hour when Rhea heard a popping sound. Conversations with Authors: Daphne Kalotay, Boston, 2011. Calamity and Other Stories by Daphne Kalotay. Angela Stubbs fiction Calamity and Other Stories by Daphne Kalotay A short-story is a form that is demanding in its quest for a good story, asking only for precision and attention from its reader for a short number of pages.

Within those short pages we hopefully stumble upon a great story that keeps us contemplating the contents within. Daphne Kalotay is the kind of author who does all of these, but with flair and alacrity. Antonya Nelson reads Mavis Gallant - New Yorker: Fiction. Rue de Lille" by Mavis Gallant (1985) Mavis Gallant was born in Montreal and worked as a journalist at the Montreal Standard before moving to Europe to devote herself to writing fiction. The Stories of Mavis Gallant. Fiction: In Italy. Florida: A new short story by Mavis Gallant - Life & Style. Firebugs. TheBurn-1.pdf.

TheBurn-1.pdf. Untitled Document. Official website of author Craig Davidson.