[A literary, modernist-inspired psychological gothic vignette with feminist and speculative undertones.] It began in silence. Not the sort that follows noise, but the kind that has always been there and waits to be noticed. The room held it carefully. Between the clock’s measured tick and the slight movement of the sheets, something remained untouched. It… Read more: The Animal with My Face

They say words have power; in Alberta this fall, they are also being held accountable. The weight of this power is evident as classics such as 1984, The Handmaid’s Tale, and Brave New World have been marched off the shelves—not with a bang, but with the muted bureaucracy of a book-ban policy that swept through schools like a disinfectant spray, erasing what it deemed “contaminants.” Now, with the government’s sudden pause on the policy, these books linger in a strange limbo, neither restored to complete freedom nor entirely condemned. It feels less like policy and more like a plot—an unresolved chapter in a dystopian novel that seems determined to write itself.

When Ryan Coogler’s Sinners hit theatres this spring, I expected style, atmosphere, and a dose of supernatural dread. What I didn’t expect was a politically charged, allegorical horror epic that tackles cultural appropriation, the cycles of colonization, and the politics of assimilation—all set to the raw pulse of 1930s juke joint blues. This film doesn’t… Read more: Decoding “Sinners:” A Vampire Film with Cultural Depth

A literary short story inspired by Virginia Woolf Author’s Note The seed for “John Hates Lemons” came to me during a Jensen McRae concert. I went not for myself, but because a friend I love suggested her music, and I wanted to share in that joy, even if I couldn’t feel it the same way.… Read more: John Hates Lemons

I’ve been thinking a lot about borders; the literal ones drawn across maps, manned by uniformed strangers. And the metaphorical ones—the quiet, invisible lines we learn to draw within ourselves when speaking too loudly, or loving too openly, become dangerous. Lately, I’ve been immersed in the writing of Osip Mandelstam, a Soviet poet who dared… Read more: Checkpoint Poetics: What a Soviet Poet Taught Me About Moral Resistance

I was born long after the walls crumbled. After the fig trees were razed, the names of villages became footnotes or forgotten. And yet, I wake with dirt beneath my fingernails — soil I’ve never touched, which stains me still. The ghosts I carry are not made of mist or memory. They are made of… Read more: Growing Up With Ghosts: On the Inheritance of Fear

There’s something darkly mirthful about power. Not the kind of hilarity that leaves you breathless from laughter, but the kind that makes you exhale sharply through your nose and mutter, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” In all its forms, power seems to have a gravitational pull toward absurdity. Maybe it’s the unchecked authority, the… Read more: The Fools Who Rule: A Brief History of Power and Absurdity

Stories have a way of sneaking into our subconscious, shaping how we see the world, how we remember the past, and how we imagine the future. But what happens when a story is wrapped in humour? Does it make it easier to dismiss, or does it actually make the message hit harder? Lately, I’ve been… Read more: The Power of Humour in Storytelling

It began with the smell. A strange thing, really—how the body notices something before the mind can name it. At first, I thought it was dust—or old wood. Or something left too long in the fridge, a forgotten apple collapsing in its skin. But no, it wasn’t that. It was sweeter, heavier, the kind of… Read more: The Thing in the Walls [DRAFT]

The kitchen was always hungry. It swallowed sound, let knives chatter against wooden boards like teeth, and breathed out thick, humid air scented with cumin, vinegar, and the slow decay of things left too long on the counter. Even when empty, it was full—of steam, smoke, and the weight of words never spoken.of words never… Read more: The Mouth of My Grandmother’s Kitchen