Keyword results: fiction
How a Moth Becomes a Boat
Havana is a slum, no matter what people say. If you think it's all dancing and beautiful food, Jesus Christ, you've been misinformed. It's a vile city, with plenty of poverty, rum and counterfeit cigars, and to walk away loving such a horrible place is something I put down to the writing of Ernest Hemingway and that sickly Cuban fisherman.
A Picture's Worth
Paul Meates, local artist and purveyor of fine book-wares, has put together a collection of very short stories. Fostering a culture of interdisciplinary harmony, Meates invited writers respond to pictures in pieces of 1000 words.
‘Wait, wait, wait - whaddaya mean "very short"?' ‘All the stories in A Picture's Worth are 1000 words in length.
The Favourite Game
Now, I won't profess to be a Leonard Cohen aficionado. But I do know that he is Montreal's premiere export, second only to William Shatner (who has a building named after him at McGill University).
So, anyway, in 1963, Cohen wrote a novel. The Favourite Game reads like Salinger with more sex and follows the early life of Larry Breavman, a precocious upstart who publishes his first book while still in college.
Under the Bridge
This book is so good. It's the true story of Reena Virk, a 14-year-old girl from British Columbia who was beaten and drowned under a bridge by her schoolmates in 1997. Brilliantly written and fastidiously researched, Under The Bridge will leave you wondering why you haven't killed yourself yet because the world is so horrible.
The Lifted Brow issue 002
It has been said, and perhaps rightly so, that there's not much to do in Brisbane of an evening. Sometimes there's not much to do of a morning either, or even of a late afternoon. This is why we should look twice at the creative output of young Brisbanians for, like so many Huckleberry Finns, they rely on their plucky imaginations in the daily quest for amusement.
Metropolis fiction section
There was a character in Sartre's Nausea who read every book in the municipal library of Bouville, slogging away with a notebook and a chip on his shoulder about this that and the other. He may have been simply a metaphor for that constant search for narrative in life eschewed by self-respecting existentialists.
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