Along with its counterparts in Europe and the United States, Canadian fiction during the past half century or so has been moving beyond the limits of literal realism, though this departure has not been as radical or as consistent as it has been elsewhere. Many prominent Canadian writers – Margaret Laurence, Margaret Atwood, Hugh Hood,…
MASTHEAD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editor for This Issue DeWitt Henry Associate Editors Linda Bamber Lorrie Goldensohn CONTRIBUTORS GAYATRI ACHARYA is Assistant Professor of English at George Mason University and is writing a book on autobiography. LINDA BAMBER is Assistant Professor of English at Tufts. She writes book reviews for The Boston Phoenix…
for Heather Remember gathering eggs in the morning feeding the shells to the hens at noon? I had forgotten how we gave them back to themselves. The turtle"s nest, how we walked around her ring of stones? The Lincoln Fair? How lost I was when you were, how I looked for you already…
Flo knew the best way to kill a chicken and it was this. Hang it head downwards, hold on to it, and go in with your knife. Slit the roof of the mouth and the upper part of the beak. Go for the veins that cross each other at the back of the throat. If…
Hannah was her usual reticent self on the subject. "I don't trust them," was all she'd say. Reticent and cryptic. "What the hell you mean you don't trust them?" Brian kept asking her. "Nothing. I just don't trust them. That's all." Brian was trying to find his sneakers. Hannah was no help on that score…
have one thing in common: they’re not Going to let a signal slip past unacknowledged, In scholarly journals, columns for letters From readers, TV/radio, public debates or similar media; And if a really good idea comes truckin’ along They’ll pull over, stop the car, and sit In some little roadside place with curbservice To let…
George Garrett wrote four volumes of short fiction along with about thirty uncollected pieces including “A Record As Long As Your Arm,” which appears in this issue of Ploughshares. He had his share of praise along the way, but not as much as his short fiction warranted. In a very real way, he was a story-teller…
J. O. BEALE J. O. Beale is a horse's ass which anyone can see he smells like something in the grass I couldn't finish the thought because I couldn't find the rhyme, though I wrote seven or eight rhyming words in the margin: free, sea, be, tree, me. Even Don key. None of them…
(later acquitted of the drowning) There was the pond, trout-filled, dark green. Child-shaped for the father since the child was born. But deeper. There was the sour brown meadow, the blue jays moving against his ears. The father walked through, lonelier than anyone. There was the huge doll-son he carried, breathing heavy in his arms….
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