It’s not every day a sock puppet visits a maternity ward.

Minoo and I fly down the hall, the anticipated squeak of hospital vinyl absent from under our feet. We are weightless, shoes barely touching the ground. A reflection of Minoo’s form glides beneath us. Wraith-like, we are darkly mirrored in the freshly-waxed floor. 

And Minoo—she stares ahead, unseeing. Not seeing me, I mean. As conspicuous as I am to everyone else, my existence is as natural to her as the weight of her tongue in her mouth, or the air filling the lungs in her chest. She doesn’t see the nurse who jumps out of our way either, flattening her body to the wall, blue eyes large with shock.

How does the old adage go? Despite the sage wisdom of not judging a book by its cover, the cover of a book is a key first impression that informs a potential reader of what it’s about, inviting them to flip open to the first page and want to find out more. The decisions that go into a cover’s artwork, font choice, and other design elements are all important in creating an impression that makes a book stand out. And when it comes to books by Canadian small presses, there’s a wonderful opportunity for unique, beautiful, and more personalized covers that you might not always find with books published by larger houses or the Big Five. This is not to take anything away from books released by these publishers, which often have great covers of their own, but sometimes, especially in certain genres and trends, one cover to the next can seem a little formulaic. Not so with small press books, and the artists who spend lots of time and care in creating them, ensuring that no two covers are exactly alike. 

Fresh loroco, importing banned. Oblong 

little smugglers, edible blossoms, green-

sheathed, pale inside. Insipid. Pandemic 

first date in rain. Sipping cheap white wine from 

a pink plastic cup, SLUT scrawled across the 

bus shelter. I text a friend a selfie. 

On one warm summer day, the heat was stifling in University Station. As always, I waited, poised, coiled like a spring. When the tones chimed, I would be ready to strike. 

     I was relieved when we got paged out for a call. 

     I hit the bay door switch, Fletch started the truck and I jumped in. He hit the lights and siren and we took off. The siren’s wails echoed off the apartment blocks and office towers. Our rig’s lights reflected in the windows of the shops at street level. 

The Ark loomed before her now, a green monolith in a sea of white, like a land mass all its own that by its sheer size was able to alter the course of the storm.  Martha watched the snow sweep up onto the wide plane of its sprawling roof, slide in wide swaths along the incline until it crested over the peak in swirls and eddies, sifted down the far side to cascade gently over the edge, settle along the wall in a long line white.

The four subversives dug into their backpacks with nervous, twitching fingers. They unzipped the vinyl and openedthe lunchboxes fully to allow themselves full range ofmovement. A pair of nitrile gloves was balled up at the bottom of each of their floppy packs. With as little motion as they could manage, they pulled them over their fingers and up to their wrists.

River Street pals, it’s officially spooky season. What better way to celebrate than with shivers up your spine, goosebumps upon your flesh, and a feeling like something—or someone—is creeping behind you…

Research for my novel began in the hallways of my parents’ nursing home, where I watched too many intense family dramas explode right in front of me. How did family relationships turn so ugly? Did those siblings get along when they were younger? How common is elder abuse?