His hands moved over the tomatoes, gently squeezing for firmness. He found two he wanted; ripe and tender. She had always admired his hands. They were small for a man of his size, with stubby fingers and a well-developed callous in the one that held his lacrosse...
There was a frost that morning, even in May. They made small talk, driving past hills and farms, a decrepit barn missing half the wall panels that still stood as a testament to the way things had been, to where they were headed. These are our ruins, she thought. *** A...
Cover by featured artist Kristiina Lahde www.kristiinalahde.com
There are few Canadian writers who’ve made it into the glossy pages of The New Yorker– the hallowed halls of contemporary journalism– Alice Munro being one of the few. A frequent favourite of TNY, virtually monopolizing the “Canadian...
