After punching in 9-8-7-6 on the keypad and twisting the handle of and opening the staff room door, I heard the staff CD player gurgle with distortion as the song faded out and started again. I recognized the song as "Televators" by The Mars Volta, and I wasn&
I stare at the ceiling of my living room and start to notice the intermittent flicker of the lightbulb in the pot light over me. I try not to get self conscious as I glance over to see my face and nude torso in the top-right corner of the Zoom
I return from the French double doors leading outside and head back over to the trash bins, placing the compost bin back in its slot and relining it with a paper bag. Once that's done, I take the black garbage bag from the bin in its slot, and
I scroll through the touchscreen until I find Patrick's name, and push the telephone icon on the interface and the intercom starts ringing a second later. The telephone icon looks like one of those old classic rotary phones that people born after 1990 haven't ever used.
The security guy with a beard checks my ID and looks at my car. I can hear the voice of Don Cherry shouting from somewhere inside the shed. A previous occupant that was before my time brought in one of those 12 inch all-in-one VHS/DVD TV things he bought
I see our orders come in from the side door and get placed at our table. The kitchen worker who brought it down says "Bon Appetit" to me, being closer to the table, and I half notice the missing incisor in the upper right of his mouth. Under
Editor's Note: This is an older creative non-fiction piece that I wrote for a writing group to tide you over until I have time to actually work on new content. Special thanks to Jeremy for edits. I. Gander The Carlington Community Health Center stands at the intersection of
The year is 1993 and Brian Mulroney is reading the day's Ottawa Citizen with a grimace while sitting at his desk. In the smoke filled office, he stands while several of his staffers sit, matching his grimace, with many of the lips punctuated by white cigarettes. The ashtrays
Gavrilo Princip was not eating a sandwich when he made the fatal shot that got us to where we are today. At the risk of sounding like another glib leftist, I will admit that I was among the many, many people who reacted to the death of CEO Brian Thompson
Editor's Note: This is part two of a multi-part series. For the previous entry, read Venture. The following section is a work of fiction and does not reflect reality in any way. You've been on edge ever since he walked into the main engineering area and
Editor's Note: This is part one of a multi-part series. I need to do substantially more research to continue, so I'll leave you with this part this week to be followed up on later. Venture Capital is a funny thing. I've worked for many
Cooler heads have prevailed and we finally have our first minor moment of clarity from the incoming administration. Sort of. This week, it became vividly clear to nearly everyone in the world that Matthew Gaetz is not only extremely unqualified to be Attorney General, but he likely had sex with