It’s strange, I think, how the parchment is torn along the seam. Too tidy, too predictable. Why not along the river, cast with wide and messy brush strokes? Why not among the bleeding clouds? Why must this tear be so straightforward when all else he’s left behind is not? #WriteCBC

Cobwebs cling to my face as I peer in the attic, dust suspended in faded light. I see it there—wing bent, talons wrapped in cloth—cradled against her body. “Syd?” I ask, remaining calm and steady, unsure of why this creature lay in my daughter’s arms. “I thought you had gone for help...” #WriteCBC

Saliva, tepid and viscous, drips onto my face from above. I instinctively go to close my eyes, only to realize they’re already shut. It’s grainy, this saliva, still carrying remnants of a meal. And I wonder: Is supper over, or has the feeding just begun? #WriteCBC