My story “Catfood” (another Twin Phantoms excerpt) appears in the first issue of Understorey Magazine. Many thanks to editor Katherine J. Barrett, who approached me for a submission after my WFNS Mentorship reading.
Mum was up smoking at the window. Tapping ashes into the sink. Nini’s dead, I told her. I put her last bottle of blueberry jam on the table.
Mum took straight off past me with her cigarette. Cross the gravel in bare feet like God said it, not me. So I set about making toast on the stove and took mum’s spot at the window, watched her circle ’round to Aunt Nini’s porch door. Bout twelve when I found her. Nancy was her right name.
From Gilroy, Corinne. “Catfood.” Understorey Mag. 1.1 (2013): n. pag. Web. 8 Dec. 2013.
A poem I wrote on impulse has been anthologized. Somebody pinch me.
traps out there traps that curl open
stretch bored tingling limbs across
black grass hours ahead of dew (28-30)
From Gilroy, Corinne. “Dark Grass.” Writing the Common: Being An Anthology of Poetry Commemorating the 250th Anniversary of the Halifax Common. Kentville, NS: Gaspereau. 40-42. Print.
I recently “graduated” from the Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia‘s Mentorship Program. Today, I had the opportunity to read an excerpt from my manuscript to WFNS members. I’m hoping to complete my draft by the end of the summer. Endless thanks to my mentor, Stephens Gerard Malone, and Sue Goyette, the force of nature behind the program.
[Late summer 1964] Through another rock cut and that leg was over. Ed felt the throttle pulling back slowly, brakes cutting in against momentum, the weight of his body creeping ahead in his seat.
This station was like a castle. The train nestled up next to it, next to a high stone wall on one side, in close to smooth platforms on the other. A hundred people easy, milling around in summer city clothes. Ed’s car was near empty until they crowded around and through the doors, blocked off the fresh rush of air with their bodies and suitcases.
God forgive him, Ed’s arms were still smeared with engine grease. He’d forgotten about cleaning up decent after the truck broke down. The pocket on his plaid shirt was torn half off. His pants could’ve been borrowed off a coal miner. The whole getup looked that much worse beside bright shirts, flowery dresses, straw hats and little woven purses. Didn’t surprise him a bit that the seat beside him stayed empty, empty, still empty, plenty of space for the dirty hick kid as everybody shuffled by. Continue reading Twin phantoms [self-promotion].
For something completely different, here’s a silly little poem par moi, read over the airwaves as part of a Mother’s Day poetry contest:
You wish you had a Camaro Mom. It’s 1989 and her black patent spike heels click along the scorching blacktop in front of Woolworth’s. Calves forever clenched under sheers, under armloads of blonde little brother, blonde little sister, red jangling purse, coloured pencils. She is fuel injection, Final Net, mirrored wraparound shades burnt bronze, magnetic tape, a cloud of Chanel. It is August, and I need school shoes, and nothing will stop the Camaro Mom.
Gilroy, Corinne. “Camaro Mom.” Information Morning. CBC. CBHA, Halifax, 6 May 2013. Radio.