“THIS IS FINE!” I scream again, my brain trying to decide if it’s time to panic or time to have a meltdown. The part of me that doesn’t like the idea of being cooked alive in a Tim Hortons has me wanting to sprint from the building, but the part of me that fears sirens and fire-breathing spider queens is fighting equally hard to curl up under a blazing table. Continue reading
When I’d previously thought of the kind of being with enough power to save the entire world from hostile invasion, I hadn’t considered slight young women about five-feet-tall, wearing ostentatious headscarfs and big sunglasses, who carry their knitting with them in a carpet bag. What’s more, even if I’d had such an imagination, I wouldn’t have foreseen that I’d encounter such a woman rampaging through a local coffee house, yelling that she’d had a bad day and if everyone didn’t just leave her the hell alone, she’d turn them into trifle. Continue reading
I stare out the window of Ben’s truck as the Tim Horton’s pulls into view. I never thought I’d miss the days where the biggest thing I had to worry about were half-human caribou robbing produce from me, but here we are. I peek into the rearview mirror and watch as the centaurs-not-centaurs gallop after us down the empty road, hooves thundering against the pavement as they charge full speed towards where the supposed secret weapon is enjoying a coffee. Continue reading
Due to some technical difficulties, we’ll be posting the next instalment of Caribou Chronicles on Saturday, May 5th, instead of this weekend. We’re working hard to resolve the issue and will be back with you shortly.
Have a great week and, if you haven’t, be sure to catch up on the season so far and check out the great stories in our Caribou Chronicles: After Dark section.
Ian Stanley was beginning to become lost in his father’s house. In many ways, he supposed he’d been feeling that way for years. He’d just been able to ignore the sensation since he’d moved away and spent most of his adult life trying to make sure he didn’t end up back here again. He’d tried his damnedest to stay away from the house that had taught him distance was the strongest form of safety. Any sort of return felt as if he was squandering the lesson. Continue reading
Macie bundles through the crowd and makes a beeline for Pierre, and there’s a touching moment as boy and dog are reunited. For what it’s worth, I’m thinking that the time for formalities is long past. I nod to Rosaline’s daddy, who’s looking as unimpressed as a three-hundred-kilo buck with a bushy moustache can. Continue reading
I take my cell phone off the back of the toilet and click the power button, expecting it to light up and show me the time, but remembering sadly—and not for the first time—that the phone died hours ago (or was it days?). I press and hold the button again, hoping that its dead battery might miraculously come to life, but when it inevitably doesn’t, I put the phone back on the tank in a huff and try to get comfortable on the ceramic tiles, leaning back against the hard edge of the bathtub. I close my eyes and extend my legs as I try to relax. Continue reading
It was half past three in the afternoon, and the bi-monthly meeting of the town’s support group for monsters with social anxiety was winding down. Once again, as with each of the previous four occasions, Esme had been the only attendee. There had been a brief moment of excitement an hour in when a disembodied voice had suddenly blared out of thin air behind her, causing her to think that she’d been joined by an invisible man. She’d been disappointed to find that it was just a podcast blaring out of a mobile phone that someone had left on a table when they visited the little boy’s room. Continue reading
So. I would guess that it’s midwinter where you are. Yule, or Christmas, or whatever name they call it these days. The preponderance of pagan festivals at this time of year always amuses me. A literal celebration for having survived this long in a harsh winter! A welcoming of the return of the sun, or the son, or… Continue reading
“Oh! Mon amour!”
I rush to Pierre’s side as he hits the ground, head thumping hard against the concrete floor of the garage. I momentarily panic at the thought of it breaking open like a soft melon. But it doesn’t—people, it would seem, are sturdier than I remember them—and I cradle his head in my lap. Or, more specifically, the lap of my front hooves. I stroke his hair off his forehead, which is warm and much too moist, and lean my face close to his to make sure he’s breathing. When I feel a small exhalation from his nose, I give a sigh of relief and look over at his friend. Continue reading