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About the Author

Lesley Choyce

No one has a clearer view of Atlantic Canada's literary endeavours over the past twenty years than Lesley Choyce. He is the founder of the literary journal Pottersfield Portfolio, and the publisher of Pottersfield Press. He has edited several fiction anthologies and has been the in-house editor of many books from Pottersfield Press including Making Waves, a collection of stories by emerging authors from Atlantic Canada. He is the author of more than fifty books in genres ranging from poetry and essays to autobiography, history and fiction for adults, young adults, and children. Among his recent books are the novels The Republic of Nothing, World Enough, and Cold Clear Morning, and the story collection Dance the Rocks Ashore. Choyce is the writer, host, and co-producer of the popular literary show television program, Off the Page with Lesley Choyce, which is broadcast across the country on Vision TV. He also teaches in the English department of Dalhousie University in Halifax and is leader of the rock band The Surf Poets.

Books by this Author
Accro d’la planche

Accro d’la planche

(Skate Freak)
edition:eBook
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An Avalanche of Ocean

An Avalanche of Ocean

The Life and Times of a Nova Scotia Immigrant
edition:Paperback
tagged : humorous
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Breaking Point

Breaking Point

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Excerpt

I could have been a good boy and done what I was told. But that wasn't my style. I just kept paddling, straight into the morning sun.

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Broken Man on a Halifax Pier
Excerpt

Chapter 1

She never really told me why she was there at 6 a.m. on that damp Halifax morning in April. I can’t even rightly explain what I was doing there either, standing at the end of a dilapidated pier, staring into the dark waters of the harbour, lost in thought.

I suppose it had something to do with the fact that my life had gone to shit, that I no longer had a job, that I’d lost my life savings and was reduced to living in a “bachelor” apartment in the North End. Yeah, it might have had something to do with that. But I think that a guy like me, fifty-five years from being born, just finds himself eventually at a moment like this, staring into the water. Contemplating.

Even now, I like to think of it as a literary moment. I was a writer, after all. Not like a real writer. Not a Hemingway or Fitzgerald, not one of the greats. Not even one of the lesser greats. A pipsqueak of a writer. After playing at reporter for a number of years, the Tribune let me write features about anything I wanted. But, alas, the Tribune was no more. How could I know when I set about embarking on my so-called career that newspapers were going to slowly begin to vanish? I was a dodo bird. A dinosaur. Pick any extinct species and I was just that.

But if any of this is going to add up to anything, I should go back to the beginning. The whole convoluted tale will come out in due time. So let’s get back to April, the pier, the fog, the lone man standing by the edge of the water where once, long ago, the bodies from the ill-fated and legendary Titanic were landed ashore. This was a literary moment, remember. Ill-fated ship, April the cruelest month, my life a modern Shakespearean tragedy, man fallen from great heights (modest heights, really) through his own hubris (a word I had just recently added to my vocabulary). Man alone, alienated in a hostile universe. No, an uncaring universe. A universe that didn’t give a Monday-morning shit about him or most probably anything else.

And then she walked up to me.

I didn’t notice her at first, didn’t hear footsteps or anything. It was like she dropped out of the sleepy grey clouds hovering above. I was deep in reverie — yes, a grandiose, dark, endless, self-pitying reverie. A man feeling bad. Just plain bad. With no particular shred of hope for things to get better. Must have been painted all over my face.

“I get it,” she said with no other words of introduction. “Broken man.”

At first I thought it was just one of those many voices in my head. But then I looked in the direction from which the voice had come. It was a woman. A good-looking woman at that. All alone. On the pier at 6 a.m. by the misty misbegotten harbour.

“Get what?” I asked.

“Get you. ‘Broken man on a Halifax pier,’” she said. And her mouth went up on one corner. Not a smile exactly. An indication of a game.

“Oh,” I said. “Stan Rogers. ‘Barrett’s Privateers.’”

“Very good,” she said. “ Can I take your picture?”

“Sure,” I said. “But why would you want to take my picture?”

Instead of answering, she lifted a cellphone out of her purse, walked a step closer to me and clicked.

“Gonna post it on Facebook?” I asked. “You got your caption.”

“No. Nothing like that.” She walked another step closer, stared down at the water and then directly at me. For a second, I thought I knew her. Or at least that I had seen her somewhere before. Something about her was familiar.

“It looks cold and uninviting,” she said, nodding at the swirling foam in the harbour water below.

“I wasn’t going for a swim if that is what you were thinking.”

“No stones in your pockets? Did you forget them?”

“I’m not good at planning ahead,” I said. “Besides, I’m more of a bridge man. A leaper, if it ever comes to that. Unfortunately, they have the bridge walkways all caged in now. Always someone trying to take the fun out of everything. The bastards.”

Now she just stood there, not talking. Then she lifted her phone and took another photo. Closer up. Mug shot.

“You want me to take my clothes off?” I asked.

“It’s too cold. All I’d get is a picture of goosebumps.”

“True,” I said. I suddenly realized I was in the middle of a conversation with a rather attractive and mysterious woman. “Do I know you?” I asked.

“You’ve seen me. At least I’m guessing you have. If you haven’t, I’ll be pissed.”

I looked her over again. Inspecting. She noticed, did a little slow twirl. Front and back. I didn’t have a clue who she was.

“Give up?”

I nodded.

She looked a little miffed. I figured I should say something. “Well, you’re not the queen of England, I know that. Too young, too beautiful.” I was trying to pull it out of the trash can. She wasn’t young — forty something, fifty maybe — and not exactly classically beautiful, but she was truly pretty and absolutely most interesting. And I much preferred looking at her to staring down at the water.

She snapped another photo of me. I think I had a funny look on my face — man just thrown a lifeline, man shifting back from the brink from some abyss, man wandering alone in a wet world just given a blanket over his shoulders.

“What do you call that look? The one you just gave me.”

“I call it my happy look,” I said.

“You call that happy?”

“Relatively speaking. Happiness is relative, right?”

“Philosophy major?”

“English.”

“Ah. April is the cruelest month, right?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking when you came along with Stan Rogers.”

“‘How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now.’”

“Sherbrooke. Nova Scotia or Quebec? I could never quite figure it out.”

I wondered if we’d stand there and trade Stan Rogers lyrics for the rest of the morning. It would have been fine by me. I had nothing better to do. Take her through the Northwest Passage, tracing one warm line, through a land so wild and savage.

“What comes next?” she asked.

“In ‘Barrett’s Privateers’?”

“Idiot. No. Right now.”

It had been a while since anyone had flirted with me. I was way out of practice.

“Um,” I must have said.

“Um. That’s all you got?” she asked with a sharp edge in her voice. “You, an English major. Can’t come up with a line from James fucking Joyce or John fucking Milton?”

For a split second I thought she was actually angry with me. I didn’t know then that she was an actor, that she’d been in movies. I was beginning to think she was deranged. I was curious to see if there were weapons involved.

The weapon was the phone — lifted, pointed, snapped. “That’s a real crowd-pleaser. ‘Man Befuddled by Woman’ reads the headline.”

“Headline, why headline?” I was wondering if she knew who I was.

“Just a phrase. Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” I said. And I tried smiling. It had been a while. It hurt. I guess it showed.

“Ouch,” she said. “That looked painful.”

I wanted to explain my lack of happy moments in my recent tenure on the planet but clammed up, shrugged instead.

She must have liked the shrug. “Buy me breakfast?” she asked.

“I’m broke,” I said. Paused. “Well, I think I have five bucks and a couple of quarters. But I’m waiting for the banks to open.”

“Never heard of ATMs?”

“They don’t like me. I don’t know what it is. They just don’t seem to want to deal with a guy like me.”

“A guy like you?”

“Down on his luck.”

“Okay, you want to play that card? I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“Now you’re talking,” I said.

And so began a new chapter in my life. If I can stretch out the cinematic moment, I would say the sun came out, or it began to pour rain, or there were birds and flowers, quotes from Shakespeare or unison singing of “Fogarty’s Cove.” But there was none of that.

She touched my arm once. And we walked in silence to the Bluenose Restaurant on Hollis Street. She ordered poached eggs and toast. I ordered scrambled eggs and bacon. And then all the waiters and waitresses and morning-weary breakfast patrons broke into song.

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Crash

Crash

edition:Hardcover
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Dance the Rocks Ashore

Dance the Rocks Ashore

edition:eBook
tagged : literary
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Dumb Luck

Dumb Luck

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Famous at Last

Famous at Last

by Lesley Choyce
illustrated by Jill Quinn
edition:Paperback
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Gone Bad

Gone Bad

edition:Hardcover
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tagged : violence
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Identify

Identify

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Into the Wasteland

Into the Wasteland

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Jeremy Stone

Jeremy Stone

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Kryptonite

Kryptonite

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Los Pandemónium

Los Pandemónium

(Thunderbowl)
edition:Paperback
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Excerpt

Tocamos por diez minutos, sin saltamos ni una nota. La voz de Al apenas se oía, mientras Drek y yo hacíamos las segundas voces, y creo que el micrófono estaba apagado. Al final, terminé con un acorde improvisado y largo en la guitarra. Y ¿saben qué? me salió super bien. Sonó mejor que nunca.
   Era como si la guitarra y mis dedos hubieran estado haciendo todo el trabajo mientras yo observaba desde afuera. Mis dedos se movían como pólvora. Las luces creaban una sensación mágica en todo el lugar. Llegamos al punto más alto y justo como lo teníamos practicado, paramos la música de pronto, de forma perfecta.

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Nova Scotia Love Stories

Nova Scotia Love Stories

edition:Paperback
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Off the Grid

Off the Grid

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Peggy's Cove

Peggy's Cove

The Amazing History of a Coastal Village
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Plank's Law

Plank's Law

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Random

Random

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Rat

Rat

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Reacción

Reacción

(Reaction)
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Reaction

Reaction

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Reckless

Reckless

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Refuge Cove

Refuge Cove

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Excerpt

All I could think was that I was in over my head again. The guy had one hand tight on my throat and I was pinned down. The other hand held a knife. He was snarling at me but I couldn't make out anything. Then I looked in his eyes and noticed that he was as scared as I was. He was breathing hard and he was trying to say something.
"You tell, I kill," was what I finally made out.

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Republic of Nothing

Republic of Nothing

Reader's Guide Edition
by Lesley Choyce
afterword by Neil Peart
edition:Paperback
tagged : literary
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Roid Rage

Roid Rage

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Running the Risk

Running the Risk

edition:Hardcover
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Excerpt

The door opened and two guys with ski masks on walked in. One walked straight to me. The other went straight to Lacey at her register. As they approached, I saw the guns come up. Lacey, Cam and I froze. The room suddenly went dead quiet except for the sound of hamburgers sizzling in the back and the buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights. I'd never even noticed the hum of the fluorescent lights before.

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Saltwater Chronicles

Saltwater Chronicles

Notes on Everything Under the Nova Scotia Sun
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The Death of a Father

My father never hesitated to make it clear that he had had enough of hospitals and wasn't going back to one, no matter what. These days, when anyone came into the house, he showed them the notice he had put on the fridge. "Do No Resuscitate," it read ominously, but he always would smile when he pointed it out. Not that it was a joke—it was just the way things should be.

After a bit, we got talking, so we gave up on a crash course in sorghum fertilizers and I picked out an old photo album from nearby. I had not seen this one before. The photos were from 1942 and my father looked impossibly young. He had a "new" car—an old Plymouth, I think. In the photo, he leaned against the car and smiled at the camera—so youthful and cocky and, I suppose, preparing to go off to war. But this was one happy young dude.

He pointed out people in the photos that I could not recognize, and he knew every name and detail about who they were. Page after page of smiling young men and women of the 1940s gazed out at me: brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, friends, and my father's own parents. There were photos of a young Norma Willis, the beautiful woman who would be his wife. It was a black-and-white world, but it was not short on glamour and optimism, and it was a place where a young couple could start a family and build a home. We looked at some other photos from the early 1950s when they had started building the house. He reminded me that he had begun to dig the basement one shovelful at a time, sometimes with the help of a brother or two kind enough to assist with the task, until they discovered that a bulldozer could do the whole job in about an hour.

He told me some stories that evening—some new, some familiar, all with the happy inflection of a man who had lived a good life, a happy life—a man who had no regrets and was at peace with the world.

Somewhere around 2:30 in the morning I woke to the sound of my brother Gordy's voice in the living room where my father lay in his borrowed hospital bed. I got up to see if I could help and found Gordy had helped Dad sit upright in a chair as he had requested. Margaret, Gordy's wife, came in as well. Within minutes, Dad said there was a pain in his chest, and that he just wanted to be held. While Gordy gave our dad a small dose of prescribed morphine under his tongue, I held my father for a few short minutes, until his body relaxed and he slumped forward in my arms.

It's a tough thing to watch a father die, but his sons were there with him. He was in his own home, and he was most certainly looking forward to his reunion with his wife. In so many respects, a death doesn't get much better than that.

Some would have considered Sonny a fairly simple man. He was most certainly humble, modest and unpretentious. He had not finished high school because he'd needed to go to work in the farm fields to help feed the large family he grew up in. He had gone to war but never fired a shot. Instead, he'd driven military trucks without headlights down the dark, narrow roads near Cambridge, England, and hauled airplane parts to Land's End, where a bomber had crash-landed. He'd returned home after the war, married, had two kids, and gone to work. He became a truck mechanic, often going off to work before dawn to get a fleet of diesel trucks on the road. He did road calls and changed truck tires on the Jersey Turnpike in the middle of snowstorms. He worked long and he worked hard.

Sonny was a farmer at heart and, in his teenage years, had done every dirty job imaginable on a farm, including dousing cabbages with insecticide—pure arsenic—all day long until he returned home at night, covered head-to-toe in that pure white poison. After he'd built that legendary home, he had always had a garden in front of the house in a triangular piece of land at the intersection of Church and Lenola Roads in Cinnaminson, New Jersey. He grew the best corn, peppers, green beans, lima beans, onions, eggplant, and squash any man could. And the tomatoes! He grew tomatoes the size of softballs that tasted better than any store-bought tomato ever had.

When he retired, he worked his garden, he grew Christmas trees, he tore down old buildings for wood to build garages and he collected scrap metal to haul to the junkyard for spare change. All of this was his idea of a good time.

But the sum total of the man was far more than the basic parts. My father's legacy was his sense of giving. More than anyone I can think of, he was selfless man. He helped others, he did good, and he did not do so out of a sense of duty, but because he wanted to. In his sixties, he helped look after some older friends who were in their eighties. In his seventies, he helped look after other friends who were in their nineties. By the time he hit his mid-eighties there just weren't any folks much older than him around that he could help out.

He had grown up in poverty and yet he claimed he had not felt much deprived of anything. As a result, he rejoiced in his good fortune at having a home, a wife, a job, sometimes some chickens to raise for eggs, and a well-appointed garden.

He showed compassion for others and, even though there were a lot of things about the more modern world he did not understand, I believe he appreciated people who were different from him. He had an innate tolerance of his fellow men and women. In his own way, he lived large and he lived well.

Gordy and I were supremely privileged to have been raised by two such fine parents. More than ever, I can appreciate that I get to go about my daily life as an adult without any real emotional scarring or baggage from my youth. Sonny and Norma gave my brother and me a good start, particularly when it came to homemade meals. We always had homemade sandwiches—liverwurst (my favourite), ham and homegrown tomatoes, or meatloaf. Yep, even as recently as the year 2000 my mom was packing me one-and-a-half meatloaf sandwiches, made with homemade relish, for the flight back to Nova Scotia.

As a kid, our meals had almost always included food grown by my father and preserved by my mother: stewed tomatoes (not my favourite), but also frozen corn, lima beans, potatoes grown by my grandfather, and homemade tomato juice that included four kinds of vegetables and was so thick you could float a quarter on it.

It seemed odd that, as my mom was fading, and after she was gone, my dad ate mostly prepared food from plastic containers or fast food that been purchased by Gordy from McDonald's or Wendy's. But at that point it was, for him, a matter of keeping things simple. He seemed to approve of any dish that involved ground beef, but he was also a fan of a good breakfast—especially a Spanish omelette on a Sunday morning at the Penn Queen Diner in Pennsauken, New Jersey.

Of course, there is much, much more to his life than that, and the details will come back to me in the weeks and months ahead through small images and fragments of memory.

It's safe to say my dad was always there for me. He accepted his son as a hitchhiking hippie, an overly opinionated young man, and a restless soul in his late twenties who believed he needed to leave the US for a new life in Nova Scotia. He always treated me fairly and was never harsh to judge. I knew he was always my dad and my source of strength.

Sonny loved people and he loved to talk. I doubt many would call him a philosopher, but I would. He taught me patience and persistence and compassion and optimism. He taught me to be fair and to be understanding. He taught me not to expect too much from the world but to work hard and accept whatever small rewards the world gave back with humility and gratitude.

It's a bit of a cliché, but his passing is truly the end of an era. You won't see another Sonny Choyce in this new century.

Not long after he died, I found myself fixing a flat tire on a rental car by the side of the road in a small town in Italy. Linda and I had pulled off near the wall of an imposing granite church. I discovered I didn't have all the tools I needed, so I walked back to the cottage we had rented and brought back a knife to pry off the plastic wheel cap. On the way back to the car, I picked up a brick. If there was one thing my dad had taught me, it was to always block one of the wheels of a car when you change a tire so the car wouldn't roll. I guess I felt he was there with me in Italy, changing that tire with a spindly jack on the sloping pavement. That brick kept the car steady as we removed the lug nuts and mounted the spare.

And I guess that's the final thing I have to say about him: he was steady. He was reliable. He kept us safe. He was dependable and always there—in Italy or anywhere else—whenever I needed him.

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Scam

Scam

edition:Paperback
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Seven Ravens

Seven Ravens

Two summers in a life by the sea
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Sid the Kid and the Dryer

Sid the Kid and the Dryer

A Story About Sidney Crosby
by Lesley Choyce
illustrated by Brenda Jones
edition:eBook
also available: Paperback
tagged : hockey
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Skate Freak

Skate Freak

edition:Hardcover
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Excerpt

Skateboarding always made me feel in groove, totally chilled and high-wired at the same time. At the skate park, though, I felt none of that. I slapped my board down, kicked for speed and dropped into the middle of the bowl. Way too many people were zigzagging crazy patterns back and forth. It was madness.
I was getting some nasty looks. But I couldn't leave, even though that was what those ugly staring faces said without one word. It was clear I was not liked. Was it the way I looked? Was it my hair? Or was it just me?

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Skunks for Breakfast

Skunks for Breakfast

by Lesley Choyce
illustrated by Brenda Jones
edition:Paperback
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Sudden Impact

Sudden Impact

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Excerpt

The heavy fullback went down right on top of him. I heard this terrifying scream come out of Kurt. Kurt was not usually a screamer. I'd never heard him utter the slightest whimper of pain, ever. He was as tough as they come.
A whistle blew. The ball had missed the net. Nobody knew what I knew. I was over the rickety fence and running onto the field. The referee pulled the Fairview goon off of Kurt, but Kurt was still curled over on the grass.
Coach Kenner yelled at me to get off the field. He and Jason both came chasing after me. They thought I'd lost my mind. A kid falls down in a soccer game, big deal. But I knew better.

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The Book of Michael

The Book of Michael

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The Ledge

The Ledge

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The Mi'kmaq Anthology Volume 2

The Mi'kmaq Anthology Volume 2

In Celebration of the Life of Rita Joe
edition:Paperback
tagged : canadian
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The Rules Have Changed

The Rules Have Changed

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The Summer of Apartment X

The Summer of Apartment X

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tagged : literary
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The Thing You're Good At

The Thing You're Good At

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Thin Places
Excerpt

Inside
When you are young
you have
imaginary friends
right?
You
make them up and
hang out with them
have adventures you can
never have
with real people.
I had a whole crowd
of friends who
didn’t exist
outside of my head.
Real people were
well
boring.
Adults were the worst.
They say How are you?
And I usually say nothing
because I know they can’t handle
the truth.
Some ask What do you want to be
when you grow up?
And sometimes I answer
I want to live in my own kingdom
an island filled with amazing beings
only I can imagine.

My Imaginary Friends
They
spoke to me
and told me stories
urged me to do crazy things
like
make parachutes out of sheets
and jump from
the shed roof.
They suggested I should learn
to juggle knives
and study the nature of
fire.
They told me where to look for
ghosts
and demons
and sometimes they
were not lying
although sometimes
they just wanted trouble.
(My father said he had a plan
to destroy
my imaginary friends.
That made them very angry.
But I said
I would never let that happen.)
Mostly
late at night
they spoke to me
of amazing places
that could not possibly
exist.
The voices were always clear
and
sounded like me.
I guess they were really
just me
or parts of me.

Let Me Introduce Myself
My parents named me
Declan Lynch
Names are important
but
it’s also important to
remember
that someone usually your parents
just made up your name.
You were not born with it.
Think about that.
You
were just you
when you came into this world.
My mom and dad were the Lynches
living on an average street Maple Terrace
like the tree
with the little helicopter seeds.
The Lynches had their first and only kid
me
and said I looked like my great-grandfather
whose name was Declan Timothy Lynch.
I only saw pictures of my great-grandfather
much later
when I could focus my eyes.
I didn’t look anything like him
but
the name stuck.
Declan
or Deck sometimes
or Declan Patrick Lynch
when I was bad
which was often.
Just jumping from shed roofs
getting lost in malls
hiking deep into the tangled forest
behind my house
always determined to not come home on time
chasing ghosts and demons
and listening for the next bit of advice
from the voices in my head.

Parental Advice
My mother told my father
it was just a phase
I was going through
a very long phase
and I would grow out
of it.
(But she secretly told me
that she understood the voices
and that I should learn the difference
between the good voices
and bad ones.)
My father
was a sworn enemy
of my imaginary friends.
Your imagination
he said
plays tricks on you
dirty tricks.
When I asked him what he meant
he tried to explain
but grew frustrated
and stomped away.
I heard him say to my mother in the kitchen
Sometimes, Fiona
Sometimes I think
that boy is not our son
at all.
Maybe they made a mistake
at the hospital
and gave us
the wrong
child.

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Thunderbowl

Thunderbowl

edition:Hardcover
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We played for ten minutes and drove home every last note. Al sang a barely audible lead and Drek and I tried to do backup vocals, but I don't think our mikes were even on. Toward the end, though, I had a long, crazy riff to play on my guitar. And you know what? It sounded good. It sounded better that I had ever played.
It was like my guitar and my fingers were doing all the work. I just stood there and watched. My fingers danced like fireworks. The lights sent mirror blasts of magic to the four corners of the room. And when I cranked the heat up to the absolute boiling point, we cut the song. Right on cue. Just like in practice.

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Wave Warrior

Wave Warrior

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My mouth was open. I know that because when I did the face-plant into the bottom of the wave, I was gargling salt water, thinking that maybe I was about to die. The wave drove me deep into the water. I flapped my arms around, thinking that going back up to the surface was a good idea.
But it wasn't. At least not then.
I surfaced just in time to open my eyes and see my airborne surfboard eclipsing the morning sun. And aimed straight for my head. Wham.

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Day Trips from Halifax

Day Trips from Halifax

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