If you’re at all interested in Canadian LGBTQ2IA+ books, you have probably at least heard of the Dayne Ogilvie Prize. It’s an annual $4000 prize given by the Writers’ Trust of Canada for emerging LGBTQ-identified writers. Every year amazing writers are nominated for it and sadly only one person wins the prize. Past winners include Leah Horlick, Amber Dawn, and Farzana Doctor! This year’s shortlist was announced last week, and I am very excited, both about the two writers whose work I already know and the third writer who is new to me! Let’s get to know them a bit.
Kai Cheng Thom, Eva Crocker, Ali Blythe / image via cbc.ca and photos by Jackson Ezra, Alex Noel, and Melanie Siebert
someday they’ll cut this body open
and discover that my flesh is made of sky:
azure, sapphire, cerulean, turquoise, ultramarine
indigo
violet
black
cirrus and cumulus clouds stirring behind my eyes
cumulonimbus, alight with lightning,
crackling through the capillaries of the heart.
i am oh so full of rain
you could fall through me forever.
please,
dear scientist, mortuary explorer, search me thoroughly
tenderly catalogue all my wayward parts.
find somewhere in me
the forgotten moon, the faded stars.
re-member, reassemble, this tattered heaven, this
shattered
celestial thing
Financial uncertainty leads to interpersonal insecurity as an assortment of youthful protagonists navigate the everyday challenges of life — and making a living — on the island. What happens when the man interviewing you for a job takes you on a date to see a hypnotist? How do you get rid of a psychosomatic case of bedbugs? What’s the best way to get rid of a beaver dam? How do you tell someone you just started seeing that you didn’t know you had scabies when you hooked up? In the Cuffer Prize–winning story, “Skin and Mud,” two boys have an intimate encounter as they wander through the barrens one day after school. Barrelling Forward is packed with unforgettable characters, vibrant humour, and acute insight into the overwhelming anxieties of new adults living their lives in the midst of a crumbling old economy.
You push open the door
I smell coffee and wake
slowly telling you I dreamed
you were a small dress
of infinitely breakable sticks.I am going to try you on
now, I said in the dream.
Even knowing what patience
and care it took to piece you
together last time.A bare bulb made cagey
shadows of you as you
were lowered over me.
I tried not to move too much.
It wasn’t a dream, you say.