Toronto Journal

HISTORY FEATURE. There is a housing shortage. We are encouraged to consume Canadian produce. And the federal government is contemplating modular housing. The year is 1941.

Narrated by the author.

STORIES FROM THE CITY. Memory is a fragile and malleable thing. How is it that we remember some insignificant fact or interaction for an entire lifetime, while other events disappear into oblivion, calved off like chunks of ice from a glacier, to float away and melt as if they had never existed?

Narrated by Anthony Salvalaggio.

FICTION. It was 6:42 A.M., and I was sitting in the dark, waiting for the first fragment of dawn to put an end to that interminable night.

Narrated by Brigid Cami.

FICTION. My family used to rent a cottage at Sauble Beach every summer. It was a shack really, with uneven floors, draftywindows, and plumbing that sputtered, farted, and screeched every time the water was turned on.

Narrated by Erica Salvalaggio.

FICTION. The day I stopped crying, my ex-wife, Kate, made a particularly cruel remark, immediately putting my resolve to the test.

Narrated by the author.

FICTION. Estephanous was born midway through fall and each year he would mourn the transition to winter with a birthday cake and candles. This year he drove up the 400 towards Sudbury in a rental far too big for him and his wife Heidi, leaving behind the straight lines and jagged edges of Toronto’s concrete skyline.

Narrated by the author.

FICTION. One Saturday, about two in the morning, I woke up to this scratching sound outside.

Narrated by the author.

FICTION. “Yaku!” Mom exclaimed, a look of pure triumph radiating from her face. Her eyes had that delightful twinkle that I had not seen in months, if not years.

Narrated by Anthony Salvalaggio.

FICTION. Far away in the sky, above clouds and birds, the plane flew out of Ramya’s reach.

Narrated by Brigid Cami.

TIME CAPSULE. It was in visiting the interior that we always suffered most. I will here narrate a single circumstance which will convey a correct idea of the sufferings to which the Indians were often exposed.

Narrated by Drini Cami.

FICTION. The sun always wins. By November, the threat of hurricanes usually goes away in South Florida, and the monsoon gives way to a brief patch without the daily threat of rain.

Narrated by the author.

FICTION. The boy had gotten up to look out the window five times in as many minutes when his father told him to sit still, he was making him nervous.

Narrated by Anthony Salvalaggio.

FICTION. I first encountered the sticky stuff in a grocery store parking lot. I was just about to get in my car when I saw what I thought was a rather sizable chip in my windshield.

Narrated by the author.

FICTION. Tommy Cobbledick got a pellet gun for his tenth birthday. Danny Robertson got a pellet gun for his tenth birthday.

Narrated by Drini Cami.

FICTION. The wax hand on Fiona's desk lies palm up across articles she’s ripped from magazines, leaflets for family days out, and to-do lists without everything ticked off.

Narrated by the author.

FICTION. We're at a near-empty wine bar at Fifty-Second and Tenth. She takes off her hat when she sees me.

Narrated by Erica Salvalaggio.

FICTION. I'm sliding the scale into my backpack and Kelly is looking at the bag of coke in her hand like it’s a crystal ball when I say, I guess there’s a snowstorm on the forecast, which isn’t remotely funny.

Narrated by the author.

FICTION. I went to the pianist's debut at Franklin Hall, the most prestigious hall in this town.

Narrated by Brigid Cami.