Toronto Journal
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© Toronto Journal
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Toronto Journal is a writing journal published in print, online, and in sound.
52 Episodes
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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.
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.
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.
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.
FICTION. Tommy Cobbledick got a pellet gun for his tenth birthday. Danny Robertson got a pellet gun for his tenth birthday.
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.
FICTION. We're at a near-empty wine bar at Fifty-Second and Tenth. She takes off her hat when she sees me.
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.
FICTION. I went to the pianist's debut at Franklin Hall, the most prestigious hall in this town.
FICTION. He met her at the butcher's shop where she lined up behind him alongside the counter, waiting to pay.
FICTION. The ostrich died on a cold, clear evening in late November.
FICTION. Before they kill him, he wants some chicken. The entire conversation, thirty-minutes of hell with her mother, boils down to this.
STORIES FROM THE CITY. Extolling the suburbs of Toronto as places where you could truly breathe free, Paulino Santana, newly-minted homeowner, successfully solicited a number of Portuguese compatriots to fill his house in East York.
TORONTO FEATURE. “None of my race have, perhaps, seen the different phases of one man’s history as I have.” Thus wrote George Copway, near the beginning of his 1847 memoir.
Welcome to the fifth issue of Toronto Journal . . . and in case you haven’t noticed, we’re following the Harry Potter growth model.
The seventh day of the July heat wave, a Friday, I drove Maggie and Patrick out to Nassau County to spend a month with their father, the narcissistic sociopath, or the sociopathic narcissist (at least according to me, the armchair psychologist).
The first time someone’s shoes showed up in the toilet, people in class thought it was an accident, or at the least a one-off.
Lisa Winter could only see the back of Luc’s head as the repurposed school bus descended the steep valley toward Ahuachapan.
If – a word that floats effortlessly from the lips and fades along with its forgotten promises and takes with it a myriad of possibilities and a wealth of potentially better memories.
“What's the verdict doc, is this the end of the line?”
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