By Peter McPhee
A set of poetry, prose and brief fiction by means of authors either recognized and up and coming who played at in the course of the first 3 years of the famed Toronto literary competition.
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Extra info for Carnival: a Scream in High Park Reader
They stop in central Mexico, Texas and Kansas. Some veer east, lighting upon our fair city's High Park in fatigue and near starvation. Fifty million birds pass through each of the main arboreal pitstops per day, over a two-week period. Two hundred and fifty species are represented in the migration. And now, in 1994, only half the numbers are flying as when the ornithologists started counting and tagging them in '63, No one knows why the numbers are diminishing. The average male songbird sings over ten thousand times a day.
I can't afford to lose track. My stop is only two or three away. And then it occurs to me, 1 don't have to get up. There's no one waiting for me. I could go to the end of the line and come back, enjoy moreof-the-same for a few hours, a leisurely return to my basement. Put off the decision to wash the dishes, at this late hour. Really, I should have washed them earlier. If I'd wanted clean dishes, I should have washed them hours ago, before going out. But no... I went out, hopeful that this gathering would not be as desolate as every other gathering I've attended...
All I wanted was to be beautiful. In the way the hippies said, a beautiful person. Stuart Ross AROUND THE BUILDING From across the road, I peer at the building. It is grey, it rises nine floors. I work in it. I work five floors up. m. At 8:30 I will be at my desk, and I will take the top sheet from a pile of paper and I will scrape specks from it with a special little knife. It is my special little knife and not one defect will go by unscraped. I am the best in the world at this. But now, it is 7:02 and I cross the road and approach the glass doors.