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The 2024 Peter Hinchcliffe Short Fiction Award Longlist

The New Quarterly is pleased to announce the longlist for the 2024 Peter Hinchcliffe Short Fiction Award. After thorough consideration, we are excited to announce this year’s longlisted writers and their phenomenal stories.

The 2024 Peter Hinchcliffe Short Fiction Award Longlist

“Twin Talk” by Courtney Bill
“Pigeon Language” by Megan Callahan
“Come on Home, Bill Bailey” by Julia Cottrelle
“If You Are Not Coming Home by Sea” by Pamela Dillon
“Nat in New York” by James Dunnigan
“Lost Girls” by Amber Fenik
“When the Wind Blows” by Zilla Jones
“Solstice” by Kathleen Keenan
“Oh Darling” by Keri Korteling
“The Dead Mothers” by Candice May
“A Sensitive Man Drinks Yellow Flowers” by Curtis McRae
“I Lost My Animal” by Rishi Midha
“Tamago” by Lindsay Naito
“Kimono Confessional” by Kate Suffling
“The Baker’s Filia” by Rachel Top
“Almost Sexual” by Glenn Willmott
“Transmutation” by Michele Wong

Thank you to all of the writers who submitted their stories to this year’s contest. Stay tuned for our winner announcement!

What’s Natalie Hryciuk Reading?

I’ve always enjoyed reading a blend of non-fiction, fiction and poetry. A few years ago, I began reading a series of non-fiction books about the history of Ukraine, where my family originates. I wanted to know more about the political and historical events that have shaped Ukraine, and how these forces shaped my parents and, in turn, me. This need intensified in the months after Russia invaded Ukraine. Two texts were especially useful: Ukraine, A History, (second edition), by Orest Subtelny, a Canadian historian, and The Gates of Europe, A History of Ukraine, by Serhii Plokhy, who teaches at Harvard. Another valuable resource was David Nasaw’s book, The Last Million, Europe’s Displaced Persons from World War to Cold War, which helped me to understand my parents’ experiences as displaced persons.

My mother, who worked as a Nazi slave labourer during World War 2, found herself among the many Eastern Europeans who spent the post-war years in DP camps in southern Germany, waiting for a country to accept them. David Nasaw’s book, which is about the events of more than 75 years ago, is a timely read during the current global migrant crisis, and the displacement of 95% of Gazans. Nasaw, an American historian, also reminds us that no nation wanted to take the 200,000 Jewish people who remained trapped in Germany after the war, and that it was only after the partition of Palestine and Israel’s declaration of independence that these Jewish survivors were able to leave the displaced persons camps.

“I wanted to know more about the political and historical events that have shaped Ukraine, and how these forces shaped my parents and, in turn, me.”

A more personal account of displacement in the post-war DP camps is The Wild Place, a memoir by Kathryn Hulme. Written from her point of view as an UNRRA director, it’s a beautifully written story that engages both your heart and your intellect. She describes army truck convoys departing the camps filled with displaced people who were heading to new lives in countries like Belgium, Holland and England, which had accepted them as economic migrants, “country after country reaching in for its pound of good muscular workingmen’s flesh.” My father was one of these economic migrants, among the first to leave for work in a Belgian coal mine. Thanks to Hulme’s memoir, I experienced the thrill of discovering he left the camps in May 1947.

After this intense immersion in non-fiction, I was curious to read some fiction by a contemporary Ukrainian writer whom I’d come across in a book review. Tanja Maljartschuk is an accomplished and versatile writer who writes in both Ukrainian and German, having moved to Austria in 2011.

She has published short stories, essays, two novels, one YA novel, as well as poetry. I have just finished reading Forgottenness, which received the BBC Book of the Year award. Published in 2016, it was translated into English (by Zenia Tompkins) this year. I have also read her other novel in translation, A Biography of a Chance Miracle.

Twentieth century Ukraine is the historical backdrop for Forgottenness, which weaves together the story of a real-life Polish/Ukrainian activist named Viacheslav Lypynski with the fictional story of the writer-narrator, who decides to explore and write about Lypynski’s life. The narrator struggles with bouts of agoraphobia and other mental health issues. In an interview with Craft magazine [craftmagazine.net], Maljartschuk describes herself as “a person of a pessimistic-sarcastic nature.” She is known for her use of satire and absurdism, and is not afraid to reach into dark places with humour; in one scene the narrator runs out of food after a pathological bout of overeating, but cannot go out to buy groceries because of her agoraphobia. However, just as she seems to be spiraling downwards, the narrator gives us vivid, chapter-length descriptions of her Grandma Sonia and her Grandpa Bomchyk. Both were damaged by traumas inflicted during the Soviet era, but became, above all, survivors. I find these characters riveting. Grandma Sonia’s lesson on how to wash floors is emblematic of her pragmatic approach to life: “Trying to wash yourself clean from tragedy your whole life was pointless. Washing floors taught you that. No matter how much you scrubbed, dirty streaks would emerge regardless.” Grandpa Bomchyk is defined by his giggling, and the narrator describes his body as a “receptacle for the accumulation of unutilized laughter, which is why, over the years, as the reasons for laughter grew fewer and fewer, his body began to increase in size.” By resurrecting memories of her grandparents, the narrator is able to move past her own “shame and powerlessness.” 

In the Craft magazine interview, Maljartschuk describes faith as an ethical concept that one has to work at strengthening, for “disbelief is what the enemy uses to destroy his victims. Disbelief is at the heart of powerlessness.” She says the war has made it impossible for her to continue writing fiction or poetry; she realizes “literature does not prevent the most senseless wars from happening again; dictators and tyrants are still there, and they even read books.” Instead, she has turned to philosophy, reading Hannah Arendt “as a form of psychotherapy.” 

Although the novel I have just finished reading may be the last one Maljartschuk will ever write, in spite of her despair at the state of the world, she has also inherited the pragmatism of her grandparents’ generation. When she observes a peace installation at the town hall in Osnabrück, she notices that pitchforks are shown with their tines hammered into a block of wood to symbolize non-violence. Maljartschuk laughs when she sees this; wouldn’t it be useful to keep at least one pitchfork handy in case you have to defend yourself? I will miss her spirited, grounded approach to life, and the dark humour bubbling up in her fictional voice as she describes the bleakest of circumstances.

Natalie Hryciuk is an emerging writer living in Surrey, B.C. She is a first-generation Ukrainian Canadian, and explores that aspect of her identity in some of her writing, including both poetry and prose.

Photo by Andriyko Podilnyk on Unsplash

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Finding the Form with Glenn Clifton

I tinkered with “Soil Samples” story for years, mainly making cuts—my favourite part of the revision process is cutting and tightening. The story was close to its current form before the pandemic, before anti-vaxxers seemed to be so close to the centre of public debate.

The story originated from an abstract insight: that if someone believes modern life is brimming with contaminants and thinks vaccines might harm their children, then they should have even more avenues for guilt than other parents. Andi sees mental illness develop in Noah and she thinks she must have allowed the agent of damage in sometime in the past, before she developed her opposition to vaccines. I’m fascinated by the idea that someone might be in a state of misinformation that makes them feel more responsible and conscientious than they need to be. I also wanted to build some sympathy for Andi by flanking her with men who are dismissive of her attempts to support Noah, who think there must be a quick fix for something that might in fact be a lifelong condition. Andi isn’t good at reasoning, but she’s not a bad listener. Richard is just the opposite.

Early in the process, I knew I wanted them to go skiing. This impulse really came from my playwriting background—I didn’t want the story to end up as a series of worried drawing-room conversations, so I had to give them something physical to do. I have great memories of my own family’s skiing outings from childhood, and I liked the idea this family was revisiting a time when Noah seemed more whole. For whatever reason, it took years for me to decide that I should utilize the inherent threat of the ski lift, though it seems structurally obvious.

I’m glad I developed this story before the pandemic. I think I would be harder on Andi now, or maybe something in our culture itself has hardened. If I was first conceiving of the story now I would be more anxious to show I was on the side of the angels, with all the other people who made “good” pandemic choices. The pressure would distort my attempt to understand how Andi thinks. That’s not a good way to write. Conversely, maybe Andi’s guilt would have turned into aggression if she had a convoy protest to join.

Glenn Clifton (he/him) writes fiction, plays and academic articles. His stories have appeared in The Fiddlehead, SubTerrain, Prairie Fire, On Spec, and other places. His story “Bottom’s Dream” can be found in Year’s Best Canadian Fantasy and Science Fiction, Vol. 1 (Ansible Press). He teaches English and creative writing at Sheridan College.

Photo by Mufid Majnun on Unsplash

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Finding the Form with Molly McCarron

My stories often start from an initial image of characters. They’re already busy somewhere, doing something, and I follow them to see where they’ll take me. This time, it was the couple on the bus tour I saw first. I knew the couple was only understanding part of what was going on around them: a little island in the middle of a bigger group. At first, it wasn’t clear where they were, but once I’d determined they were in Turkey, and more specifically Ephesus, the site of an ancient city, I became obsessed with the Temple of Artemis there, once one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and that drove the rest of the story.

A cult worshipped Artemis in Ephesus as a fertility goddess. Artemis is most often known as the goddess of the hunt, and there are many statues that feature her with a bow and arrow, or next to a deer. The Ephesian version of Artemis is striking and unusual, covered with multiple gourd-like protuberances. Because we expect to see breasts on the front of a woman’s body, that’s what they look like, at first, but there is debate about what they really are. I even got a note from TNQ editor Pamela Mulloy questioning whether anyone could think they were breasts! That image, a kind of ridiculously fertile symbol (of whatever it is), as well as the fact that Artemis is described as being the goddess of fertility but also things that seem to be the opposite of fertility (e.g., eternal virginity) fascinated me.

I had the beginning of the story for a long time, but – as is often the case – the ending was the hardest piece to find.

Trying to get pregnant is sometimes a lonely, isolating experience. It can involve an unusual amount of focus on your own body (especially the parts of it you can’t see), as you try to create another one inside. Travelling is the opposite experience – you pick yourself up and drop into another world. Life in the place where you’ve arrived was carrying on before you got there, and will continue after you leave. While you’re there, it surrounds you. Eventually, I realized that that Aline’s city, like mine, is changing and growing around her. She doesn’t need to travel to regain that feeling of being in the middle of life happening around her. That’s when I realized I had an ending.

Even once I’d figured that out, though, there was something about the story that hadn’t quite landed. There was a certain distance to it. I love writing in the third person limited, where the narrator is still separate from the protagonist, but we’re seeing things through that character’s point of view. In this case, though, the third person point of view wasn’t leaving enough room for Aline to come through. I rewrote the story in first person, and that’s when it clicked into place.

Molly McCarron writes fiction and non-fiction in a backyard shed in Toronto. Her work has appeared in The Humber Literary Review, The Globe and Mail, and other publications.

Photo by Beyza Erdem

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Emmy Nordstrom Higdon’s Writing Space

Not long after my partner and I moved into our home, we had a contractor come over to help address one of the myriad logistical issues that arise when you’re newly nesting. We have set up our house with two bedrooms: the master upstairs, which my partner and I regularly share, and a basement bedroom, which I abscond to when night owl tendencies get the best of me. In the interest of both of us feeling a sense of ownership of space, my partner filled the master with all of zir comfort objects, and I took over the basement.

In what one might refer to as a semblance of decorating, I covered the bed in hand-sewn quilts, filled shelves with leafy plants, piled books from floor to ceiling, and half-painted the walls in a shade called Lemonade (before running out of paint). When the contractor came upon my basement lair, he turned to my partner and said, “Huh. Your husband’s bedroom looks a lot like my teenaged daughter’s,” unintentionally offering the most comical and accurate description of my writing space that I’ve encountered to date.

Sometimes, I wonder what the inside of my mind would look like to an outsider. I most often picture it like one of the bulletin boards that I used to keep on the walls of my high school bedroom. Although they masqueraded as practical, displaying my colour-coded to-do lists and monthly overstuffed calendars, they were really part scrapbook, part vision board. I pierced the thin cork board with one- and two-inch buttons that I received at events, hung branded lanyards off the thumbtacks, filled negative space with printed photos, used name tags, photocopied zines, horse show ribbons, classroom doodles, movie tickets, magazine clippings – the ephemera of a small city, teenage life in the early 00s.

I’m not sure if my personal aesthetic has evolved since then, and perhaps that impacts my writing more than I recognize consciously. It certainly mimics my writing process, which is hardly ever linear, despite my attempts at outlines, and my meticulous spreadsheets, so diligently maintained with upcoming deadlines and submission periods.

Despite being a basement, my writing space/bedroom/office/sewing room is bright and welcoming, with its many windows to the outside, lamps mounted on every surface, and an enormous rug of many colours that seems as though it may have been dyed by simply soaking its fibres in watercolours. I spend most of my time snug in a corner of an old love seat, something I’m sure that my body will punish me for later in life, with my sticker-covered laptop perched on a sturdy solid wood coffee table that’s pulled close enough to reach. Mallsoft, the only music that my overly-emotional heart can tolerate, occasionally seeps from its built-in speakers.

I spend more hours there than I’d readily admit, covered in a crocheted afghan rescued from a thrift store many years ago, or the threadbare sun-and-moon themed comforter that my grandmother gave to me as a gift when I was in middle school. When I reluctantly consent to a video call, I line up some of my stuffed animals along the back of the sofa in a neat row – a pocket-sized capybara, a fantastical dragon (modelled after the fruit), a soft kākāpo parrot from a conservation group, Riffin from the Humblewood D&D campaign setting.

The space isn’t entirely mine, and I would be remiss not to credit my coauthors and roommates. Whisper and Willow are two formerly feral Forest Cat mixes, and the basement is probably more theirs than mine. Whisper is a lovable marshmallow of a creature who does his very best to ensure that I don’t ever work too hard, often by planting his nearly 20 lb body, purring, on mine. His littermate, Willow, is reluctant to be perceived at times, even now at age seven. She still holds more than a little of the forest in her demeanour, though she’s the softest creature I’ve ever personally experienced touching. When objects that I need have gone missing, I can almost always count on finding them having been spirited away to a nest under my bed that Willow has made.

Conventional wisdom dictates that where you write impacts what you write, and a quick Pinterest search on writing space inspiration will return a collage of minimalist, private oases of calm in shades of beige – ergonomic chairs, multiple monitors, inspirational quotes, personalized bookshelves. These are places where I’d be afraid that my coffee mugs would leave telltale rings on the desktop – environments where I’d be afraid to mar the blank page with the ink splashes of my crude first drafts. I cringe to imagine what the bookstagrammers would say in response to the modest collection of Sylvanian Families that clutter my table, and the myriad cat toys that litter my floor – which could always use more vacuuming.

Emmy Nordstrom Higdon (they/them) holds a PhD in social work and works as a literary agent. They grew up in Ktaqmkuk (Newfoundland), and live on the Haldimand Tract in Kitchener, ON, with their partner, two cats, a Dalmatian, and many plants. They keep busy with vegan cooking, textile crafts, wholesome games, too much reality TV, and reading. They probably follow your pets on Instagram.

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Finding the Form with Andrea Scott

The glosa was the first poetic form that got me really excited about writing poetry, and digging into the puzzle that form poetry can be. In my first poetry course in 2020 (an introduction to poetry at Athabasca University), part of our required reading was In Fine Form: The Canadian Book of Form Poetry, edited by Sandy Shreve and Kate Braid (I love this book still!). Reading through the “glosa” section, I was enchanted with the form, and also with the work of P.K. Page, who popularized the glosa in Canada.

In spring of 2023, I attended a Zoom poetry course with Yvonne Blomer, where we were invited to study a master and dig deep into their work to help generate our own. Two of my poems that appear in TNQ’s issue 171 came from that exploration: “Dear P.K. Page,” where I’m in conversation with P.K., asking how we’re doing with being stewards of the Earth (I think I can hear her answer), and also my glosa “Prepping the Beds.” I wanted to gloss P.K.’s “A Bagatelle” for its four spectacular lines that I’ve borrowed as a cabeza. The rich garden imagery in P.K.’s poem caught my attention. I was in the middle of a divorce at the time, and spending all free time on things I could (sort of) control, or at least get my hands on, like weeding in my old, messy garden.

What a garden I tumble into.

What a froth

and buzz of blossoms.

Sun hot and glazing leather-leaf.

— P.K. Page

From my class notes, I see that Yvonne rolled her metaphor dice for the group, and after I asked myself some ridiculous questions including, “Am I a reluctant party clown?” I became fixated on the drum, on how love might be like a drum. This helped me build up an extended metaphor into a piece on gardening, and love lost.

These two P.K.-inspired poems are bookends in my chapbook, In the Warm Shallows of What Remains. I was thrilled to get permission to use one of P.K.’s paintings, Angels, as cover art. The art perfectly complements themes in the book, which is a study of things playful, earthy and apocalyptic.  

Andrea Scott’s chapbook, In the Warm Shallows of What Remains, was published by Raven Books in spring 2024. Other publications include FreeFall, Geist, Arc Poetry Magazine, The Humber Literary Review and The Antigonish Review. She was longlisted for the 2023 Room Poetry Contest and the 2023 CBC Poetry Prize. She won the 2024 Raven Chapbooks Contest, the 2022 Geist Erasure Poetry Contest, and was a finalist for the FBCW 2022 Literary Contest and the 2020 CBC Poetry Prize. She writes, teaches high school English, and lives with her son and cats in Victoria, B.C.

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The 2024 Edna Staebler Personal Essay Contest Results

After thorough consideration, The New Quarterly is pleased to announce the results of the 2024 Edna Staebler Personal Essay Contest.

Winner

“The Isabel Letters” by Geoff Martin

Runner Up

“Relax, You’re On Brain Vacation” by Martha Stiegman

Second Runner Up

“Bloodlines” by Nelly Leonidis

Honourable Mentions

“Because of the postcards” by Dora Dueck

“Speechless” by Jennifer Smith

Congratulation to all of the winners and honourable mentions. We look forward to publishing these essays in future issues. 

Trish Sissons’ Writing Space

When I first moved into this house and started using this room, wasps would drop out of a concealed hole somewhere in the ceiling, buzz around between my face and my computer for a bit, spot the window and try to make a getaway where they’d be met with a steady stream of Raid. There’d be tens of them each day, and I’d count their little corpses as I swept them off the ledge at the end of each day. After that first summer, though I never found the hole and ripping the siding off the house never revealed a nest, they didn’t come back.

I now write/paint/sew/work-from-home from this waspless room, surrounded by all my treasures: photos from home, my grandma’s cowboy boots, an owl taxidermied by my grandpa, my other grandma’s cremains captured in glass art by Jade Usackas, a Christiane Spangsberg print, the red and yellow cedar surfboard my dad made for me, a calendar for deadlines that I sometimes make, a full pot of tea, a little whisky for when the tea doesn’t quite cut it, relics from my family’s lives before Canada, a few books that make me want to be a better writer, a yoga mat in case my procrastination is so severe it leads me to fitness. If nothing else, my admittedly kooky collection provides a good deal of inspiration when the words aren’t flowing. It’s hard not to feel motivated when the owl is ever-watching, ever-judging.

I typically write with the window open and a record on repeat, but when it rains, I scurry outside to the covered front porch and write on the couch. I am overly nostalgic and often homesick, and the sound of rain is a salve. When it stops and the neighbours reemerge with their distractingly cute dogs and questions about the hay bales and zucchinis in my front garden, I retreat back into my little studio where the owl forgives my transgression and reminds me to get back to work.

Trish Sissons is a BC-born writer currently based in Tkaronto/Toronto. Her stories have been finalists for the Fiddlehead’s Fiction Contest and the Penguin Random House Student Award for Fiction. Her work has also appeared in the Clackamas Literary Review. A graduate of the SFU School of Communication and an occasional student at the UofT School of Continuing Studies’ Creative Writing program, Trish has studied and worked in Vancouver, Guadalajara, Melbourne, and Toronto. She was born and raised in the Bella Coola Valley, in the heart of the Great Bear Rainforest.
She has also been known to farm on occasion

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What’s Robert Bowerman Reading?

These days I read a lot of poetry, short fiction and CNF from magazines like The New Yorker, Granta, and of course TNQ. I receive a daily poem from Rattle magazine and try to take time to listen to their weekly interviews with contemporary poets.

Currently I am reading the Palestinian American poet, Naomi Shihab Nye. I am touched by her humanity. She reaches across borders to build bridges, not walls. Three other poets I am currently rereading are Philip Levine, Seamus Heaney and Robert Hilles. Philip Levine reminds me of the importance of ‘honest’ stories taken from everyday life. I enjoy Seamus Heaney for his wit and lyricism. Finally, I studied under Robert Hilles. His poetry reminds me of the value of simplicity and ‘straight forwardness’.

Robert Bowerman is a retired teacher living on Vancouver Island. Among others, his work has been published in the White Wall Review, Sea and Cedar Magazine, Portal Magazine, Counterflow Magazine and The Van Island Poetry Collective. In 2022, he won the Island Review Short Fiction Contest and in 2023 the Van Isle Poetry Collective Poetry Contest.

Photo by Rhamely on Unsplash

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Finding the Form with Ian Roy

I had a stroke a few years ago and it changed me in such a way that I am now the kind of guy who is telling you that I had a stroke a few years ago. Before the stroke, I would have kept that kind of information to myself. I’m a private person—or, rather, I was a private person, especially when it came to something as delicate and personal and fraught as having had a stroke. 

After the stroke, and a little bit of heart surgery—Did I mention the heart surgery?—I found myself answering the generic and uncomplicated question “Hey, how are you?” with an honest and complicated answer. I didn’t mean to start doing this. My instinct, upon hearing myself tell people my private business those first few times was to snap my mouth shut and run—but instead, I leaned into it.

Part of the reason for that—for leaning in rather than running—was that I wanted to be changed by what had happened to me. That is to say, I didn’t want to go through what was for me a traumatic experience and then go right back to how things were before. I wanted to interrogate it, and myself, in order to figure out what I could learn from it. What I landed on—or what landed on me, because it did not feel like a conscious decision—was to become more open and forthcoming, more vulnerable. To be clear, I find this all a bit embarrassing—and also terrifying. Ultimately, though, it felt inescapable.

Why am I telling you all this? I have primarily written fiction my entire writing life. That has always felt relatively safe to me. In fiction, I can be, to quote Tennessee Williams, emotionally autobiographical without giving too much of my life away. When questioned, I can say things like: That’s not me, that’s a character!

In the aftermath of my stroke, I had to stop writing for a bit. The stroke left me feeling fucked up. (That’s the term I used with all of my doctors when asked how I felt. You’re a writer, they said, can you not think of any other way to describe how you feel? No, I answered over and over again, I can’t because I feel fucked up.) As soon as that feeling began to subside—it took nearly a year—I started writing again, and the first thing I wrote was a personal essay about my experience. This was unexpected, but I went with it. And then I wrote another one. It felt cathartic to write those first essays; it also felt helpful to articulate what I’d gone through—if for no other reason than for myself to better understand it. I was surprised when people reached out after reading those essays: they wrote to share their own experiences, and to tell me they were moved to hear about my experience. Those essays—and this inexorable inclination to be more open and vulnerable—reminded me how nice it is to be reminded that you are not alone in the world.

That’s how I came to write “Have a Good Life”—an essay about fatherlessness. This was not at all something I had ever planned to write about in an essay. As I address in the piece, I do write about the idea of fatherlessness all the time—but I do so within the context of fiction. (That’s not me, that’s a character!)

Then one day I simply sat down and started writing this essay. I had no plan, no outline, no map—I just sat down and wrote it.

My approach to writing essays is the same as writing a short story: I write as much as I can in one or two sittings—without editing or revising as I go. I call it overwriting. I try to get it all out. It’s terrible; it’s messy; it’s far too long—but after a day or two, almost everything I need to work with is there on the page. What happens next is that I read through it to find out what it is I’m trying to say. I scrape away what isn’t necessary, and I add a little here and there to flesh out what is necessary. This stage can take days, weeks, months. It can take years. This essay, however, didn’t take long at all. I wrote it in about a week. I love it when that happens but it is a very rare occurrence.

Once the essay was done, I kind of shelved it. My thought was that if I were to publish a collection of essays someday—years from now—maybe I’d include it. I had no intention of submitting it to a magazine; I wasn’t ready for that. I did, however, include it in a grant application that I sent to TNQ. And then an editor from the magazine reached out and asked if the essay was available to publish in an upcoming issue. My first instinct was to say no. In fact, I panicked, shut down my computer, and didn’t reply for a couple days. But in the spirit of how this all began—this new tendency toward openness and vulnerability—I said yes. And here we are. There is a part of the process of writing a personal essay that feels like exorcising something from your psyche. And now that this essay is in print, there is a part of me that no longer feels the need to write any more on the subject—because “Have A Good Life” says all I have left to say about fatherlessness, about my fatherlessness.

Ian Roy is the author of five books. He lives in Canada.

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