The Journey Prize Stories 32 Read online

  WINNERS OF THE $10,000 JOURNEY PRIZE

  1989: Holley Rubinsky for “Rapid Transits”

  1990: Cynthia Flood for “My Father Took a Cake to France”

  1991: Yann Martel for “The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios”

  1992: Rozena Maart for “No Rosa, No District Six”

  1993: Gayla Reid for “Sister Doyle’s Men”

  1994: Melissa Hardy for “Long Man the River”

  1995: Kathryn Woodward for “Of Marranos and Gilded Angels”

  1996: Elyse Gasco for “Can You Wave Bye Bye, Baby?”

  1997 (shared): Gabriella Goliger for “Maladies of the Inner Ear” Anne Simpson for “Dreaming Snow”

  1998: John Brooke for “The Finer Points of Apples”

  1999: Alissa York for “The Back of the Bear’s Mouth”

  2000: Timothy Taylor for “Doves of Townsend”

  2001: Kevin Armstrong for “The Cane Field”

  2002: Jocelyn Brown for “Miss Canada”

  2003: Jessica Grant for “My Husband’s Jump”

  2004: Devin Krukoff for “The Last Spark”

  2005: Matt Shaw for “Matchbook for a Mother’s Hair”

  2006: Heather Birrell for “BriannaSusannaAlana”

  2007: Craig Boyko for “OZY”

  2008: Saleema Nawaz for “My Three Girls”

  2009: Yasuko Thanh for “Floating Like the Dead”

  2010: Devon Code for “Uncle Oscar”

  2011: Miranda Hill for “Petitions to Saint Chronic”

  2012: Alex Pugsley for “Crisis on Earth-X”

  2013: Naben Ruthnum for “Cinema Rex”

  2014: Tyler Keevil for “Sealskin”

  2015: Deirdre Dore for “The Wise Baby”

  2016: Colette Langlois for “The Emigrants”

  2017: Sharon Bala for “Butter Tea at Starbucks”

  2018: Shashi Bhat for “Mute”

  2019: Angélique Lalonde for “Pooka”

  Copyright © 2020 by McClelland & Stewart

  “The Moth and The Fox” © Michela Carrière; “When Foxes Die Electric” © Paola Ferrante; “Hunting” © Lisa Foad; “Chemical Valley” © David Huebert; “Bad Cree” © Jessica Johns; “She Figures That” © Rachael Lesosky; “The Origin of Lullaby” © Canisia Lubrin; “House on Fire” © Florence MacDonald; “Aurora Borealis” © Cara Marks; “Feed Machine” © Fawn Parker; “The Rest of Him” © Susan Sanford Blades; “Coven Covets Boy” © John Elizabeth Stintzi; “The Last Snow Globe Repairman in the World” © Hsien Chong Tan.

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication is available upon request

  Published simultaneously in the United States of America by McClelland & Stewart, a Penguin Random House Company

  ISBN 9780771050992

  Ebook ISBN 9780771046537

  Some of Harmony’s responses in “When Foxes Die Electric” are based on the responses given by Apple’s voice-activated virtual assistant, Siri.

  Some of the dialogue from the TV interview on this page is taken from the This Morning segment “Holly and Phillip Meet Samantha the Sex Robot,” broadcast on September 12, 2017.

  The song lyric alluded to on this page is from “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard. The song lyrics alluded to by the boyfriend on this page are from “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” as performed by Cyndi Lauper (written by Robert Hazard), and “Foxy Lady,” written and performed by Jimi Hendrix.

  The interview with the snow globe repairman on this page is based on the NPR interview with Dick Heibel, titled “Where Snow Globes Go When They’re Broken” (December 28, 2003).

  The documentary referenced on this page is Werner Herzog’s Encounters at the End of the World (2007).

  Cover image: Rene Böhmer/Unsplash Images

  McClelland & Stewart,

  a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited,

  a Penguin Random House Company

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

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  ABOUT THE JOURNEY PRIZE STORIES

  The $10,000 Journey Prize is awarded annually to an emerging writer of distinction. This award, now in its thirty-second year, and given for the twentieth time in association with the Writers’ Trust of Canada as the Writers’ Trust of Canada/McClelland & Stewart Journey Prize, is made possible by James A. Michener’s generous donation of his Canadian royalty earnings from his novel Journey, published by McClelland & Stewart in 1988. The Journey Prize itself is the most significant monetary award given in Canada to a developing writer for a short story or excerpt from a fiction work in progress. The winner of this year’s Journey Prize will be selected from among the thirteen stories in this book.

  The Journey Prize Stories has established itself as the most prestigious annual fiction anthology in the country, introducing readers to the finest new literary writers from coast to coast for three decades. It has become a who’s who of up-and-coming writers, and many of the authors who have appeared in the anthology’s pages have gone on to distinguish themselves with short story collections, novels, and literary awards. The anthology comprises a selection from submissions made by the editors of literary journals and annual anthologies from across the country, who have chosen what, in their view, is the most exciting writing in English that they have published in the previous year. In recognition of the vital role journals play in fostering literary voices, McClelland & Stewart makes its own award of $2,000 to the journal or anthology that originally published and submitted the winning entry.

  This year, the selection jury comprised three acclaimed writers:

  Amy Jones is the author of two novels, We’re All in This Together, a national bestseller and finalist for the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour, and Every Little Piece of Me, which was named a CBC Best Book of the Year. She is also the author of a collection of stories, What Boys Like. Her short fiction has won the CBC Literary Prize for Short Fiction, appeared in Best Canadian Stories and The Journey Prize Stories, and been selected as Longform’s Pick of the Week. Originally from Halifax, she now lives in Hamilton.

  Doretta Lau is the author of the short story collection How Does a Single Blade of Grass Thank the Sun? and the poetry chapbook Cause and Effect. She splits her time between Vancouver and Hong Kong, where she is writing a comedic novel about an inept company struggling to open a theme park about death.

  Born in Congo-Kinshasa, Téa Mutonji is a poet and fiction writer. Her debut collection, Shut Up You’re Pretty, is the first title from Vivek Shraya’s imprint, VS. Books. It was shortlisted for the Rogers Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize, and won the Edmund White Debut Fiction Award and the Trillium Book Award. Mutonji lives and writes in Toronto.

  The jury read a total of ninety-two submissions without knowing the names of the authors or those of the publications in which the stories originally appeared. McClelland & Stewart would like to thank the jury for their efforts in selecting this year’s anthology and, ultimately, the winner of this year’s Journey Prize.

  McClelland & Stewart would also like to ack
nowledge the continuing enthusiastic support of writers, literary editors, and the public in the common celebration of new voices in Canadian fiction.

  For more information about The Journey Prize Stories, please visit www.facebook.com/TheJourneyPrize.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Amy Jones, Doretta Lau, and Téa Mutonji

  LISA FOAD

  “Hunting”

  (from Taddle Creek)

  MICHELA CARRIÈRE

  “The Moth and The Fox”

  (from Grain)

  FLORENCE MACDONALD

  “House on Fire”

  (from The Dalhousie Review)

  RACHAEL LESOSKY

  “She Figures That”

  (from The Malahat Review)

  PAOLA FERRANTE

  “When Foxes Die Electric”

  (from Room)

  CANISIA LUBRIN

  “The Origin of Lullaby”

  (from Joyland)

  JESSICA JOHNS

  “Bad Cree”

  (from Grain)

  HSIEN CHONG TAN

  “The Last Snow Globe Repairman in the World”

  (from PRISM international)

  CARA MARKS

  “Aurora Borealis”

  (from Exile: The Literary Quarterly)

  FAWN PARKER

  “Feed Machine”

  (from EVENT)

  JOHN ELIZABETH STINTZI

  “Coven Covets Boy”

  (from The Puritan)

  SUSAN SANFORD BLADES

  “The Rest of Him”

  (from EVENT)

  DAVID HUEBERT

  “Chemical Valley”

  (from The Fiddlehead)

  About the Contributors

  About the Contributing Publications

  Previous Contributing Authors

  INTRODUCTION

  The Journey Prize is a celebration of what short fiction can do, reflecting the preoccupations of contemporary writers. The jury process confirmed for us what we already knew to be true: there are so many incredible practitioners of the form working in Canada today. And yet reading for The Journey Prize in the time of COVID-19 was a strange and surreal experience.

  As the pandemic unfolded, we turned to this year’s submissions for solace and escape. The stories gave us a purpose, a reason to wake up at a decent hour: to put together an anthology that reflected the joy we felt while reading them. The multitude of compelling voices ensured that we were never alone, even as we worked in semi-isolation. And when we came together as a jury to talk about them, there was something so comforting about gushing over the stories we couldn’t walk away from. Even more exciting, we seemed to agree almost immediately on which stories would create the anthology—although not always for the same reasons. Where one of us reached for laughter, another went for poignant details, absurd observations, or truth in fiction. These are the thirteen stories that showed us that words have the capacity to heal us. They reminded us that narratives can carry us through and beyond difficult times, and can encourage us to keep going and to find beauty in what challenges us.

  Lisa Foad’s poignant and shattering “Hunting” takes us into the heart of a dystopian city and a gang of girls who roam its streets, trying to survive.

  There is something to be said about places that challenge us, break us, and give us permission to come out even stronger. Michela Carrière’s “The Moth and The Fox,” a triumphant meditation on survival, does just that.

  Florence MacDonald captures a child’s voice with such precision in the haunting story “House on Fire,” perfectly balancing innocence and intelligence.

  Rachael Lesosky’s “She Figures That” is a tender and unflinching inventory of a life, and an exploration of what it means to hold on to memories for someone who can no longer hold them for themselves.

  Paola Ferrante’s prose carries a charge; “When Foxes Die Electric” is surprising, wielding sci-fi conventions with ease while upending our expectations of the genre.

  And it is the right amount of logos that perplexes Canisia Lubrin’s “The Origin of Lullaby”—this honest and raw look at the way we enter spaces with a privileged eye and a wondering heart will leave readers asking for more.

  Jessica Johns’ “Bad Cree” remains curious in the way it looks for answers in the strangest and yet most familiar places. Johns’ craft is akin to that of a lifeguard; it pulls you in quickly for the big rescue.

  “The Last Snow Globe Repairman in the World” by Hsien Chong Tan brings to mind the films of Wong Kar-wai. It is a tender story with a singular point of view that is equal parts heartbreak and humour.

  In “Aurora Borealis,” Cara Marks uses lyricism and the occasion of a mother’s passing to take us in and out of a father’s love. Here, mourning takes the form of a fond memory. That’s the thing about memories—sometimes they soothe us, sometimes they haunt us.

  Fawn Parker’s sharp, clever, unsentimental prose chews up and digests the reader in the same way as her titular “Feed Machine.”

  In John Elizabeth Stintzi’s hilarious and heartbreaking “Coven Covets Boy,” the reader is cast in the role of anthropologist, observing a coven of teenaged girls who meet at a bowling alley called The Lois Lanes to discuss their love for the second-hottest boy in school.

  In a swift exploration of loss and desire, Susan Sanford Blades’ “The Rest of Him” unpacks the complicated intimacy in interpersonal relationships. Blades’ writing is as funny as it is bleak, as is often the case with grief.

  And David Huebert’s harrowing “Chemical Valley” displays a tremendous depth of feeling, weaving a personal story within a devastating historical context.

  Each story in this anthology encompasses vibrant worlds and exciting points of view. We hope you love these stories as much as we do.

  Amy Jones

  Doretta Lau

  Téa Mutonji

  May 2020

  LISA FOAD

  HUNTING

  We hate the mall. Its insides are yellowed and the air is stale and the stores are the same but their signs are different. The skylights are heavy with bird shit. The fountains are full of lucky pennies and piss. And the men are everywhere, clogging and leering.

  But this is why we’re here. The men. This is where we find them.

  We’re in the food court, with its terrible fluorescents and its stink of grease and its screaming babies. Me and Cat and Sierra and Liv and Coco. We’re each sitting at different tables. We’re each waiting.

  This is how we find them. The men. We let them find us.

  We sit alone in our scuffed sneakers and our cut-off denim shorts and our tube tops. We snap our bubble gum. We bend over and tie our shoelaces tighter, so the lace thongs we stole from the coin laundry peek past our denim waistbands. We flip through Tiger Beat and Seventeen and YM, magazines we stole from the 7-Eleven. We suck on the straws of our Orange Julius drinks. We look around. Old men. Fat men. Bearded men. If they smile at us, we smile back. It’s that easy.

  I look at Cat, then Sierra, then Liv, then Coco. Their eyes are bored, glittering, ready.

  I look at the other teen girls, the ones with mothers. The girls sulking, white sundresses and white barrettes. The mothers scolding, white jumpsuits and white sunglasses. Still, they’re holding hands. It doesn’t make me miss my mother. She’d never have worn white because white is winter. Besides, like Cat says, it’s best to save missing mothers for bedtime. Otherwise, we’ll sink like stones. I miss my mother. I sink the thought like a stone.

  And then I smile at the man smiling at me.

  He’s leaning against one of the pillars that frame the food court, shopping bags in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He’s broad-shouldered and square-jawed, salt-and-pepper hair neatly clipped. His suit is
business charcoal. His shoes are shiny. His lips are thin. He looks like a father. He takes a long pull on his smoke, exhales slowly. His eyes are black holes.

  He straightens and butts out his cigarette in a potted plant.

  Then he’s crossing the food court and sliding into the seat across from me, sliding his hunger into mine.

  “You look like you could use some company,” he says.

  I smile wider so he can imagine crushing the field of flowers that lives in my mouth.

  He tugs at his collar, loosens his tie. His gaze is greasy.

  “Shouldn’t you be at home writing a book report or something?”

  “I guess I’d rather have fun,” I say.

  He eyes the bruises on my forearms, my wrists.

  “You look like you know how to have fun.”

  “You have no idea,” I say.

  “I bet you could use some money,” he says. “Bus fare. Nail polish. Candy bars.”

  “And then some.”

  He pulls his wallet from his suit jacket. It’s wadded with twenties.

  I twirl a fat hunk of my hair, and Cat and Sierra and Liv and Coco rise from their tables and cluster in front of the jammed gumball machines that are next to the out-of-order kiddie rides. They fiddle with the stuck levers. They idle.

  He leans in. His breath stinks of tinned tuna. “Forty dollars,” he says.

  “Eighty,” I say.

  “Fifty.”

  “Sixty.”

  His eyes narrow. He crumples the bills, grabs hold of my hand, and presses them into my palm.

  “This better be one hell of a blow job,” he says, his hand twisting and squeezing mine, “or I’m getting my money back.”

  And as we walk to the back exit that’s overgrown with weeds, I feel Cat and Sierra and Liv and Coco fall into soft stalking step.

  Behind the mall, there’s nothing but empty parking lot. No one parks back here because it’s still strung with yellow crime-scene tape, even though no one is looking for the two women who went missing last month. We watched the men with police badges work the scene. It was just us and the birds. The men ate hoagies and had a push-up contest and tracked blood spatter all over the lot. “They’ll turn up in suitcases or rolled-up rugs,” said one to another. “They always do.” And then the cars the women were snatched from were stripped for parts, and a family of raccoons moved into the leftover shells.