Detailed C-V

MITCHELL TOEWS: A big list…

 ONLINE ADDRESSES

Mitchellaneous.com
@Mitchell_Toews
Author pages on Facebook, Goodreads, and LinkedIn

 CURRICULUM-VITAE

Updated 3.25.21

EDUCATION

University of Victoria (1974-75)
University of Winnipeg (1975-77)
Masters Certificate in Marketing Communication Management, York University (2001)
“So You Want To Write Indigenous Characters…”, Manitoba Writers’ Guild (2019)

 ASSOCATIONS/MEMBERSHIPS

Member — Manitoba Writers’ Guild
Past Associate Member — Victoria Writers’ Society
Professional Artist — Manitoba Arts Council
New/Early Career Artist — Canada Council for the Arts
Past Member — Winnipeg Public Library’s Prose Writing Circle, led by Winnipeg Public Library Writer in Residence Carolyn Gray (2019-2020)
Member — The Sunday Writers Group, led by Donna Besel (Lac du Bonnet, MB)
Member — WriteRamble, led by Lauren Carter, Winnipeg Public Library Writer in Residence, 2020-2021
Member — Write Clicks, a Winnipeg River/Winnipeg City alliance of writers, a critique circle formed in 2021
Member — Winnipeg River Arts Council

 PUBLISHED WORKS

2016:
16 short stories, 15 online, 2 paid print, 9 Canada, 6 UK, 1 US

2017: 20 short stories, all online, 4 Ca, 1 India, 7 UK, 8 US

2018: 14 short stories, 1 interview, 1 podcast, 1 paid print, 3 unpaid print, 6 Ca, 4 UK, 1 Ireland, 5 US

“I am Otter” — short story, CommuterLit (Ca)

“Fall From Grace”, short story, Literally Stories (UK)

“Of a Forest Silent” — short story, Alsina Publishing LingoBites (UK – English and Spanish)

“City Lights” — short story, Literally Stories (UK)

“The Bottom of the Sky” — short story, Fiction on the Web (UK)

“In the Dim Light Beyond the Fence” — short story, riverbabble (US)

“Nothing to Lose” — short story, riverbabble (US)

“Shade Tree Haven” — short story, Doorknobs & Bodypaint (US)

“Sweet Caporal at Dawn” — short story, Blank Spaces (Ca), paid print

“Sweet Caporal at Dawn” — short story, Just Words, Volume 2 Anthology (Ca), print

“Away Game” — short story, Pulp Literature (Ca), paid print

“The Doeling” — short story, Cabinet of Heed (Ireland)

“Groota Pieter” — short story, River Poets Journal, Special Themed Edition, “The Immigrants” Anthology (US), print

“Five Questions for Mitchell Toews” — interview, Mennotoba (Ca)

“The Narrowing” — short story, Scarlet Leaf Review (Ca)

“Wide Winter River” — podcast, Not Ready for Prime Time (US)

2019: 15 short stories, 1 interview, 1 CNF essay, 1 paid online, 1 paid print, 2 unpaid print, 3 Ca, 2 UK, 1 Australia, 3 Iran, 8 US

“The Fifty Dollar Sewing Machine” — short story, Literally Stories (UK)

“The Toboggan Run” — short story, The MOON magazine (US)

“Peacemongers” — short story, The MOON magazine: “Out of This World” Anthology The Best Short Stories from the MOON (US), Volume 1, print

“Cave on a Cul-de-sac” — short story, The Hayward Fault Line, Doorknobs & Bodypaint (US) Issue 93

“Din and the Wash Bear” — short story, The Hayward Fault Line, Doorknobs & Bodypaint (US) Issue 95

“Died Rich” — short story, Fabula Argentea (US), Issue #27, paid

“I am Otter” — short story, Short Tales – Flash Fiction Stories (Iran)

“Away Game” — short story, Short Tales – Flash Fiction Stories (Iran)

 “4Q Interview with Author Mitchell Toews” — interview and excerpt from WIP novel, “Mulholland and Hardbar”, South Branch Scribbler (Ca)

“Ifs and Butters” — short story, TurnPike (US)

“Concealment” — short story, Me First Magazine (US)

“Groota Pieter” — short story, Pact Press (Australia), “We Refugees” Anthology, print

“Fast and Steep” — short story, Riddle Fence (Ca), Issue 34, paid print

“Holthacka’s Quandary” — short story, Lunate Fiction (UK)

“Shade Tree Haven” — short story, (mac)ro(mic) (US)

“My Writing Day” — CNF essay, my (small press) writing day (Ca)

“Our German Relative” — short story, Xmas Stories (Iran)

2020: 11 short stories, 2 CNF essay, 2 interviews, 6 print, 1 paid online, 2 paid print, 5 Canada, 3 UK, 4 US

“The Business of Saving Souls” — short story, Literally Stories (UK)

“The Log Boom” — short story, in “A Fork in the Road,” 2019 Special Theme Edition Anthology of River Poets Journal (US), print

“Encampment” — short story, Tiny Seed Journal (US)

“Regrets de Foie Gras”— short story, Literally Stories (UK), May 2020

“The Grittiness of Mango Chiffon” — short story, Agnes and True (Ca), paid online, Summer 2020

“My Life as a Corkscrew” — a CNF essay “On Writing” in Blank Spaces (Ca), June 2020, print

“Piece of My Heart” — short story, Pulp Literature, (Ca), paid print

“Away Game” — short story, Quail Bell Magazine, (US), paid print

Interview — Maysam Kandej Talks (Iran), https://maysam.id.ir/talks online, August 2020

“My Life as a Corkscrew” — a CNF essay “On Writing” in the Just Voices anthology (Ca), September 2020, print

“The Sunshine Girl” — short story, Cowboy Jamboree Magazine (US), Fall 2020 (John Prine Tribute issue), print and online

“Died Rich” — short story, Fiction on the Web (UK), September 2020

“Baloney, Hot Mustard and Metal Filings” — short story, WordCity Monthly (Ca-Intl), September 2020

“Our German Relative” — short story, WordCity Monthly (Ca-Intl), December 2020

2021 to date: 5 short stories, __ CNF essay, 2 interviews, __ print, __ paid online, __ paid print, 2 Canada, 3 UK, __ US

“Interview with Contributor Mitchell Toews” — Blank Spaces (Ca), January 8 2020

“So Are They All” — short story and interview, Literally Stories (UK), February 14 2021

“Fast and Steep” — short story, CommuterLit “Love Stories,” (Ca), February 14 2021

“The Grittiness of Mango Chiffon” — short story, Literally Stories (UK), March 9 2021

“Fast and Steep” — short story, Fiction on the Web (UK), March 29 2021

“Featured Artist — Mitch Toews” Winnipeg River Arts Council, interview written by Donna Besel (Ca), June 2021

“The Log Boom” — short story, WordCity Monthly (Ca-Intl), July 2021

“In the Dim Light Beyond the Fence” — short story, The Twin Bill (US), July 13 2021

 CONTESTS-PRIZES-AWARDS

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“So Are They All” — short story, second place in the Adult Fiction category of the Write on the Lake (Ca) contest, 2016, paid print

“Fall from Grace” — short story, Honourable Mention in The Writers’ Workshop of Asheville (US) Memoirs Contest, 2016

“The Phage Match” — short story, finalist in Broken Pencil’s (Ca) annual “Deathmatch contest, 2016, print

“Cave on a Cul-de-sac” — short story, winner in The Hayward Fault LineDoorknobs & Bodypaint Issue 93 Triannual Themed Flash contest, 2018 

“I am Otter” — short story, CommuterLit (Ca), Runner-up in for Flash Fiction Feature, 2018

“Sweet Caporal at Dawn” — short story, nominated by Blank Spaces for a PUSHCART PRIZE, 2018, print

“Piece of My Heart” — a 750-word or less flash fiction was named “Editors’ Choice” in the 2020 Bumblebee Flash Fiction Contest from Pulp Literature Press, paid print

“The Margin of the River” — short story, nominated by Blank Spaces for a PUSHCART PRIZE, 2021, print

“Fetch” — short story, one of 11 finalists in a national field of over 800 entries: The Writers’ Union of Canada’s Short Prose Competition for Emerging Writers.

“Fast and Steep” — short story, Summer 2021 Anthology of Short Fiction, Fenechty Publishing (UK), 2021 print and ebook

 FUNDING

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Manitoba Arts Council, June 30, 2020. Financial support for the creation of a unique Manitoba artbook, ekfrastic in nature and featuring artistic photography and short fictional stories. The theme is “People, Places, and Light”. Photography by collaborator, Phil Hossack.

 READINGS

  • Voices Launch, McNally Robinson, Winnipg, MB, 2016
  • PULP Literature Issue Launch, Vancouver, BC, 2017
  • Manitoba Writers’ Guild, Artspace, Winnipeg, MB, 2019
  • Prosetry, Jessica Lake, MB, 2019
  • Driedger Readings, Winnipeg, MB, 2019
  • Victoria Writers’ Society, AGM—Open mic, 2020
  • PULP Literature Reading Series, live internet April 24, 2020
  • PULP Literature Issue 27 launch, live internet July 19, 2020
  • Mechanics’ Institute, San Francisco, Cal, COVID-19 open mic, live internet August 19, 2020
  • Just Voices Volume 4 virtual launch, recorded for September 26, 2020
  • PULP Literature Issue28 launch, live internet November 7, 2020
  • Jake Epp Public Library, Steinbach, MB, 2020 (date TBA, pending Covid restrictions)
  • Several readings are recorded here: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCsA7vS0kVqP5etL2cPnlM4w

 WORK IN PROGRESS

  • “Mulholland and Hardbar” — a novel (“Fargo, with Mennonite accent”) This 85K-word WIP is out to Beta readers and the author is seeking Sensitivity readers. Not yet querying.
  • “People, Places, Light” — an ekphrastic Manitoba artbook including original photography and short stories (Funded in part by The Manitoba Arts Council | Le conseil des arts du Manitoba.) Not yet underway due to Covid-19 restrictions.
  • “The Mighty Hartski”/”Rommdriewe” | “Downtown Diner” | “Arthur Delorme and the Craigflower Bus” | “Red Light Man” | “Fetch” | “The Three Sisters” | “No Strings” | “Our Better Angels” | “Mr. Babiuk” | “Aunt Emma’s Car Ride” | — Short stories
  • “The Barkman Avenue Peace Accords” — a themed, MennoGrit short story collection NOW QUERYING. A second collection iteration, “Pinching Zwieback” has also been created for query and contests, comprising a wider range of stories, but also focused on Mennonite experiences in the wille hundat (the great unknown).
  • “Tafelburg” — a science fiction novella
  • “The Mismaloya”— a proposed novelette screenplay adaptation

FRIENDS & FOLLOWERS

  • Twitter 5,589
  • Facebook 1580
  • Goodreads 238 friends, 19 followers
  • LinkedIn 804
  • WordPress 204

PANELS

Mitchell Toews participated as an Artist Testifier for the Commission on Basic Income. This Ontario/Canadian (Ontario Arts Council, Canada Council for the Arts) jointly sponsored commission requested Mitch to “share your experience and thoughts with our commissioners and to inform their future report on the issue of Basic Income for Artists.” January 30th and 31st from 12:30pm EST to 5:30pm EST via zoom. 1.15.21: Due to a previous commitment, Mitchell declined to be part of the broadcast but has provided the Commission with comments which were read into the transcript during the event.

A Fetching Tale

I have good news. “Fetch, a short story I submitted to THE WRITERS’ UNION OF CANADA was chosen from a pool of 785 contestants as a finalist in their 2021 Emerging Writer Short Prose Contest.

https://www.writersunion.ca/news/mirabelle-chiderah-harris-eze-s-dark-wins-2500-prize-short-prose-competition

Phew! Feels good to say it. This was my year to enter contests and I was getting a bit (okay, a lot) pouty faced about it. It’s not the not winning that is so bad (I’m lying, that is bad) it’s more the dreadful silence. Not a creaky cricket. Not a fractional decibel, just the buzzing silence that means, well, it means nothing.

So I did not actually win this nation-wide contest but I was recognized and their procedure is sufficiently difficult to make me crow a little. I can take it as a victory and move along.

Where and to what?

To my work-in-progress novel — thanks for asking — which is in the late stages of final edits, Beta readers, and getting down to the QUERY level. It’s a 85K-word lit fic called “Mulholland and Hardbar” and you’d describe it in a sentence as, “Fargo, with Mennonite accents.”

Next: A collection of short stories I’m querying. It’s a group of stories that run to the GRITTY end of the register and they’re about Mennonites, so, I have coined a category for it: “MennoGrit.” This short story collection includes the aforementioned most excellent story, “Fetch,” and a whole bunch of others, new and old, many that are EVEN BETTER. (Always be selling?)

🙂

Last in this trio of writing projects I have on the go is a new EKPHRASTIC ARTBOOK project, yet to begin officially, due to Covid. The Manitoba Arts Council (MAC | CAM) has funded its creation with a grant. My collaborator photographer partner Phil Hossack and I will begin soon with road trips and research on interesting Manitoba people and places. Being a Manitoba project, it will inevitably be drawn to places where there is a giant sky, lots of sunshine and the iconic great LIGHT our province is known for by photographers and artists around the world. Plus, maybe the prose can add another angle to the photography: The lightness of being? Being light-hearted? Finding the light? Can you help me out, buddy? — I’m a little light…

Anyway, back to the contest: I want to thank The Writers’ Union of Canada — a classy joint — the judges, the pre-selection readers, and my mentors and critique readers on this story. Of the latter, there were several and they did an outstanding job of helping me with this piece — one that I managed to write in the most difficult way possible! I had a lot of help.

Congratulations to the winner and to my co-finalists and to the nearly 800 entrants who, like me on many other occasions, heard the silence and I know they are gearing up to enter again next year. Yikes.

Plus… I do have a lot of contest entries still in play. So cross your fingers and maybe I can fetch up another one.

From Fetch:

[…]

The engineer’s grinning at us. No, mostly he’s leering at Sarah, who sits with her hair blowy in the passenger seat. I feel the thrum of the train engine. Feel it in my fillings. Then I’ve had enough. Enough of the clatter. More than enough of the old hogger flexing his rolled-sleeve bicep at Sarah. My foot’s off the pedal and we lag behind. Caboose lights blink goodbye.

Sarah straightens her hair with one hand and rolls up the window. The evening sun is sullen behind us, drowning golden in the swamp. Her head is backlit, wild honey in the horizontal glare. Dust motes swirl inside the cab and two noisy horseflies butt their heads against the back window.

“Have you told Mom and Dad?” The last of the warm summer light angles across her face. Her lips are glossy. They part as if to speak but she does not.

[…]

PROPER MENTION to “Write Clicks” pal and songleader Zilla Jones of Winnipeg who outdid herself with THREE stories in the final eleven.

Treasures small and LARGE

[Image Caption: Re-purposements… a 1960 fishing plug used as the pull-chain fob on the Toews’ living room ceiling fan.]

Trigger Warning: This article contains a lot of sexy plumbing talk.

Almost every day as I ramble around our home in the north woods I am always struck, like a proud curator, by how many treasures I have around here. Things we have bought (meh…) that have served well, but more so stuff Jan and I have thought up, designed and built. Ahh, endorphin rush sting me with thine euphoric prick.

Sorry, that last line didn’t come out quite right, but time is money and there’s no money for editing this month.

To continue about treasures… I get a thrill from the various objects that we have built, mended, replaced, and re-purposed. That last one, re-purposed, is an awkward but useful word that has not yet achieved hyphenless status, even though “hyphenless” has, according to Grammarly and WordPress. I particularly treasure those items that have had their purpose re-defined and radically so, such as the 2001patio door leaves that have become fixed windows in my writing room by the lake; the 1950 fir windows that now grace the She-Shed gazebo-screen porch down by the shore; the old Mistral windsurf board that hangs as a thematic outdoor light fixture above the garage door (can you picture that?) and other detritus of eras past and patents not applied for.

But the Mona Lisa of my collection is the 1950s-era child’s fishing rod that now is a a flexible actuator-whacker for the start-stop switch on our water pump. It’s obvious this needs further scientific/theological description, like the definition of the Holy Ghost, so here goes: The switch has lost its fine-tuning. If you set it so that it starts the pump when needed (like during the rinse-cycle of a shower) it won’t shut-off when the demand is satisfied. Arggh. Conversely, if I literally crawl into the crawlspace beneath the cottage where the pump and its harem of 10-trillion spiders live, and re-adjust the switch so it will shut-off, it then becomes obstinate about STARTING. Yoma leid etj sei! That is, it will shut-off just fine but will not for love nor Lubriplate, start-up! Doh! and double-doh! There is no middle-ground, only a crawly, dusty, oneiric no-man’s-land where spiders wear octa-legged harem pants and thick mascara and the potentate pump grins sardonically, as pumps and potentates are wont to do, damn their O-ring eyes!

Anyway… I note in my curse-filled administrations that a light tap with my screwdriver allows the pump to overcome its refusal to start. (Freudian?) Aha! A clue to the solution? So, what if… I set the actuator switch to always automatically shut-off without fail — thus eliminating the danger of a pump run-on that would burn out the dry-running guts — and then I came up with a way to manually give it a light tap to get it to start-up. Hmm. The trouble is, the only way to tap it is to crawl under the cottage. This crawling is a big ask for me, a guy with joints made of goat-cheese and ossified bone as pitted and porous as Manitoba limestone. How then, to tap without crawling down into that dim spidery hellspace?

I eye the kitchen floor above the pump, Makita drill in hand. “Ey-yi-yi,” Janice says with a you-gotta-be-kidding pump-grin, “Can’t you come up with another approach? We can’t have a hole in the middle of the floor! For the love of Cloaca Maxima!” she says, with a callous reference to the God of Plumbing. (We have a shrine to her in our garage.)

“But the crawling, the T-A-P-P-I-N-G… ” I whine like our truck in reverse.

“Figure something else out.” Her final edict. Inalterable. She hath spake.

Alive and filled with mother-of-invention impetus, I rake through the junk on the junk-shelf, next to the shrine.

“What are you looking for?” Cloaca Maxima asks. (Gods are so nosy!)

“I’ll know when I find it,” I reply in perfectly plausible circular logic. In that instant, I strike gold. A 1950s-era three-foot long fiberglass fishing rod. My re-purposer synapses fire like George Gatling’s murderous gunpowder hydra and I SEE it in my mind: a cord running from the edge of the deck and underneath all the way to the crawlspace wall, through a tube, into the crawlspace, with its terminus at the tip of the midget fishing rod. I TWANG and release the cord and the flexy rod will snap against the actuator switch, effectively mimicking my crawling tap-tap-tap. Like humankind’s ancient forbearers, I have risen up from the crawling stage and have freed my hands to grasp tools. Vive la évolution!

There it is: a way to administer an actuating sting with my re-purposed flexible prick. (Again, not really liking the way that image plays out, but, gotta finish this post and get out there in the sunshine, so I’ll just leave it as is.) The point is (eww!) this is the kind of MacGyvering that passes for progress around here, and I, inventor son of an inventor son of an inventor, find it provides a highly endorphilic, artistic pleasure for me here in the Fifth Re-purpose Arrondissements Municipaux de Jessica Lake. Gertrude Stein would be impressed, “A prick is a prick is a prick!” she might observe.

Anyway-anyway-anyway… The real purpose of this long build-up is to say that, like my invented treasures here-about, I take an equal amount of JOY from my literary works of art. They don’t bloody my knuckles — well, not in a literal way — but they take just as much effort and like my craftwork at Jessica, they come from old objects, re-purposed. Life experiences of mine and others taken and writ large in stories and essays.

Here is one such. It’s one of my favs and I like to show it off, like one might a ’57 Chevy with “Old Fart” license plates, only my stories are re-purposed to give a different kind of a ride on a different kind of a road. The story “Fast and Steep” first appeared in the Canadian lit journal, Agnes and True.

https://www.fictionontheweb.co.uk/2021/03/fast-and-steep-by-mitchell-toews.html

And, for a little variety, here’s another — a short essay that graced rob mclennan’s blog some time ago, it is a wise-crack that let some light in, in a Leonard kind of way: http://bit.ly/mySMALLPRESSwritingdayToews

allfornow,

Mitch

Literally Rerun

Received great news from the ripping UK online lit mag, Literally Stories. They have chosen my story, “So Are They All” for a rerun on February 14, 2021.

In my travels around the virtual literary world these last six years, I’ve been able to meet a lot of special people. The crew at Literally Stories is just such a romp, such a cabal, such a band on the run.

FUN FACT: The plural noun for a group of bulldogs (British or otherwise) is… a FART of bulldogs. Now, I don’t know if this descriptor applies to the assembled writers, poets, editors, and artful dodgers at Literally Stories, but given enough ale, black pudding, bangers and beans, etc. — it may well be.
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I do know that the literary caucus at that particular joint is certainly warm, but is (definitely) not silent, nor deadly — rather lively, I’d say — and would not abide by the evidentiarily assumptive phrase, “He who noted it, is he who floated it…”

They are sharp, funny, agile, devoted, and big-hearted. So to be twice touched by their regal sword of acceptance is an honour I do not take lightly. Not only will the story run again, but it will be accompanied by a couple of questions from the mysterious Leila, a writer-editor-interviewer with Salish Sea roots. (I think.)

Here are her questions, check out the Literally Stories site on Feb 14 for my answers.

Black and white library. Red heart emoji transparent | Heart emoji, Emoji,  Cute patterns wallpaper

Q: 2020 marked Cornelius and Rosa’s hundredth wedding anniversary*. An imbecile (such as Wolf Blitzer) would ask something like “What would they make of today?” Instead I wonder if you believe that the present is always so conceited that there’s a belief that the people in the past couldn’t cut it today? (Seems to me that Rosa would do just fine on social media, because she’d have interesting experiences to relate. Also, feel free to rant loosely, incoherently, as I seem to be doing.)

*Dec. 17, MJT

 Q: Yes, A. Let’s play Jeopardy! Answer to the question is: Simply the finest thing ever to come out of the bakery. 

SIDEBAR: What the loquacious Leila is referring to (Cornelius and Rosa) are two recurrent characters that come from a series of stories set in the fictitious Canadian Prairie town of Hartplatz. Cornelius (“Roy”) and Rosa Zehen are the grandparents, with Rosa being the materfamilias of the Mennonite staum of bakers, shoemakers, hockey players, and windmill tilters.

SIDEBAR SIDEBAR: Breaking News — The Zehen clan is represented in about forty short stories. Recently, I’ve pulled 29 of them together into a coherent collection that runs in a roughly chronological order from 1920 to the present and beyond, into a dimly viewed future. I have begun to query the collection, polishing and curating to offer the least kuhshiet-spattered grouping I can muster.

A shart of short stories? The collection is tentatively titled: “The Barkman Avenue Peace Accords”

Piece of My Heart

I had the opportunity to read one of my flash fictions for the virtual launch of Issue 28 of PULP Literature Magazine. The video is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bIcbCsZCMpk&feature=youtu.be
and my segment is the first one, running from about the 2:00 minute mark to 9:30.

PULP Lit is a special lit mag. It is, like my kids and grandkids, located in B.C. and also like my kids and grandkids and my sis Char and old friends I don’t see much anymore except for Facebook, one of the many — so many — reasons I love to return and visit B.C. (Damn covid!)

Each issue of the magazine is beautiful to see and something to be absorbed, like a tincture. Curation, editing, art (!), lay-out and theme are carefully balanced and interconnected. Evocative, original, soothing, disturbing… an intellectual event. Their online launch is even more sensorial adding video, voice, imagery and the strange magical sense of flying out across the world with ZOOM wings made of a hybrid chitin of memory and syntax and imagination and hope and words spoken low and slow.

Anyway… despite appropriate Mennonite guilt, I love to read my stories and was pleased to be asked to join in. I get nervous — not a little — doing this type of thing. But somehow, reading my own stories is mostly exempt from that stage fright. It’s a part of the art, an extension I suppose, that allows me to relive the creation of it and add my own live expression, ad hoc. Plus I can enjoy the story as if detached and no longer the author but rather the presenter and part of the audience… both, at once.

~~~

I’ve been reading some wonderful academic writers lately who look at art and writing and Mennonite writing or writing that happens to be done by Mennonites, or that happens to be done by Mennonite imposters, cultural Mennonites, secular Mennonites or Mennonite moles that have tunneled — whiskers twitching — under the village walls.

Two notables have surnames that surely have been represented in Southwood School Valentine card mailings, SRSS grad class rolls, on Mennonite church Sunday School classroom doors, and as alumni of colleges where art debate, Inter-Scholastic Christian Fellowship, and curling bonspiels were all of equal importance. Schillinger! Shun! Sweep!

The two are Magdalene Redekop and Grace Kehler.

Their concepts and ideas are beautiful, complex, and written with the kind of codified care saved for those rare Sundays when the Pastor and his wife are scheduled to “drop by for Faspa!”

For me, the reading is trench warfare. That sounds disparaging but it’s not. It is high praise. I find myself pulled violently down so many rabbit-holes and stuck to the flypaper of all the many soaring ideas — two or three per page! — that I end up taking week-end side-trips that turn into year-long sabbaticals.

The confluence that I am labouriously working towards is that of Redekop, Kehler, Tolstoy (et al), Toews and “Piece of My Heart.” As I read for PULP Lit and especially after I finished, I saw for the first time some of the intricate embroidery of literary academia in my story.

“Piece of My Heart” is, in its bare-boned simplicity, an example of art that seeks to be sincere. An expression. A means of communication. A conversation. A dematerialization. Perhaps seasoned with a sad hint of Mennonite melancholia.

And though the story is austere and spare, it is also a tessellation of Mennonite chapter and verse together with many Gem pickling jars that brim with lore and insinuation. Savoury and not forgotten, packed with dill from the garden, is my autoethnographic version, albeit brief, of the Mennonite creation myth, “across the brutish North Atlantic… sod-hut sanctuaries… hymns sung with the fervour of nothing left to lose,” and more.

To use Author Redekop’s phrase, my little story claims to be “history knowing.”

~~~

As you’ll see in the video, after the story, Editor JM Landels asks me about my WIP novel, “Mulholland and Hardbar.” Here’s some WIP blurbage about the book:

Logline 1: “Fargo, with a Mennonite accent.”

Logline 2: “A journey through the four seasons of the boreal: friendship, deceit, loyalty, and violence.”

Blurb: Set in the Manitoba boreal forest, Mulholland and Hardbar is a unique and moving story about an odd pairing of young men, their complex and dangerous relationship, and their need to learn how to face difficulty with courage and the absence of malice.”


Statement of Location: The author and his wife reside in the boreal forest just north of the fiftieth latitude in eastern Manitoba. Their home — like the Penrose cabin in the novel, “Mulholland and Hardbar” — is situated on Métis land: Anishinabe Waki ᐊᓂᔑᓈᐯᐗᑭ

Print Catalogue

As this rabid cannibal of a year winds down, I wonder about my writerly struggle and the artistic return on investment for me as a writer, 2015-2020.

ROI, baby.

Aside from all the “hard work is its own reward,” kind of sentiment, to which I subscribe and to whose driving power I owe one of the best periods of my redheaded life (apart from the baby powder tinged, little league coaching, proud dad/granddad parts), I wondered about how much of an imprint I’ve been given/achieved so far.

What is my gravitas quotient, or lack of same?

Am I #futility or do I stand a chance? There’s no punter (in the UK slang sense) who knows how to handicap me, there’s no Vegas line on my puny literary squirming, like the last water bug of the season making a tiny ripple that no one else notices.

An editor commented recently that I had a unique voice worth publishing. I fought back the urge to argue with her, and in that moment of cessation, found a glimmer. A glimmer not of hope — that sworl of Van Gogh luminant turbulence is still light years away — but a lifeline thrown out to me in the cold, deep water by a compassionate friend.

When I look at my C-V, I see a lot of online acceptances, a lot of out-of-province markets, and several repeat markets. This is telling of the state of the world of fiction, my preferences, my ability, my relative reputation in a world of water bugs, and my inclination to spend the years on the far side of three score with friends and heroes, not the miserable and the banal.

Anyway… I noticed that the attention of the curator for a certain specific geschichte writer list is focused solely on PRINT. I accept that. There’s so much online writing that it makes sense to begin your list with those in print. Not that I’m not proud (and more than a little) of many of my online publications, but, you know — I get it.

So here fellow water bugs, punters, friends, heroes, banal high-horsers out for a romp among the plebs… is my 2015-2020 Print Catalogue, based on about 100 distinct flash fictions and short stories sent out in over 400 submissions all over the English language literary world.

Ca — “A Fisherman’s Story” Rhubarb Magazine Issue 39 2016
Ca — “So Are They All” Voices Vol 16 No.2 2016 Anthology
India — “I am Otter” The Machinery – A Literary Collection 2017
UK — “Nothing to Lose” The Best of Fiction on the Web 1996-2017 2017 Anthology
Ca — “Sweet Caporal at Dawn” Blank Spaces Magazine 2018 Pushcart Prize Nomination
Ca — “Away Game” Pulp Literature Issue 20 2018
Ca — “Sweet Caporal at Dawn” Just Words, Volume 2 2018 Anthology
US — “Groota Pieter” River Poets Journal Special Themed Edition: “The Immigrants” 2018 Anthology
US — “Peacemongers” The MOON magazine: “Out of This World” The Best Short Stories from the MOON Volume 1 2019 Anthology
Australia/US — “Groota Pieter” Pact Press “We Refugees” 2019 Anthology
Ca — “Fast and Steep” Riddle Fence Issue 34 2019
US — “The Log Boom” River Poets Journal Special Themed Edition: “A Fork in the Road” 2020 Anthology
Ca — “My Life as a Corkscrew” (CNF) Blank Spaces Magazine 2020
Ca — Piece of My Heart” Pulp Literature Issue 27 2020 Winner of the Editors’ Choice in the 2020 Bumblebee Flash Fiction Contest
US — “Away Game” Quail Bell Magazine 2020
Ca — “My Life as a Corkscrew” (CNF) Just Words Volume 4 2020 Anthology
US — “The Sunshine Girl” Cowboy Jamboree Magazine John Prine Tribute Issue 2020
Ca — “The Margin of the River” Blank Spaces Magazine 2020 Pushcart Prize Nomination

(Updated 12.4.20)

A few of these are printed on a rolling basis and so may not be out in the wild yet.

I also have 65 stories in various online publications in the US, the UK, and Canada.

“The Sunshine Girl”

Here’s a link to a new online communication tool I am testing. It’s a 90-second animation that offers a summary for a newly-published short story and a link to the publication where the piece can be read.

https://app.animaker.com/animo/v6OZzq8Il7uDImPO/

It’s the FREE version and it’s new, so… It seems to work well on laptops but might get a little grouchy on your android phone. Check it and see.

Let me know and, if you haven’t already, take a look at my story and all the other ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT STUFF that can be found on the Cowboy Jamboree Magazine’s Fall 2020 issue, a John Prine Commemorative!

It’s pretty sweet.

One Day on Mars

It could be that this fanlit flash (launched May 1 on my Facebook page) has some prescience! For those who love a good conspiracy theory, Romulans, Klingons, and the Orange Menace.

One Day on Mars

Picard: Queen Sensula, do you mean to tell me that the Romulans created and then spread the deadly Space Virus? (Appalled. Much Elizabethan flavour.)

Oh, but I shan’t doubt it, my dear Queen. Those secretive Romulans are capable of…

Queen Sensula, leader of the Teuton Nebula: No, Jean Luc, I’m telling you that, Orangitus, the Klingon ruler means to promote such a theory in order to demonize the Romulans!

Picard: But that’s PREPOSTEROUS! No one in the galaxy would do such a thing… to lie in order to turn the universe against a single planet? Why surely even Orangitus, that PATAK, is not capable of such a VILE RUSE! Why?

Sensula: Don’t call me Shirley… and not only is Orangitus accusing the Romulans, but he also has impugned the Intergalactic Health Organization! Accused them of being in league with the Romulans!

(She continues with smouldering, Fiona Hill-like intensity) Why? Orangitus knows these three things: One, that if he persuades the universe of the Romulan guilt, he can exact stiff penalties from the rich Romulans. He will claim these penalties as reparations for Klingon, citing his planet’s devastation—Klingon has suffered more than a quarter of the deaths from the Space Virus.

Two, Orangitus will pit himself against the Romulans—a race already distrusted—and glean political power for himself in the bargain. Plus, his staggering accusations cover up his own bumbling mismanagement of the Space Virus on his home planet!

Picard: My, my! Do go on dear lady, please.

Sensula: Third and last, but most cruelly, Orangitus KNOWS that by assassinating the character of the IHO, he will be opening up a path to ignore their universally-agreed creeds and laws. Instead of sending vaccines—once they are formulated—to the universe’s poorest planets and systems…

Picard interjects: Is that the usual IHO mandate?

Sensula, nodding her two heads: Yes, it is the time-honoured way; to protect the most vulnerable. But Orangitus will wreck the IHO’s reputation and then force other planets and races to bend to his will by threat of economic and military sanctions! Klingon and Orangitus will get the vaccine and only once their selfish needs are met will the rest of the universe be saved!

Picard, cursing obscurely: BY ANDROMEDA’S STRAIN, you say! My word… What are we to do, oh, wise Sensula?

Sensula: Get off our privileged asses and VOTE the swine out in November.

Picard: MAKE IT SO!

 

(And yes, I’m aware it is May Fourth and I also know the difference between the two space sagas and the fanaticism of true fans. Nannoo-nannoo. )

Winter Shrinkage

My contribution to Earth Day, April 22, 2020.

With sorrow for coronavirus victims—direct and indirect… past, present, and future.

With hope for humankind; hope that we change the things that brought this pandemic upon us.

 

Winter Shrinkage

by Mitchell Toews

It was an average winter. I spent idle days virtual-thumbing through online catalogues, dreaming ready-to-assemble dreams, exercising my PayPal muscles and the Charter of Rights and Free Shipping. But one morning, Janice and I were unnerved — not a little — when we were forced to climb out of bed like U.S. Marines going over the side of a troop carrier in a Turner Classic Movie.

“It’s that shrinking virus,” our doctor’s young voice boomed after a half-hour wait, my damn cell phone now the size and shape of our Trolstrop end table and just as heavy.

Shrinking? But how? This is Canada, not Skull Island! Was this to be our polio? Our influenza? Our Walking Dead, now come to pass?

And it was true. We were shrinking. All — or at least, most of — the people in the world were getting proportionately smaller. Just like The Atom or Ant-Man in the primary colour universe of my pre-teens but without the attendant super-powers. Unable to undo my lifelong sense of divinely assigned supremacy, I felt as though it was not us shrinking, but the rest of the world growing. The world was suddenly upside-down, growing enormous due to some horrendous mistake, through no fault of the people of the Earth.

I frowned through the window at the grinning, darting chickadees. The size of flying monkeys. Disturbed, I imagined a population of mutant human giants — immune, immense — clomping around in Adidas Gazelles the size of actual gazelles; amok in our shrunken Canadianopolises, now Kandors, with no tiny Supergirl, boy or man to protect us. I want to be immune, I thought, a little pouty.

#

After a month or so, for amusement, Jan and I sit atop our Frukskol serving tray. Its buoyancy — pounded out of a bucket full of ground Amazonian treetops — floated us serenely during our laps around the meltwater in the swimming pool. A cat, swaggering poolside big as a dragon, watches us with yellow eyes and we stay in the middle until it pounces on the mini-deliveryman, here to drop off our latest package of mini-toilet paper rolls. He screams like a robin chick fallen from the nest.

“Maybe we all just need to go back to eating more carbs?” I suggested as we paddled along, making smooth synchronized strokes with our Svart Svan salad serving spoons. The plastic is so light — made with real boreal forest tree flour!

Our desperation grows. We succumb, weary of our teeniness. Despondent in our miniature solitude we sit each evening in the never-ending flickering blue light that shines down upon us like our own personal drive-in movie… reclining, as we do, on a stack of expired Netflix gift cards, we watch the pandemic on TV, eating popcorn puffs the size of cantaloupe. We the shrunken, armed only with our snacks.

“I’m glad about one thing!” I posted online with cheery intent to distant unseen friends in less-effected regions — racing home before they can no longer see over their dashboards. “This malady does not affect our heroes…” I wrote. “Gretzky is as big as ever; he hasn’t shrunk an inch.”

“That CBC interview last night?” A buddy texts me back. “That’s just an old replay. He’s actually the size of an Ütfart flower vase now, I saw him on the news last week.”

How belittling. I find it on YouTube. Gretzky, his hand-puppet sweater tucked in on one side, wearing a Jofa helmet made out of a thimble.

And what about the billionaires? They too have become tiny but, their wealth remains Costco-sized. They urge us to keep doing “normal” things, to keep the economy going despite our dimunuation. “People may shrink but our economy must remain LARGE,” they say with conviction. Right… They don’t have to dodge hungry sea gulls on their way to the Wendy’s drive-thru in a Barbie Star Traveller motor home! We do — we feed the trickle; the trickle-way-way-down.

#

But then the tide turned. Stealthily, the blessed Tillväxt came among us, lifting Her cloak tails discretely as She crept along, and we began to grow. Praise Tillväxt.

“A long cool woman in a black dress,” one alleged eyewitness reported. Soon after, steady enlargement came announced only by the smallest of shudders, like a cement truck hitting a pothole outside your office building. Humankind began its journey back.

One day, I noticed how it only took me a few minutes to stamp out a text to our daughter, whose small children were like a string of ellipses, following behind her, their 14 pt. ampersand mom. I jump on the keys like Tom Hanks to send out my message, ending with, #feelingweighty. r u guys growing? I ask, with joyous smiley faces on a field of red hearts.

Incrementally, day by day, our statures grew. All of us, around the world. O blessed renewal! Some claimed it was on pace with the mercury in the thermometer. Others cleaved to the ascendant gospel of the Tillväxt, now the third-leading religion worldwide. Sun theory or benign magical Mother Almighty, I welcomed our return to normal and the coming warmth of summer. I could hardly wait to be tall enough to turn on the air conditioning!

#

Whatever it was that caused it all, whatever the scientists can cipher — once they are again big enough to operate their laboratories and not self-immolate in the flame of their Bunsen burners — the human population enlarged. Jan and I soon found ourselves standing eyeball-to-bullnose with our Fullspäckorp kitchen island countertop. Progress!

Comforted by the unknown natural vaccine, the grace of Tillväxt, or whatever, I luxuriated, expectant, my anticipation sky-high. I relished the mental imagery: Visions of humankind, rising up and reaching outwards like that pansy caught in time-lapse photography on The Nature Channel.

I renewed my password-protected online consumerism but it felt a little off, as though something had changed in me during my big-small-big passage. Disconcerting thoughts filled my head. Packed freeways. Smog-filled urban skies. Jet trails playing Hangman in the sky above. Mountains and forests and glaciers and clean water once again going, going, gone.

Yes, we’ll grow back. We’ll unshrink! Once more the human race will reach titan proportions and resume our species’ ordained privilege; our filthy, greedy, pleasure-dome domination of the planet and its lesser beings — flora, fauna, and anything else we can batter and fry, cut and pulp, exploit and extirpate.

Until that is, the next usurper comes to take away our crown — invited unknowingly by we humans and the havoc we create as we attempt to hold dominion over nature, acting för stor for our britches, as always, I fear.

End

 

CC BY ND

“Here’s what the coronavirus pandemic can teach us about tackling climate change.”

“Life in a ‘degrowth’ economy, and why you might actually enjoy it.”

 

 

 

The Fighting Writing Fool

In the first round of a tough fight, only a FOOL shouts, “I yam fuh-reaking’ lovin’ dis crap!” usually just before being knocked out by an infinitely more dangerous opponent.

Also, although I own a black toque, I ain’t Rocky and the world of fiction ain’t sides of beef. Hell, I ain’t even Italian.

Undeterred, I move forward, absorbing jabs and body shots. Relentless, bloody, concussed—I stumble on. It feels good to hit, it feels even better to be able to TAKE a hit…

Alls I’m sayin’ HEAH, is… I’ve been writing a lot lately. And, like heavyweight champ, Winslow Homer, I’ve been experimenting boldly.

The result is a small but wiry catalogue of recent work that I am actively pitching or intend to pitch to upper-tier, paying mags. Sure, some of these are gonna get knocked out before the first paragraph is read. It’s likely to be a bit of a bloodbath and “We’ve chosen not to include your story at this time,” will be spray-painted across the subway cars of my submission train more than once.

And that’s okay.  I won’t wail every time I get rejected but I will let you know when I land a punch! (I’ll grunt.)

The Mighty Hartski—A 7,400-word rommedriewe, from a snowmobile crash on a frozen field to a shared understanding, bedside in Bethesda. Still brooding over this one, ’cause I’ve been writing it for fifty years.

Tiptoe—Teenage hangovers hurt the most. Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson and a smoky donut shop on Osborne.

Grudge—Worked hard for this one, put some Beta readers through their paces too. Waiting for one more critique before I set this Victoria story free. A crime spree down by the Bay Street Bridge.

Red Lightman—You can’t spell empathy without r-e-s-p-e-c-t. 2,400-words.

“I’m burly and brawny,
not squirrely or scrawny
and if you don’t like me
that’s tough.

I shit thunder and lightning
and everything frightening
and where I come from,
that’s enough.” 

Hazel Creek—1,500 words, set in the place where I live, sharp and hard as life can be.

The Three Sisters—The type of story that gets you mad: At me, at the sad protagonist—pure as the wind, at the sister who won’t play along. 3,400 words.

~ ~ ~

FIND recent stories of mine online here: “Shade Tree Haven” in (mac)ro(mic)…  “Holthacka’s Quandary” in Lunate Fiction…“The Business of Saving Souls” in Literally Stories…  “Encampment” in TINY SEED LITERARY JOURNAL.

COMING SOON to Literally Stories, Blank Spaces, Agnes and True, and Pulp Literature.