Telling Silences

Telling Silences

Telling Silences

A review of Margaret Yocom KIN S FUR (Deerbrook Editions, 2018)

By Derek Newman-Stille

Margaret Yocom was the person who first introduced me to erasure poetry, so I am extremely excited that her erasure poem KIN S FUR has been published. KIN S FUR transforms the fairy tale All Kinds of Fur, revealing the voice of the daughter between the lines, in that interstitial space where ideas are formed. Yocom sorts through words, sifting them until she finds the silenced voice within the fairy tale.

Fairy tales have power and part of their power is their ability to adapt, to transform, to shift and change, and Yocom combines the metamorphosing power of these tales with the transformative quality of erasure poetry. Yocom searches through the fairy tale All Kinds of Fur to find what is left unspoken and devoiced and she finds that voice at the margins, hidden within the words fo the fairy tale and pulls these words to the surface, casting her own spell of discovery over the text.

Yocom brings up the voices of women, highlighting words like wife, daughter, mother, she, and her, focussing the reader’s attention on the role of women and their significance to fairy tales (even ones like All Kinds of Fur where female characters remain unspoken). Yocom proves that even the seemingly silent speaks and that sometimes the oppressed speak their strongest through silence.

To discover more about Margaret Yocom, visit

To find out more about KIN S FUR, visit


Island Resistance

Island Resistance

Island Resistance

A Review of Melissa de la Cruz’ “The Isle of the Lost” (Disney Enterprises Inc, 2015)

By Derek Newman-Stille

Although The Isle of the Lost is part of Walt Disney Studios’ Descendants franchise, there are elements of the book that allow for a counter-hegemonic readings. De La Cruz highlights the potential dangers of a kingdom that pushes its particular brand of “good” on everyone and exiles anyone who is against the norm to an island prison.

The Descendants franchise focusses on the children of the Disney villains, particularly emphasizing characters Mal (daughter of Maleficent), Evie (daughter of the Evil Queen), Jay (son of Jafar), and Carlos (son of Cruella De Vil). In the franchise, the Beast from Beauty and the Beast has united all of the different Disney movie kingdoms into one united community and all of them have exiled their villains to an island called The Isle of the Lost, where not only are the villains imprisoned, but also their children. The Descendants film portrayed Ben, the son of Beauty and the Beast deciding that he wanted to allow Mal, Evie, Jay, and Carlos to come to the exclusive prep school for all of the royalty of the Disney films. They are separated from all of the other children on the island who are left there still and they are taken to Auradon Prep where they eventually decide to become good.

Melissa de la Cruz’ The Isle of the Lost is a prequel to the Descendants film portraying the lives of the characters on the Isle of the Lost before Ben brings them to Auradon. The novel features Mal, Evie, Jay, and Carlos trying to live up to their parents’ expectations, always feeling like failures in the eyes of their parents for not being able to live up to the evil destinies their parents want for them. The novel centralizes ideas of isolation in families, illustrating characters who feel so trapped in their destinies that they can’t connect with others. Even Ben is unable to escape from his destiny to be king, which has trapped him in a narrative that makes him believe that he needs to be exactly like his father, the Beast.

While Mal, Evie, Jay, and Carlos question their narrative of evil, they also critique the actions of the “good” community of Auradon, pointing out the issues with the control enforced from this mainland community. Auradon forces the residents of the island to watch propaganda as their only TV channel, constantly being bombarded with images of how good things are in Auradon and how terrible it is not to have the privileges of Auradon. The island only receives the garbage from Auradon to survive off of, living on the remains and waste of the mainland. This narrative allows for an Island Studies reading, portraying an island as a place dependent upon a mainland while also locked into a constant pattern of similitude. The mainland also exerts its power over the island as a dependent, pushing their narrative onto island culture. But the island also exerts its counter narrative, resisting mainland control and making its own narrative.

The island narrative is paralleled with the narrative of youth. Youth, like the Island of the Lost are portrayed as resisting the control of a larger power structure (in this case, their parents and ideas of destiny). The island is also codified as loneliness and the youth are portrayed as relating to each other through a shared loneliness, an isolation that comes from the notion that islands are lonely places. Characters and the island both resist hegemonic power imposed from without, resisting not just exertion of power, but also resisting the writing of a narrative over their own destiny.

Readers are given a glimpse into the power structures of the mainland when given flashes of Ben trying to rule and perpetuating the union-busting of his father (upon the former sidekick figures). Readers are able to see that “good” is controlled by a central authority that puts certain people with certain pasts into positions of power. Magic is strongly discouraged in Auradon, meaning that they have had to shift a lot of cultural expectations and their lifestyles.

The Isle of the Lost is a narrative of change and resistance, a counter-hegemonic voice for Disney’s far to easy binary of good/evil.

To discover more about Melissa de la Cruz, visit .

To find out more about The Isle of the Lost, visit

The Snow Queen’s Son

The Snow Queen’s Son
By Derek Newman-Stille

The Snow Queen’s son
paints frost on the windows,
ferns that speak of his love of summer,
sketching a world he can no longer belong to.

He pulls
the shard of ice from his heart,
blue with blood,
touching it to the window pane
and tracing his art onto the window,
wanting to hide the interior of a warm home
too reminiscent of his loss
a reminder of his exile.

He blows the snow
back and forth
knowing that any of his art
is impermanent
into nothingness.

He buries everything in snow
wanting to bury himself,
his feelings,
the grass and weeds and flowers
hidden from his own sight

He is shaped by the cold,
shaping it in turn,
building on the cold by wanting to taste the warmth
every kiss on the face of warm lives
leaves a bitter chill,
vampirically consumes the heat
but leaves nothing of it in his body.
    Always waning.

Leaving him hungry
like the wind is hungry
  like the snow is hungry
    like the ice is hungry
leaving emptiness inside of each flake.

The Snow Queen’s son
sees in mirrored gaze
always reflective
and never complete
refracting infinitely
so he only sees himself

Accessing The Mermaid

Accessing The Mermaid

Accessing the MermaidA review of Angeline Woon’s “The Mermaid and the Prince of Dirt” in Those Who Make Us: Canadian Creature, Myth, and Monster Stories, edited by Kaitlin Tremblay and Kelsi Morris (Exile, 2016)
By Derek Newman-Stille

In “The Mermaid and the Prince of Dirt”, Angeline Woon takes the exploration of essential otherness in Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Little Mermaid” and reworks it into a tale of disability and trying to fit into a world that actively prevents spaces of accommodation. The Little Mermaid was already a tale about ideas of belonging and spaces that prevented access, but Woon’s reimagining of the tale focuses on the way that our social and physical environments are made to exclude and reject certain bodies. 

Woon’s narrator is a mermaid who sought the land not due to her obsession over a human prince, but because she wanted to escape the control of her older sisters who regularly made decisions for her. As a mermaid, she already felt like an outsider. Annalee seeks out a witch who can give her access to the surface world and, like the mermaid in Andersen’s tale, Annalee gives her voice in order to gain the ability to walk on the surface world.

Annalee doesn’t rankle at her loss of voice and finds that as long as she can move and dance, she can express herself, but her sisters view her as incomplete without having a voice and decide that she can’t be complete unless she has one, so they unilaterally make the decision to trade with the witch to get Annalee’s voice back. The witch decides to take away most of Annalee’s legs as part of the bargain and Annalee becomes a wheelchair user. Decisions over her body are still being made by her sisters and she is assumed incapable of making her own decisions.

Rather than seeking a prince, Annalee finds Liam, a person who experiences mental health issues, but is also willing to believe her when she says that she is a mermaid, which most people refuse to do. Although Liam doesn’t come from noble blood, he is a prince to Annalee because he is one of the few people who is willing to make spaces accessible to her body. 

Woon’s reworking of The Little Mermaid becomes social commentary, bringing attention to the way that accessibility is still not a priority for most people, issues with government financial assistance (both the lack of it, and the constant requirement to prove disability), and the willingness and readiness of our society to assume the worst of people experiencing mental illness. 

To discover more about Those Who Make Us, visit and

To discover more about Angeline Woon, visit

Under the Slippers

Under the Slippers

A review of Sarah Pinborough’s Charm: A Wicked Cinderella Tale (Titan Books, 2015)
By Derek Newman-Stille

What does it mean to live your whole life imagining court life and fantasizing about princes and castles only to be offered everything you’ve always wanted? What does it mean to grow up in a household where your stepmother and stepsisters come from noble bloodlines but you come from more humble origins? Is beauty or noble blood more important?

Sarah Pinborough’s Charm transforms the quintessential Love at First Sight story into a gothic romance, populated with hidden truths, secrecy, locked doors with hidden keys, curiosity, jealousy, dusty old turrets, and dark corridors hung with cobwebs. Pinborough explores the darker side of Cinderella, warning her readers of the danger of getting everything you wish for and pointing out that sometimes the dream is better than the reality you dream of. 

Pinborough highlights the potential problems of Cinderella’s magic slippers, pointing out the issues of consent for a Prince who has been forced by magic to fall in love with a woman that he couldn’t even recognize outside of her slippers. She asks what happens when the slippers come off and the prince goes back to his non-spell-addled self. Court life isn’t the dream that Cinderella imagined and full of a lot more darkness than she had envisioned. Just like her slippers, Cinderella is about to discover that her imagined perfect life is nothing more than outer dressings.

To discover more about Sarah Pinborough, visit

An Interview with Theodora Goss

Through the Twisted Woods interviews fiction writer, folklorist, and academic Theodora Goss about the nature of fairy tales, the power of fairy tale revisions, the pedagogical value of fairy tales, and the ability of fairy tales to shift and change to explore new ideas and issues at different periods in time.


Through The Twisted Woods Audio


You can visit Theodora Goss‘ website at

To find out more about the work of the interviewer, Derek Newman-Stille, you can visit his website Speculating Canada at

An Interview with Kate Story

Kate Story author photo by Wayne Eardley


Through the Twisted Woods (TTW): You have written fairy tale inspired fiction in the form of works like “Equus” (which features a Kelpie), in your novel Blasted, and in your unicorn bestiary story. What needs to be involved in adapting Fairy Tales for new cultural contexts?

Kate Story: I think it’s important to try and think about what function the tale served in its originary context. Of course that’s sort of impossible. But if you try – for example, by doing research on the culture and/or period that spawned the image or the tale, and getting as wide a view as possible of that, and talking to people who come from that culture (if possible; obviously you can’t talk to ancient Sumerians) – you start to be able to imagine how it affected people when transmitted as part of living folk culture.

And then you have to leap from that. What grabs YOU about the story or the being presented? Why does it scare or attract you? What’s YOUR cultural context?

I’m always a bit nervous when people freely adapt (for example, vampires are lovely and glow a bit and fall in love with humans and that goes well) although I am always willing to be argued out of an opinion. I think it’s important to have some kind of respect for the full power of a tale. That being said, I adore retellings from “the monster’s” point of view where the dominant narrative gets turned on its head. Fairy tales are a very potent source for this kind of work. Do we really hate the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, now that wolves are in many places endangered? But I suspect it’s probably always going to be more interesting – even if, say, the wolf ends up being your protagonist – to begin by really going into the woods and fully exploring what’s frightening about wolves and woods. You’ll only write a better story by doing that work.

TTW: When we have spoken before, you mentioned that you hadn’t initially viewed Blasted, a tale about fairies, as a speculative fiction tale. Why do so many people view anything involving fairies to be a fantasy story, and how does Blasted construct itself as something different?

Kate Story: Yes, I was really surprised at first when Blasted got tagged as speculative. Now I’m surprised that I was surprised. But it’s worth noting that in Newfoundland, where I am from, nobody thought the novel was speculative when it came out! The fairy elements in Blasted come from oral and folk culture that I grew up with, so I, like many Newfoundlanders, was familiar with the tropes of the fairy elements in the novel. Those things just live in me. I don’t remember learning about them. If you didn’t grow up with stories about being fairy-led, and changelings, and so on, you wouldn’t have that context and you’d think, I suppose, that I just made it all up or borrowed things from fantastical tales.

I really think it comes down to what your lived folk culture is. Everybody has a lived folk culture. I was surprised to discover that many of my settler peers here in Ontario really hadn’t heard of fairy stories, but supernatural elements still exist in their imaginary narrative lives. In southern Ontario there are a lot of ghost stories. Ojibwe people I’ve talked to have more stories about little people, and being what I’d call fairy-led. So do people from almost every other culture whom I’ve asked about this. In my completely unscientific and spotty investigation, I have concluded that actually it’s weird and exceptional, on a global level, to NOT have some version of “little people” narratives. But if you don’t, I suppose you see anything involving fairies or elves as fantasy, in the Lord of the Rings or Tinkerbell sense.

TTW: “Equus” is a steampunk tale, but also a fairy tale story. How do fairy tales meet steampunk and what allows them to blend and mix together?

Kate Story: I don’t know if they do mix, really; that’s just how my brain works. There was a Tor book review of the wonderful Clockwork Canada anthology (of which “Equus” is a part) that didn’t feel the different elements worked together in “Equus” – I believe the gist of the review was that having the different modes in one story confused the reader in regards to the focus of the story. For me, though, steampunk and fairy mix well, because part of the enchantment of steampunk is also its problem. We might fall in love with the style and atmosphere of Empire, but if we leave out a sense of what Empire also destroyed, we are doing ourselves and the world a disservice. It’s an incomplete picture. Every empire has its slaves, and its damage, whether inside or outside its borders. A lot of more political steampunk deals with this directly, and I love that.

For me what happened was simply that researching the protagonist of “Equus” – Sir Sandford Fleming – I realized that I really liked this guy. I’d expected not to, for some reason. He’s all over the place here in Peterborough – there’s a college named after him that we all call “Sir Sandbox,” he’s got the Victorian beard, the whole nine yards. I expected him to be stuffy, an easy target in terms of me writing a story exposing the problems of Empire. I thought I was going to write about him and time – he invented and tirelessly promoted the idea of worldwide standard time zones, the system we use today. It was my partner Ryan who told me that he’d also surveyed the Newfoundland railway – a route the Newfoundland government of the time chose not to follow in the end, but nevertheless, I got very excited. I had no idea he’d ever even been to Newfoundland. He’s one of these Empire types who did far more in his lifetime than anybody has any business being able to do.

So then I started thinking about time, and space, and the railway. And the Scottish connection started to feel more important. I have a great grandmother whom I am named after, Katharine McLachlan, who came to Newfoundland from Tighnabruaich. We grew up imbued with a real sense of the imaginary Scotland, this place “we” were “from.” I’ve also visited the place where Fleming was born and raised, Fife. I grew up reading and imagining the conquering of the Scots by the British: running down a hill wearing a kilt and swinging a claymore and being mowed down by bullets, that kind of thing. Mass graves and lost language. I have English ancestry too, but as a kid and angry misfit teenager I did find myself attracted to the Scottish heritage (which I also have on my mother’s side): an Imaginary Scots, if you will. And it’s interesting to research how very well the Scottish people took on Empire – there were these ideas that the Scottish were congenitally suited to engineering and machinery, etc. Many Scots were involved in the success of the Industrial Revolution.

Fleming, on the surface, seems like an apex of this kind of success. But when you delve into his life there is a bit of a mystery. A nervous breakdown, perhaps. When you see all he did, it isn’t at all surprising that he would burn out – he took on a tremendous load, an impossible task, when surveying what became the Canadian railroad in the west, and ended up having his hands tied due to shifts in government, etc. He went to Newfoundland shortly after that. I started wondering what might happen if his past in Scotland, the realities in Newfoundland at the time he was there, and his recent possible breakdown in the Canadian West all met and mixed. And the spectral came in there, the Kelpie. They scare the hell out of me, kelpies. I wondered if the presence of the annihilated Beothuk peoples on the island, plus Fleming’s past, might not open some door into the unseen. In a way, the Fleming of the story becomes a sort of sacrifice to the cost of progress, of Empire. Even he, who benefitted so much from Empire and in some ways personified it, has to pay a price. The fairy elements continue to exist, under or alongside the Empire, and sometimes, they clash.

The fairy elements represent a lot of things in that story – the physical body, the landscape, suppressed Scots indigenaeity, actual Indigenous concerns and rights, and the effects of carving up the land into parcels of time and space. The costs of technology are not only environmental. The costs are inscribed on our bodies and in our hearts, whether we know it or not.

Maybe that’s a heavy load to pile onto a short Steampunk story. But I tend to synthesize. More and more keeps coming in.

TTW: What makes Fairy Tales and stories about fairies so adaptable to multiple narratives?

Kate Story: Well, they’re just so interesting on so many levels. There’s simple aesthetics: tiny human creatures with wings, or glowing white horses with one horn, are just fascinating and beautiful somehow. I am often attracted to hybrid human-animal creatures: centaurs, satyrs, mermaids, and so on. And talking animals. They’re usually a good sign in a tale – if the protagonist has animal helpers you know they’re going to be all right. I wonder if there isn’t some way in which our relationship to the animal that is us is so ambivalent that we have to work through these imaginary creatures to understand our relationship to the world. We are these dangerous, clever animals, animals who, in dominant culture, tend to deny our animality.

I think too that there are deep narratives that run through us all. That’s certainly not my idea – lots of people have theorized very eloquently about that and I’ll say no more except that fairy tales work on that very deep level. Something in us is magnetized to those narratives, something deep and essential.

TTW: There are horror elements in “Equus”, what is it about fairy stories that allows them to be so terrifying?

Kate Story: The unknown! We can’t know what’s just beyond the campfire – or just beyond the glow of our many screens. When we let ourselves think about it, it can be overwhelming. We think we are in control of our lives; that’s very comfortable. Over and over again, though, life drives us to our knees. And coming to terms with that – with the reality that the unknown is far vaster than the known – is part of growing up. I am not trying to be smug about this. The unknown is actually terrifying in its vastness. Very wise people spend their whole lives aligning themselves to grasping the reality of the vast unknown. Most of us run away. But if you can approach the unknown with curiosity rather than fear, things open up. Fairy stories offer a way into the horror of the unknown that is, at least, contained within a narrative.

TTW: The theme of abduction appears strongly in many fairy stories. What do you think influences our interest in tales of fairy abductions?

Kate Story: I imagine there are many aspects to this. One is wanting to be special, chosen. Life is hard and we want to think this is happening for a reason. So, our parents are awful because maybe they aren’t really our parents, or maybe we’re actually a wizard, or benevolent aliens have had their eye upon us for some time, or in another world we are kings, or because we suffer so much in our innocence, the unicorn will trust us. Abduction comes in there sometimes – it explains the strangeness of our sense of not-belonging.

Also abduction helps frame change and difference. A person was familiar; then they were taken away, and even though they came back they were never the same again. One could posit that some of these stories came about as a way to explain mental illness, or addiction, or grief; or physical aliments that remained mysterious. I don’t like to dwell on that kind of explanation (it depresses me when people say, oh, Changelings are just babies with fetal alcohol syndrome) but I think there’s real power in the human need to explain difference. That can happen with medical narratives, or fairy stories. Or both.

TTW: Fairies are both similar to us and completely foreign. How do we explore narratives that are both close and distant at the same time?

Kate Story: For me it’s a kind of constant shifting between myopia and hyperopia. I bring some aspects of fairy into too-sharp focus, get obsessed with that, then shift to another, equally-skewed perspective. What grabs me right now about this bit of fairy lore? I may try to link it to things coming up in my emotional, intellectual, personal life, or not. But the key is as you say in the question: the fact that fairies are familiar yet so strange gives us this total freedom in terms of our imaginative identification with them. We can go off on tangents, employ fairy-images in a variety of shifting and mutable ways.

TTW: I was excited to discover that Newfoundland has an ongoing fairy tale tradition that is thriving. What experiences did you have with this tradition?

Kate Story: My experiences were pretty indirect, although I think that would be true for most Newfoundlanders. My father was an influential figure in the academic life of the province – he was one of the authors of the Dictionary of Newfoundland English, and had a lot to do with the very fine folklore department at MUN (Memorial University of Nfld). I grew up with a lot of very excited and possibly drunk academics over at the house, from all over the world, talking about folklore and identity. The discovery of L’Anse Aux Meadows, all that. My father told me about being fairy-led. He was out hunting, then found himself in a place that was completely unfamiliar – tall trees, strangely-hued, etc. He said he panicked, broke into a run, then fell on his face. He lay there with his eyes closed, telling himself, now George, you know what this is. He felt around in his pocket for a piece of hardtack that he knew he had, and ate a bite. After chewing on it for a while (it’s bread, but kind of like plaster) he opened his eyes, and knew where he was, and that was that. He was a sort of superstitious person, but also a very fine and respected scholar. So I grew up knowing that it wasn’t “stupid” or “backwards” to believe in or experience this kind of thing. Then too I guess I heard stories from other relatives, and heard them on the radio, etc. I lived at the foot of the Southside Hills, and everybody always said there was something about them. You weren’t supposed to stay out in the fog or the fairies would get you.

TTW: How did the fairy tale tradition influence your novel Blasted?

Kate Story: I ripped it off entirely. I pulled on my own memories, and my own experience of that epic landscape (I spent hours and hours up on the Hill as a kid), and also did lots of research. Barbara Rieti’s AMAZEBALLS book “Strange Terrain” is a huge source, among others.

TTW: The tradition of “The Blast” in Newfoundland Fairy tradition often involves a form of disablement of the person who is encountered by the fairy. How is disability implicated in these tales?

Kate Story: In the form of a change that comes from something without, something beyond human control. And then the blasted body internalizes the blast, oozing foreign objects like feathers, pine needles, twigs, etc. There is often a sense that the blasted person changes emotionally too as a result of the blast.

TTW: With the tradition of “The Blast”, contact with the fairies is seen as a threat. Why is fairy contact seen as a contaminant of humanity?

Kate Story: I am not sure it’s always a contaminant, although sometimes it is. Definitely the strangeness, the otherness of fairies, comes out in a lot of the encounters. We aren’t meant to mix. It’s different from the Icelandic Huldufólk which, I gather – although I know very little about them – are often seen as benevolent. I grew up with a sense that we exist alongside fairies. You have to know and respect certain things or you will get in trouble. And often the thing to know is to stay away from them, don’t try to engage with them. They are tricksy creatures. There was always a sense too that the fairies are fading. That there was some golden age of fairy existence that is ending now. So the threat, if it is one, is diminishing. All the more reason to take care.

TTW: How does geography shape fairy tales?

Kate Story: Well, in terms of fairy lore there does seem to be a geographical element. Some places seem to spawn fairy stories more than others. Maybe some places really do create a sense that Others are near (one is tempted to talk about ley lines etc. but I don’t know enough about them to do so). Definitely the sorts of encounters I grew up hearing about happen in liminal spaces – not your back yard, and not sheer wilderness, but a place that you sort of know where people have periodic or light interaction with the landscape – places you go to pick berries, for example, or hunt.

In the story “Equus” I was interested in the attempt to survey the first Newfoundland railway – the way railroads bisect and define and cut up the land, and change time – you could travel so much faster by rail than before. And too the Beothuk presence – or absence – was more recent in Sir Sandford Fleming’s time. I wondered if it would be more palpable. I was fascinated by the sense of this boreal forest that is so vast, and itself like a living thing. Maybe otherworldly creatures are the land’s eyes and ears and hands.

TTW: Why do you think fairy tales are so enduring? What makes them adaptable to new audiences and new cultural contexts?

Kate Story: Great plots! Often weak on character, though. But the recognizability of certain character types is a draw (innocent child; good girl; bad witch; evil king; sad prince… one could go on). So it’s easy to redraw them in present contexts. They are as close to universal narratives as we have, perhaps. Now of course I think a lot of people encounter fairy tales in not even the Disney re-mixes, but more like a Shrek-style pastiche. The whole story isn’t there any more, just ironic fragments. I find this sad, but maybe I’m just old.

TTW: Could you let us know about any projects you are working on currently regarding fairy tales or fairy traditions?

Kate Story: WELL! I am working on something about mermaids but it’s really recalcitrant. Dorothy Parker keeps trying to get into it. And over then next two years ChiZine Publications will bring out two of my novels: an SF novel based on Shakespeare’s “The Tempest” called An Insubstantial Pageant; and after that, a young adult fantasy novel probably called Antilia where folklores come into physical being: every story, every ghost, every fairy you’ve ever thought of. Which can be really groovy, baby, but also really really scary. Oh, and you are trying and failing to save the world. I hope to scar generations of young readers with this one.



Kate Story is a writer and performer. A Newfoundlander living in Ontario, Canada, her first novel Blasted (Killick Press) received the Sunburst Award for Canadian Literature of the Fantastic’s honourable mention. She is the 2015 recipient of  the Ontario Arts Foundation’s K.M. Hunter Award for her work in theatre. Recent publications include short stories “Yoke of Inauspicious Stars” (Carbide Tipped Pens, Tor Books); “Unicorn” (World Fantasy Award-nominated Gods, Memes, and Monsters, Stone Skin Press); “Show and Tell” (Aurora Award-nominated Playground of Lost Toys; Exile); “Equus” (Clockwork Canada; Exile); and her story “Demoted” was featured in ChiZine Publication’s Imaginarium: Best Canadian Speculative Writing 2015.

Derek Newman-Stille (interviewer) is a PhD student in Canadian Studies at Trent University. Derek conducts research on representations of disability in Speculative Fiction. He is the creator of the Aurora Award-Winning website Speculating Canada.