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    Story on CKUA Radio

    This week’s Blindman Brewing Session Story features the work of Calgary-based writer, editor, and translator, Paulo da Costa. Inspired by his winter walks through McHugh Bluff, In Motion explores the natural forces that shape our human endeavours and relationships. Listen at CKUA: To listen to this growing collection of stories, or check out these beautiful Super Stout labels, visit

  • Blog,  Fiction,  Interviewed,  Interviews - M&T,  News,  Reviews - M&T,  Sudden Fiction,  Sudden Fictions - M&T,  The Midwife Of Torment

    Focus On Victoria – Magazine – w/ author paulo da costa

    By Amy Reiswig An out-of-the-box thinker, writer, editor and translator believes in daring to be different for the social good.

  • Fiction,  Stories,  Stories - S&L

    The Scent of a Lie

      We never carried ill intentions towards Camila Penca. We simply prayed for our village’s old peace to be restored and, thank God, He answered our prayers. Camila was born into a well-bred family in our respectable village nestled on the tusk-sharp escarpment of Hell’s Mouth Bay. A village still standing with pride and resilience after centuries of Atlantic rage. Camila spent childhood in her own world. She climbed up and down the escarpment, collecting gull feathers, splashing in the tide pools, plucking at the sea urchins, ‘she loves me, she loves me not,’ then, with the first tides of puberty, ‘he loves me, he loves me not.’ Some say…

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    Roses for the Dead

      Padre Lucas found rest under an olive tree. He pressed his handkerchief to the halo of white hair around his skull, attempting to suppress the beaded sweat drenching his face. He leaned against the olive trunk, contemplating the green quilt covering the valley floor, tracing the corn patches and grape fields stitched together by a thread of stone hedges. The sinuous River Caima, unusually brilliant under the sun, forced him to squint. He shielded his face. The river, the earth’s open artery, crossed the heart of the valley, delivering life and fertility to the fields. Intricate veins burst from the main artery, channelling precious water to remote places along…

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      Vera rested, curled in the shade of the womb, meditating on the journey ahead, inch by inch building strength and filling with readiness; readiness, invisible as air that inflates lungs and lends might to voice, invisible as wind that sculpts landscapes and lends shape to the world. Vera rested until the sting of the syringe ejected her out of her dormant state. She sprang forward, initiating the contractions that flushed her towards the sliver of light and into the blur of expectant faces. Vera darted into the world wearing a premature coat of long black hairs which prompted her brother to scream in delight on first seeing her, “A…

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    The Midwife of Torment

      (…) Felismina, the town curandeira, a woman accustomed to probing the depths of the psyche, a midwife of torment, heard about Florindo’s condition. She believed him. “If the boy says he stinks, he stinks. Who are we? Do we wear his skin, smell his nightmares?” Florindo Ramos sought her intercession in the matter. After consulting her wrinkled manuals, brushing the dust off her skirt, Felismina declared, “I dug up one antidote, boy. Only one. But, for it to work you must be willing to look the nightmare in the face.” Florindo shuddered, scrubbed his face with the handkerchief in his hand. “Unless you want to live with things as…

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    Pleasant Troubles

    A sudden, involuntary flaring of his tongue, a hideous contortion of his face; and apart from this peculiar affliction, Bonifácio Careta remained an ordinary child. The villagers believed everyone entered life with unique, God-given graces—some born to nose-picking, others to continuous spitting, others to limping. They never spent a second thought on Bonifácio. Bonifácio Careta’s life would have proceeded without remarkable attention if misfortune had not brought his peculiar condition to public notice. Bonifácio’s fortunes changed irrevocably on the occasion of the long-awaited Papal tour of the country with the Pontiff’s brief, unscheduled bathroom stop in Bonifácio’s forgotten village. While the Pontiff bestowed upon the gathering crowd his holy blessing,…

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      Foot raised on the shoe-box, Senhor Osório sat at the entrance to the tavern enjoying the overdue shine. The question mark of his cane supported his thoughts as he rested his chin on the wrinkled knuckles clasping the wood. His gaze followed the blur of legs striding past. “Give it a good polish, Armando.” “Yes, Senhor.” Armando stopped, wiped the sweat under his beret and brought his wrinkled hand to his kidney, the gesture intending to readjust it to a tolerable position. The few coins in his vest pocket rattled their protest. Armando hoped there would be plenty of time for leisure in the grave, very soon. He sighed,…

  • Fiction,  Stories - G&P

    Not Written in Pencil

    Arial and I weren’t bad people or nothing, just different spark plugs misfiring under the same hood. It’s like this. Arial lived for now. I lived for tomorrow’s bills. I‘m not thinking she exemplified a young case of Alzheimer’s or nothing. You might think she slipped to forgetful on her wedding vows, but I say no. No more forgetful than most if the scandal rags are anything to go by. She lived for the tic of every second. So much that she would forget details like coming back home at night. Now that I give it a proper think, Arial was a genuine Buddhist wearing all prayer bells and whistles…

  • Fiction,  Stories - G&P

    The Green and Purple Skin of the World

    Dear B,                                                  Quinta da Garrida, courtyard three weeks   The morning yawns and sighs in the lungs of the birds. I begin the day on the front steps, in my bathrobe, blowing soap bubbles. The birds’ harmonies melt the thin veil of frost covering the ground to reveal the green. You phoned last night to say you won’t be at Pearson airport to meet me. You’ll be in Victoria visiting your aunt. In this corner of Europe the sun shines through a winter blue. Oranges on the trees glow and kiwis shrivel on vines. All this fruit doesn’t tempt me to stay. Since my last visit my father has relocated…