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New Story in fillingStation
Check out my new short-story in issue #83 of fillingStation Magazine. My thanks to fiction editor Tasnuva Hayden for taking a chance on this linguistically-playful story. Check out the other contributors and work in this Language themed issued. https://fillingstation.myshopify.com/products/filling-station-issue-82 The LANGUAGE issue, featuring new work from: Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrán, Matthew Barron, James Braun, Megan Callahan, Douglas Cole, paulo da costa, Jaimie Franchi, Ed Go, Erina Harris, Henry Heavyshield, Chris Hutchinson, Daze Jefferies, Sophia Lengle, Khashayar “Kess” Mohammadi, Cassandra Myers, Shane Neilson, Steve Noyes, Coco Owen, kerry rawlinson, Nnadi Samuel, Tosh Sherkat, David Sheskin, Liam Strong, Sara Truuvert, and Xen Virtue. Cover art by Jacob James Bews.
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Keynote Address & Teaching the Short Story State of Mind at AWC
Get Lit Writer Series – Alexandra Writers Centre With award-winning authors like Alice Munro, Haruki Murakami, George Saunders, Kurt Vonnegut, there is so much to love and learn. Spend a day Getting Lit on short stories. Learn craft, process, publishing and so much more. Guaranteed to put you in that Short Story State of Mind. May 27, 20239-5pmAWCS Members: $150 | Non-Members: $200 Keynote & Presenterspaulo da costa | Lee Kvern | Leslie Greentree |Sarah L. Pratt | Robert Bose Note: Participation in Get Lit is entirely IN PERSON.Full schedule with times will be available to participants. Blue Pencil Sessions with Your Favourite PresenterSubmit up to 1500 words of a…
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O Perfume da Mentira em destaque nos Olhos nos Livros Blog
Eis que depois de uma pausa de dois meses para que pudessem ler os livros recomendados, aqui estamos com a edição do outono de 2022, que terá um livro por semana até meados de dezembro. Esta a recomendação de Manuela Marujo. Cada semana teremos uma diferente, com José Luís da Silva, João Martins, Manuela Marujo e Diniz Borges. https://www.facebook.com/plugins/post.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fpermalink.php%3Fstory_fbid%3Dpfbid0Gw9ZbWrMYKP4BntaZ2R364Z6JjMDTKHZjvEPLiLdaoJjA7oaobeeQ9U9mdMpCmeml%26id%3D100075535222612&show_text=true&width=500
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New Sci-Fi Story in Mithila Review
Check out my new story in Mithila Review’s special global Hopepunk issue of science fiction (and fantasy) devoted to positive and powerful character-driven stories that imagine an open and inclusive tech-empowered democratic future for all people, species and countries on Earth. Harefoot Express – Think Globally, Travel Locally. A story that takes place in Mohkínstsis, (present day Calgary), and sometime in the late 21st Century. This tale transports us to a future that still holds hope for human existence, including more inclusive and democratic forms of governing, as well as new strategies for the long process of restoring the earth’s natural ecosystems and diminishing the human footprint. What will tourism…
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Malahat Review – Seamless Stories Haunt
The January 2014 issue (#185) of the University of Victoria’s Malahat Review features a review of The Green and Purple Skin of the World. Fiction Review by Norma Lundberg The Green and Purple Skin of the World: Stories by paulo da costa (Freehand, 2013). Paperbound, 208 pp., $21.95 The sixteen stories in this collection proceed so seamlessly a reader might initially suspect them of being slight—a smooth skin of words, a faint echo from the title. But just as our skin is only the surface of our complex bodies, these stories are alive with characters in their own complicated worlds. They slowly enter the reader and haunt…
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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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Vera
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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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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Flies
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,…
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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…
