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Literary Collections Canadian

Twenty-One Ways to Die in Saskatchewan

by (author) Ronald Stansfield

Nevermore Press, Ltd.
Initial publish date
Apr 2020
  • Paperback / softback

    Publish Date
    Apr 2020
    List Price

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In this poignant collection of fiction, creative nonfiction and poetry, Nova Scotian author R.E. Stansfield reflects on growing up on the Prairies while exploring, both metaphorically and physically, the many ways we “die.” From the young boy called to the principal’s office, to the immigrant adolescent confronted by schoolyard bullies, to the grandfather haunted by the German soldier he killed, to the Cree truckdriver hauling nuclear material, Stansfield brings to life those soul-crushing events we all experience, sometimes leading to redemption and rebirth.

About the author

Contributor Notes

Ron Stansfield is a transplanted prairie person now living “upshore” in Port Hilford, Nova Scotia. Born and bred in Regina, Saskatchewan, Ron enjoyed a distinguished three decade-long career in the international affairs field before retiring to the Maritimes, including postings to the Canadian embassies in South Korea and The Netherlands, and the International Atomic Energy Agency in Austria. Gleefully freed finally from the constraints of government bureaucratese, he takes his inspiration now from the open ocean which he swears looks just like the waving wheat fields back home in "Sasky." He writes in all genres and is currently dividing his time among a number of new literary adventures.

Excerpt: Twenty-One Ways to Die in Saskatchewan (by (author) Ronald Stansfield)

Runt slouched against the metal pole at the top of the stairwell, bracing himself as the bus lurched sideways suddenly, the uncomfortable prickle of cold creeping into the ends of his gloved fingers. The lobes of his exposed ears had already gone senseless waiting at the bus stop long before he had even climbed aboard. He hated winter. He hated its sub-zero ferocity. He hated its never-ending tedium of mountainous snowbanks, ice-caked drifts and frozen ruts.

He hated the bus, too, with its dim interior lights and cloying stagnant air. He hated the constant rumble and roar of the diesel beneath his feet. He hated the antiquated heating system that had long since surrendered in its battle to keep the intense cold outside at bay. He hated the sprinkling of other passengers silent and unmoving like cadavers in a tomb, enveloped within mounds of thick winter clothing that smelled of wet wool and stale mothballs. It made Runt claustrophobic and slightly nauseous. He couldn’t wait to make his escape. But escape to what? All that awaited him outside was the dreaded winter he hated most of all.