About the Author

Caitlin Galway

Caitlin Galway is an author and freelance editor. Her fiction has been published in Riddle Fence, The Broken Social Scene Story Project, the Carter V. Cooper Short Fiction Anthology Series, and by CBC Books. She has won and been shortlisted for numerous contests, and has received multiple literary grants. She studied English Literature at Queen's University.

Books by this Author
Bonavere Howl

We packed our grandmother's clothing back into the trunk in silence. Gingery doo-wop played on the radio from underneath the coat we had not bothered to pull off. The mid-sky sun flooded through the window and pressed hard against my cheek, flat and overcooked and ringed in white like a hard-boiled egg. I wrestled with the notion of reporting to our mother and father what had happened, that Connie had left the house when she was not allowed, but it was too daunting, the task of navigating through a barrage of stiff, swishing dresses, everyone so strangely elegant and spritzed in metallic floral clouds, only to be scolded by Mama in front of her guests, all of them cocktail-drunk and horrible by now. Fritzi seemed only marginally concerned, and she was my barometer. I ignored my uneasiness at the backdoor squeaking open, clapping shut. I let the feeling trickle in a thin stream from my chest to my stomach, like the sweat down the small of my back. As the evening crept on, I looked up to find Fritzi with her forehead low against her fingertips. She was standing in the one spot untouched by the marmalade light of our lamp, and the night collected over her like an overhanging shade. "I shouldn't have let her run off in a huff like that." "She'll be back soon, it's almost bedtime," I said. "She'll want to be home before Mama sees and throws a fit." I leaned against the windowsill beside Fritzi, and we stared down at the winding path leading to our house. The sounds of the party travelled out the open front door, between the fluted columns rounding the porch, and blew up to us with the garden's wild bergamot mint and the dawning nostalgia of dead tobacco. Fritzi rested her arm on the windowsill. Her cigarette was clipped absently between her fingers, and spilled its smoke into the air, weaving long, pale furls over the darkened yard. I looked at my sister, who would not lift her eyes from the empty path, almost taunting now in its bareness, where the light that once fell sylphic from the paper lanterns now lay cold beneath the old live oaks.

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