DEAN GARLICK

 

Dean Garlick is a fiction writer living in Montreal. His first novel, The Fish, was published in 2010 on Anteism Press. It has been translated into French by René-Daniel Dubois for Montreal-based publisher, Les Allusifs, and is set for release in fall of 2015. His novella, Chloes, was launched in Montreal at Drawn and Quarterly and in Toronto at Another Story Bookshop in spring of 2014.

WEBSITE

www.deangarlick.com

SOCIAL MEDIA

https://twitter.com/dean_garlick 
https://www.facebook.com/dgarlick
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7811845.Dean_Garlick

BOOKS, PUBLICATIONS, PROJECTS

http://www.deangarlick.com/purchase-chloes/
http://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/B011JDO3RC?*Version*=1&*entries*=0 

http://mtlreviewofbooks.ca/reviews/chloes/ 
http://www.brokenpencil.com/news/book-review-chloes 
http://weirdcanada.com/2014/11/ex-libris-dean-garlick-chloes/ 

 

 

TINY DEATHS


Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a dark form streaking along the baseboards. In the early hours of the morning, lying alone in bed, I hear it rustling in the cupboards. It leaves its shit scattered like rice in the cutlery drawer and on top of the stove. 
          This morning I woke up and checked beneath the sink. It was still alive, working on the peanut butter with rapid-fire, pink licks, as if the trap pinning its spine to the wooden base was nothing but a minor inconvenience.  
          I tried to think about other things as I chewed on a bagel and drank my coffee, but I could still feel its tiny eyes on me, glassy-black, unblinking. 

When I put my dirty dishes into the sink and had another look, the trap was empty. 

 

II 

In the early hours of the morning, lying alone in bed, I think of you. I think of the time your mom walked in on us at your parents’ place over the holidays and you told her we were practicing hot yoga. Yes, on the coffee table, you said. How stupid did you think she was? I remember the way you ate toast, from the outside in, nibbling at the crust in circles till you popped the bite-sized centre into your mouth. 
          I try to think about other things as the reflections of passing cars streak across the ceiling, but I can still feel your eyes on me, anger-fired, unwavering. 

 

There was a time when I felt pinned helplessly to this life. But something about you—I still can’t say what exactly—released me.