Rob shook his head, sighing, wiping his face with his hands. “Well isn’t that just somethin’. Jesus Chris. Never even occurred to me they wouldn’t a told ya. What a crock a shit. It’s really not fair to you, even if you are some shitty downtown whiner.” He leaned forward.

“I’m talkin about the feud, Owen. The feud.”

“Excuse me?”

He sighed, took a swig of coffee, settled in.

--Written by Alexander Saxton, and performed by Anthony Botelho.

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At the sight of the great grey hog, the girls all squealed and rushed forward to rub her meaty flanks and pet her furrowed, piggy brow. All except Anne, who held back, feeling somehow suddenly embarrassed. Ill-at-ease. The memory of last night’s pork chops at the forefront of her mind. Slowly, the pig raised its heavy head and stared at her. Looked her directly in the eyes, with bitter intelligence.

--Written by Alexander Saxton, and performed by Zoe Lee.

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You know? I never quite knew what to make of that.

--Written by Alexander Saxton, Jacob Duarte Spiel, and Anthony Botelho.

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She loved to get lost in those films. The colours, strange music, grainy texture of black-gloved hands pressing into smooth bare flesh. The bright, surreal flow of blood. She sat alone in her room with lights off and earbuds in, drinking in that other world. Feasting on it. That saturated, seventies otherland of vice and sin and madness, so unlike the grey little world she knew.

--Written by Alexander Saxton.

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"If we wait nobody’ll ever catch him, what with all his army training. The Mountie station is two days ride in the other direction. By then the tracks will be gone. There’s no choice. We’ve got to run him down.”

And as he said it, I couldn’t help but notice a whisper of excitement in his voice.

--Written by Jacob Duarte Spiel

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“There are ways of making this more interesting, you know.”

He licked dry lips. “Go on.”

“You’re not supposed to bet on the games. You can get banned. But everyone does."

--Written by Alexander Saxton

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Dozens of mounds erected to the dead: all slightly pointed, all silent under the low thick sky. The air still within this cul-de-sac of stone; the drab grass drifting only seldom in a sluggish breeze.

No howling voices today.

Yet still Mugg-Medias thought he felt the stifling, staring presence of the dead.

--Written by Alexander Saxton.

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Mihail leaned forward. The red light of the candle bled up over both our faces. “Well then I’ll keep speaking your language, if you’ll survive. Have you ever heard of the ‘Devshirme System’?”

“It sounds electrifying.”

“Also sometimes called the ‘Ottoman Blood Tax?’”

--Written by Alexander Saxton. Performed by Marta da Silva.

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Those white… flakes, they fall down. On this winter night, this cold, cold winter night, the White drifts gently down to blanket me. Each inhalation of it burns my insides worse, cuts me like icy glass.

And he looks down. It looks down, white too. No face, though I know it’s saying ‘I tried to warn you.’

--Written by Anthony Botelho.

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“The Oracle of Canada.” One of the great guiding lights of Canadian contemporary art. Tragic figure. Welcome to the self-guided audio tour for the 10 year retrospective of the great Eloise Kestrel’s life and work.

--Written by Jacob Duarte Spiel. Special thanks to Isabel Brandt for providing research, writing support, and additional material for this episode.

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