Kudos to Tres, Janine, Glenn, and Kristy!

Hi, Brian.

I hope you are doing great! And the dogs, too :-)

I’m super excited to share that my debut picture book, Nahliya and the Lady (Plumleaf Press), will be released on May 28, 2026.

It is now available for pre-order at Chapters/Indigo here.

And direct from the publisher here.

Thank you so much for your ongoing support and encouragement!

Treslyn Vassel

For information on submitting to PlumLeaf Press, see here.

  

Hi, Brian.

 So excited to share that my piece, “A Room Made for One” which was reviewed during an Intensive Creative Writing session appears in print in the 2026 Spring Issue of Queen’s Quarterly.

 Only the table of contents are available at this time, but here’s the link to the issue:  https://www.queensu.ca/quarterly/

 As always, my appreciation and thanks to you, the other writers, and my amazing writing comrades, The Scribbling Vixens, who are still together after meeting in one of your classes back in 2020.

 Take care,

 Janine Elias Joukema

Also appearing in this issue of Queen’s Quarterly are pieces by Tanya Bellehumeur-Allatt, Susan Glickman, and Emily R. Zarevich – all of whom will be known to many followers of Quick Brown Fox.

For information on submitting to Queen’s Quarterly, see here.

 

Greetings, Brian:

I have been following your blog for some time, but have never corresponded with you until now.

I have been writing in earnest since 2020. (The imminent threat of death during a pandemic was a good motivator to finish writing projects as the ultimate deadline loomed large.)

I found out today that my article, “Hand Me Down Genes,” which I posted on Medium to commemorate Family Literacy Day in Canada, will be included in the Feb. Communique of the Canadian Authors’ Association.

You can read it here.

My writing has been supported by author Terry Fallis, who has been encouraging me to compile my nonfiction stories into a book.

Sincerely,

Glenn Niemi

You can read more of Glenn’s pieces on Medium here.

Hi, Brian.

Thought you might want to know that BOTH my books were nominated for categories in this year's Saskatchewan book awards. Three for Touching Grass (Book of the Year, Indigenous Peoples Writing, and Children's Book awards) and one for Mortified (Children's book awards).

Here's the site: https://www.bookawards.sk.ca/

Here's the list: 

https://www.bookawards.sk.ca/images/2026/2026-SBA-Shortlisted-Mar-6-26.pdf

Cheers,

Kristy

Touching Grass and Mortified are available from Chapters/Indigo here.

***

See all my upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day  retreats here. ~Brian

See where else your fellow writers are getting short pieces published here (and scroll down).

See new books by your fellow writers here (and scroll down).

Note: If you’ve had a story (or a book!) published, if you’ve won or placed in a writing contest, if you’ve gotten yourself an agent, or if you have any other news, send me an email so I can share your success. As writers, we’re all in this together, and your good news gives us all a boost. Email me at: brain.henry123@gmail.com

Happy Nowruz!

 

Happy Nowruz to all our Persian friends.

May this be the year that Iran is finally freed.

And to everyone, happy first day of spring!

Anitha has a new book out!

Hi, Brian.

I am super excited to share that my picture book, MUSIC OF THE BELLS (Viking Books/PRH), illustrated by the brilliant Chaaya Prabhat, is available now!

It's the story of Neela, a young girl who used to dance Kathak-a form of classical Indian dance that uses movement to tell stories. But now that her family has moved away from India, she dances ballet like the other kids in her school. She loves ballet and her new friends, but she misses the feeling of being strong and graceful all at once, the stories that Kathak dances hold, and of course the jingle, jingle that her anklets make as she moves across the stage.

Neela decides to take a chance and signs up to do a Kathak routine at the annual showcase, but it's been a while since she's danced in this style, and she worries that the other kids won't like it. When Amma reminds Neela to stay true to herself, Neela lets the music of the bells guide her.

Thank you so much for your support.

Anitha

Anitha Rao-Robinson

anitharobinson.com

Children's Author:

MUSIC OF THE BELLS (Viking Books 2026) Available from Indigo here.

SARI SISTERS (Viking Books 2024) Available from Indigo here.

A FAMILY FOR FARU (Pajama Press 2020) Available from Indigo here.

Podcast Creator & Host – KindnessIs Everything podcast

See more new books by your fellow writers  here (and scroll down).

Note: If you’ve had a story (or a book!) published, if you’ve won or placed in a writing contest, if you’ve gotten yourself an agent, or if you have any other news, send me an email so I can share your success. As writers, we’re all in this together, and your good news gives us all a boost. Email me at: brain.henry123@gmail.com

See all of Brian’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

You're invited to an Author Reading Day!

An Author Reading Day at CJ's Cafe, from back in the pre-Covid days

Everyone welcome!

Saturday, May 2
1:15 – 4:00 p.m.
Meadowvale Community Church
2630 Inlake Court, Mississauga, Ontario (Map here.)

Please mark it off on your calendar, and please plan to come – either to read or to support your fellow writers.

This is your chance to read your work out loud in front of an audience of your fellow writers and their friends and family. And you will want to read – it’s a great experience!

Everyone who’s ever been in one of my writing classes or retreats is welcome to a spot on the reading roster – and absolutely everyone is welcome to come.

If you think you might like to read, or just for more information, email me at: brain.henry123@gmail.com

Put “Reading Day” in the subject line

Whether you’re reading or not, everyone is invited to come and support their fellow writers, and do please bring spouses, friends and family. That’s what makes the day special.

We’ll have coffee for you, and everyone is invited to bring a snack to share – just snacks, but I suspect you’d be well advised to have a very light lunch 😊

Doors open at 1:15 p.m.

The actual readings will start by 2:00 and we’ll go to about 4:00 p.m.

I look forward to seeing you there!

Pieces will have to be short, no longer than 8 minutes.

You’ll find the audience appreciative and supportive – unless you go over time.

Practice so you know the length is okay and so that you’ll read well.

Some of you have done this before and will want to again – so go for it!

But I’m also hoping that those of you who haven’t yet will step up and take advantage of this great opportunity.

You’ll be glad you did.

Please email me as soon as possible to let me know you will reading.

Note: If you want a spot on the reading roster, you must let me know in advance, as we have a limited number of spots. This is not an open mic. Even if you won’t be reading, please let me know you’re planning to come so that we know roughly how many to expect.

See you there!

~ Brian

See all of my upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

Note: To get new posting delivered to your Inbox as they go up, go to the Quick Brown Fox Substack and subscribe: https://brian999.substack.com/

“Standing on the Toes of Giants” by Stephen Barnes

At ten years old, I attended the 1969 Canadian Grand Prix at Mosport. The daring heroes I’d read about and saved clippings of in my young life were right there in front of me; their screaming Ferraris and McLarens made my chest reverberate as they burst past just metres from where I sat in the bleachers. This one experience intercepted my life’s trajectory and launched me on a new orbit.

Following the race, we had an opportunity to walk along the track. Thankfully my father was in no rush to leave, and I soon found myself on the hallowed ground that the multicoloured missiles flew over just minutes before. We followed this asphalt path to the paddock, a staging area where the crews, vehicles and drivers gathered to prepare for, and recover from, the scheduled events.

In those days before hard-core capitalism restricted access, spectators could wander quite freely. I was the kid in his ultimate candy store and wasted no time in harvesting the autographs from whichever drivers I could catch milling about. I pounced on sports car ace Jackie Oliver straight away. Then a few minutes’ wait outside a trailer rewarded me with soon-to-be-champion Jackie Stewart’s signature.

The crowd thickened as more spectators made their pilgrimages to this circus. When it was clear that our time was winding down, I scoured the area for final opportunities – ready to seize on any clue someone special might still appear.

An untied flap beckoned in the breeze at the back of one of the colossal garage tents. I took leave of my dad and two friends – not waiting for their responses – and traipsed to the more secluded rear side, picking my steps through the tall grasses. I carefully peered through the gap.

It was like drawing back a curtain on my ultimate dream. No more standing wedged in a crowd of fans looking over barriers or craning my neck between adults for a glimpse of these celebrities and their cars. With a brief, innocent shuffle of my feet I was inside. Cars were in various states of disassembly and being prepped for shipping, mechanics hunched over them, busily going about their business.

Lotus teammates Jochen Rindt and Graham Hill, with various locals peering into the tent,
but not having Stephen’s gumption to barge right in

Only two figures were staying still; they were nearby and just talking – lo and behold one of them was none other than my hero, reigning Formula 1 World Driving Champion Graham Hill. He’d won auto racing’s Triple crown: the Indy 500, the 24 Hours of Le Mans – and the Monaco Grand Prix… five times! He even had an OBE after his name, which isn’t quite a knighthood, but close.

Situations like this just don’t happen to kids from small-town, Ontario. He was just a few steps from me, free for the taking. Still, I hesitated. Interrupting grown-ups hardly ever ends well. But heck, these two clearly knew each other, they’d have already had time to speak before now. This was an emergency.

I launched forward – my rubber-soled shoes practically squealing – boldly winding my way between toolboxes and jack stands and I inserted myself without waiting between the two men. They stopped gabbing, and I was face-to-face with Graham Hill, Driving Champion of the World

I stepped forward even closer, thrust my paper and pen up towards him and said, “Mr. Hill, may I please have your autograph?” The words came from deep within me, almost burning with adrenaline.

Somewhere, a wrench fell and clanged on the ground. I waited breathlessly. Graham Hill, Driving Champion of the Entire Universe, sized me up and glanced to his mate, then turned back to me.

“I will if you get off my bloody foot.”

With the horror of someone who’d just accidentally pushed the Queen down a flight of stairs, I looked down and saw, indeed, my right foot squarely on top of his leather driving shoe. My mouth was open but with nothing to say. My heart exploded. From far off I heard men chuckling. I stepped sideways, mortified, a tiny sliver of meat slipping out of an embarrassment sandwich.

Though I don’t recall it happening, Mr. Hill must have taken the paper and pen from my petrified hands and signed off on my loutish visit, because I still have his autograph.

For the rest of that season, though, I followed all the remaining Formula One races with an unspoken dread, praying that Graham Hill, OBE, never had to retire from a race due to a sore clutch foot.

P.S. Later, I learned the man Mr. Hill was talking to when I interrupted was team manager, Lotus Motorcars founder, and designer-engineer extraordinaire, Colin Chapman. Whoops! In the photo above, I think that's Mr. Chapman's butt to the left.

Stephen and Bella

***

Stephen Barnes is a freshly-retired instructor from Sheridan College’s animation program, currently living in Burlington, Ontario. When his first career as a professional race car driver crashed into a wall of debt in the 1980s he turned to writing and illustrating a humour book based on driving.

Tragically, that paperback met with just enough success to inspire Stephen to journey down The Long Road to Becoming a Real Writer. He was last seen still trudging on, discarded drafts fluttering in his wake.

Stephen racing at Mosport (for fun, not a real race)

 For more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

“The Bamboo Season” by Kyla McGrath

Image by Keisuke Kuribara

An excerpt from a forthcoming memoir

The basement lights were off. Only a strip of afternoon sunlight cut across the floor. I was in the home gym. Steel racks. Plates stacked against the wall. Mirrors splintering the light. A sermon about discipline and healing was paused on the screen. The house was too quiet. Just the dull drone of the treadmill and my own breathing.

I was crying so hard I had to grip the rails to steady myself. I finally stepped off and planted my feet on the sides. The belt kept moving beneath me, humming. Still running.

What if it’s worse than they think?

What if I don’t make it through surgery?

What if my body is never the same?

What if I’m ruined?

For years my body had been proof of my discipline. I knew how to train it. Push it. Shape it. Now they were going to remove parts of it. Half my pancreas. Portions of my liver. Maybe more. It wasn’t just the surgery itself that scared me. It was what came after. I was afraid I wouldn’t be the same. Less capable. Less strong. Less me.

Then my phone rang. It was Paul.

He had been my trainer and my friend for more than twenty years. I met him in my twenties when I was still trying to figure out who I was and what I was capable of. Back then, we were training for fitness competitions. We trained through pain. I complained. He ignored me. Early mornings. Late nights. Workouts that left my legs shaking in the parking lot. 

He had seen me at my strongest. He had seen me at my worst. And he’d talked me off the ledge before. But this was different. This wasn’t about walking onto a stage. This was about walking into an operating room.

I answered the phone and the words spilled out.

What if they find more?

What if it’s worse?

What if I don’t wake up?

What if my body is never the same?

How big will the scar be?

What if I don’t recognize myself?

Paul let me talk. When I finally stopped, he exhaled. “Okay,” he said. “Listen to me. Treat this like a show prep.”

“I can’t do this.”

“You can.”

“This isn’t a show. This is surgery.”

A pause. “But treat it like a show.”

I almost laughed. “You’re not serious.”

“I am. You know how to lock in. You know how to build a plan. You know how to do hard things. This is no different.”

“This is different,” I said.

“Yes. Because it matters more.”

My panic didn’t disappear. But it stopped running the conversation.

“You get something locked in your mind,” Paul said, “and you’re unstoppable.”

I swallowed. He wasn’t wrong. When a date was set, something in me flipped. Blinders on. No negotiation. One step at a time until the job was done. Somewhere between diagnosis and fear, I had forgotten that. He was there to remind me. Not to rescue me. But to hold up a mirror.

“You’re bamboo,” he said.

I let out a short laugh. “Bamboo?”

“Yeah, with bamboo, you see nothing for five years. You plant the seed. You water it. You tend the soil. And nothing breaks the surface. No stalk. No leaves. No proof. But underground, the roots are spreading. Wide. Deep. Strong enough to hold what’s coming. Then, in six weeks, it rises eighty feet. Not because it grew overnight, but because it was growing the whole time. Underground. Unseen.”

“That can’t be true,” I said.

“Look it up, it’s real.”

I didn’t know if the numbers were exact. It didn’t matter. It felt true. The weeks leading up to surgery weren’t wasted. They were preparation. Now I knew what I had to do.

The surgery date became my show day. The treadmill became my prep. Morning salads on the couch, the house still and quiet. My husband at work. My daughter at school. Just me and the dog at my feet. More water than I wanted. Lifting even when my body felt weak.

I fed my mind as carefully as I fed my body. I drew on my faith. Sermons in my ears and scripture on repeat. Shutting down negative thoughts fast. My survival depended on it. It wasn’t about aesthetics anymore. It was about living.

When fear tried to creep in, I replaced the image. Instead of imagining myself broken after surgery, I visualized myself strong.

Standing. Walking. Coming home from the hospital.

I did cardio and visualized healing. I trained and visualized strength returning.

I treated it like a competition. Except the trophy was time.

Before that call, fear was running me. After it, I said no more.

The ugly crying didn’t disappear. I let it come. But I didn’t stay there. It stopped running the show. I had a plan.

Strength didn’t look like confidence. It looked like hysteria followed by discipline. Repeating the same steps even when nothing seemed to change. When the surgery doors closed weeks later, I was still afraid. But I was prepared. I had done all I could do.

All that training. All those years. All those reps in the gym. They weren’t just about winning. They were rehearsal.

Discipline. Focus. A refusal to negotiate with doubt. Those were the roots. They had been forming me long before I knew I would need them. This wasn’t the beginning of strength. It was proof it had been growing long before I saw it.

And now it was time to use it.

 ***

Kyla McGrath is a writer originally from Newfoundland, now living in Ontario with her husband and daughter. A speechwriter by profession, her personal writing explores identity, resilience, and the strength formed in life’s hardest seasons. She writes from lived experience and a deep belief in growth through difficulty. She is currently completing her first memoir.

For more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.