Give Us This Day is a striking collection of short fiction that explores the weight of the past through a kaleidoscope of voices and styles. From retired grandparents thrust into unexpected childcare parenthood to young labourers adrift in mines and road crews, from teachers struggling to find meaning in their classrooms to couples at a crossroads, these stories capture the quiet reckonings of everyday existence. Whether intimate or expansive, meditative or urgent, each story reveals how missteps and circumstances shape identity, and how, for many, the past is never truly left behind. Give Us This Day is a profound meditation on regret, resilience, and the fragile beauty of human connection.

Dear Petra,

This is what I can see:

Nickel dust, a fine thin layer, black and shiny, all over the snow, the trees. Like someone took a can of spray paint and let out one short quick blast. It's everywhere. It floats in front of my lamp during shift. I can see it coming down in the streetlights at night. It's coming down now, settling on my toque, my gloves, the war surplus parka you still think is yours. Nobody can talk without spitting.

My nose is full of it, my teeth are black. They say it takes a year to cough it all out of your lungs after you leave. I see it wash off in the shower after work, streams of it running from each man under a nozzle, swirling, getting thicker and darker as it nears the drain. Handsoap's not good enough. We all keep a container of dish detergent in our lockers, and even then we have to shower again at home. I wash Deefer once a week, but that doesn't stop him from cleaning himself on the other days. He's inside most of the time, which is good. Still, I don't like to think of all the shit he's swallowed. We wash nickel dust out of our long johns, our work shirts and our socks. This laundry bag is full of it. It seeps into the transmissions of our washing machines.

Not much else to look at.

Nickel dust and snow and stumpy little trees.