Kendall Defoe
Bio
Teacher, reader, writer, dreamer... I am a college instructor who cannot stop letting his thoughts end up on the page. No AI. No Fake Work. It's all me...
And I did this:
Stories (838)
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Political Graffiti
The people have spoken. Officially, Canada’s Election Day is Monday, April 28th. We have had early voting, with a record 7.3 million eligible Canadians making their choice over the Easter weekend (I was a part of this particular group, noting that I was doing so on Good Friday – see my poem). The race has tightened up over the last week, with the American presidency, tariffs and a general pro-Canadian feeling permeating the nation. We will probably have a minority government running things again, with the same two main parties – Liberal and Conservative – duking it out and butting heads over issues. My mother will go for the former; some relatives will choose the latter, or take a real shot in the dark and choose one of our other parties (New Democrats, People’s Party of Canada, Green or…?) One of the more amusing things about this nation is how many political parties seem to grow in the body politic every year (I remember one called the Natural Law Party when I was an undergrad; their party leader was our own infamous magician Doug Henning – look him up). I often wonder how a nation like the United States can possible cohere and run with just two political parties (yes, I know that there are independent candidates, they seem to just be a sideshow to the big tent events). I wonder how it works.
By Kendall Defoe 10 months ago in The Swamp
Final Notice
To the Audience: Due to particular circumstances, the Writer has decided to go in a different direction. As much as your recent work has been appreciated, and your comments noted for their insight and wit, the Writer has decided that he can no longer move forward with you as a partner in this enterprise.
By Kendall Defoe 10 months ago in Poets
Upper Paradise for the Dante
So, I was stuck in the boonies and the bus came and I thought of the Comedy. He had a poet - Virgil - to travel with him and I get techno without headphones and we are heading downtown so it is deeper into purgatory (honestly, it looks like the Bruce Trail to me). And we are supposed to think that the terminus is now heaven (oh my, it is completely in reverse and I want to stay back on)? Did I really forget this after all this time? Did I not learn a thing from the Italian master? Really?
By Kendall Defoe 10 months ago in Fiction
Review
10. He is born in a simple time in a simple place. It is never certain who the father is and his mother will never let him forget this. It is the year when a man sings on film and a single plane will cross the Atlantic for the first time. He will want to escape and find his own voice. This may take a while.
By Kendall Defoe 10 months ago in Journal
White Teeth at 25
Twenty-five years... I must admit that I was in a bit of a daze when I left the bookstore and had the idea in my head that it had been twenty-five years since this particular tome had been published. But there it was, clear as day on the cover of the new hardback edition from Penguin:
By Kendall Defoe 10 months ago in BookClub
Dark Roast. Top Story - April 2025.
For Belle's Challenge (Entry No. 2): Who the hell let him in here? I was not planning on having my breakfast interrupted by anyone I knew, much less him. But, here I was, right after my run – fourth for the week (okay, third) – sitting in a local café and seeing his face on the same set of seats I would use to finish up a large black coffee before heading home. It was not busy for a Sunday morning – the best time for a run – and I was happy to feel the caffeine and heat flowing through my chilled body. I also had a sandwich to go, but I would have finished it before I got home. That was the plan.
By Kendall Defoe 10 months ago in Fiction
I Love You?
It was kind of a dull Saturday night until she walked in. He was on his second PBR in a cocktail glass by then. The bartenders at Le Domain were never this free and he could see how easily they switched glasses, bottles and cans from hand to hand, often between each other as a kind of test. Almost hypnotic to see as he leaned on his stool and let his finger play games with the too-large piece of lime in his glass. After his third hit, he’d head home and call it a dud of a night. The music was some sort of trap track he could not name (getting old, aren’t we?). The lights were darker than he remembered from his first time in that bar (wearing shades was not a good idea; “I wear my sunglasses at night…” That damn song). And the drink was truly awful (why were there so many tips on that counter?). It was a dud. It was a bad night.
By Kendall Defoe 10 months ago in Fiction
