The Divorce of Jason and Medea


Medea stood at the kitchen counter washing knives. They had a whole block of Henckels, delicate instruments that could lose their efficacy in the corrosive embrace of the Sunlight PowerPacs they used in the dishwasher. She was cleaning up from the night before, a dinner party for the company that her husband, Jason, worked for. Medea enjoyed feeling through the dishcloth the concave inner curve of her peeling knife and shuttered at the sharp power latent within her Santoku. After relishing in the clean swish of towel against cleaver she moved onto the wine glasses. She watched with satisfaction the blackish-red cabernet sediment swell into a pink that swirled neatly down the drain. It was over the rim of that glass that she had watched Blondie, heir to upper management, engage in conversation that would sometimes lurch with laughter, spinning into a giggly deluge of silly little jokes. Medea’s dark curls were not kept in check by conditioner and her flowing hemp-based clothing afforded her the privileges of an outsider. She was not, therefore, distracted from the casual placement of Jason’s hand at the small of Blondie’s back. He had confessed to sleeping with Blondie, an “accident,” but was reluctant to stop the affair as not to fall out of favour with her and by extension, the boss who so adored Blondie for her overall perkiness. Medea, who had made her discontent clear, was deemed irrational or unpragmatic. He did it out of concern for Medea, for their children, for a better economic future. Jason accused Medea of being stuck in the motorcycle mindset of when they first met. It was a time when Jason was feeling adventurous, and Medea was just the adventure he needed. His parents, skeptical of their union, had them sign a pre-nup. Regardless, he would say “I’ll love you forever,” but in his boyishness not knowing what forever meant. It’s easy to say forever like it’s easy for a serrated edge to cut through tough gristle.

It was while Medea drained the water in the sink that she entertained the thought of pushing her children down the stairs. She would put an arm out to say “oh sweetie don’t fall,” while using that same arm to shove them over the edge. In court she’ll talk about the strange, unaccounted-for bruises she had found on the children while bathing them. The social workers, the child psychiatrists, they’ll question the children under the presumption that Jason is guilty. The kids, four and five, will come to think of him as guilty too. Not enough evidence to put him away, but enough to give her sole custody. You’ll get all the money, but I’ll get more than half, she thought, placing toy cars strategically at the top of the stairs. She’ll take them away forever, and Jason, she prophesized, will die, or at least be severely maimed when his beloved Crate & Barrel lamp, two thousand dollars for two hundred pounds of cedar, topples and falls.

A Webcomic by Holly Winter


Holly Winter is a dreamer and an enthusiast. She runs a webcomic called AutoMagical and doesn’t know what it’s about.  You can find more of her work at

Farewell Dr. Wunker


I finished Dr. Wunker’s last course at Dalhouse with a mixture of satisfaction and remorse. The class was a spring session course entitled Making Space: Contemporary Canadian Poetics and by far my favourite class of University to date. The idea … Continue reading