National Network for Equitable Library Service

Charity takes small steps to escape her controlling father. Jasmine endures the rumors about her at school, even though no one really knows what happened last summer. The Oh!

The word "magyarAzni" (pronounced MAUDE-yar-az-knee) means "to explain" in Hungarian, but translates literally as "make it Hungarian." This faux-Hungarian language primer, written in direct address

Cho Oh-Hyun was born in Miryang, South Gyeongsang Province, Korea and has lived in retreat in the mountains since becoming a novice monk at the age of seven.

The Duende of Tetherball fearlessly ransacks the scrutinizing role of the past on the present; the interactions and accountabilities of ourselves and other species; the challenges and pleasures of

The poems in this collection originated as a response to Elmore Leonard's "Ten Rules of Writing" and metamorphosed into poetic responses to quotations and epigraphs on a variety of subjects.

Jay Hopler's second collection, a mourning song for his father, is an elegy of uproar, a careening hymn to disaster and its aftermath.

‘All of Nichol’s work is stamped by his desire to create texts that are engaging in themselves as well as in context, and to use indirect structural and textual devices to carry meaning.

Toronto is home to multiple and thriving queer communities that reflect the dynamism of a global city.

‘I used to want a black enamel farmhouse sink. Now, I just want shelter.’ From acclaimed playwright Karen Hines come two darkly comic meditations on security, safety, and shelter.

something like wait for mein the braille of scarstonight can i suggest a little punctuationcircle half-moon vertical line of astonishmenta pause that transformslight and breath into language a

Croak is a frog-and-girl opera in three parts, played out like a YouTube mashup of mid-century cartoons, all set to a contemporary pop song.

Nothing slips by Brecken Hancock’s deft ear as she seductively plumbs the depths of the evolution of bathing, doppelgängers, the Kraken and the minutiae of family with all its tragic misgivings.

What if the cinema of the present were a Möbius strip of language, a montage of statements and questions sutured together and gradually accumulating colour?

A lyrical wilderness of power, wealth, leisure and desire, the poems of Country Club freewheel across state lines with panache and flagrant feeling.

Jonathan Ball’s Clockfire is a suite of poetic blueprints for imaginary plays that would be impossible to produce – plays in which, for example, the director burns out the sun, actors murder their a