Author Biography: Paul Carlucci
Paul Carlucci's journalism and creative non-fiction have been published in the Vancouver Review, Yonge Street Media, eye Weekly, Spacing, Adbusters, NOW Magazine, SBC Skateboard, Rue Morgue, SMUT, The Globe and Mail and others. He’s worked across Canada as an editor, reporter or columnist, wandering from the East Coast to the West, and back again. His short fiction has appeared in the Vancouver Review, Darwin’s Bastards, and is forthcoming in the fall 2011 edition of the Feathertale Review. In 2009, a play he wrote was brought to the stage at Whistler Ski and Snowboard Festival; it was about a grungy, wingless cupid who inadvertently causes a murder on a gondola.
by Paul Carlucci
November 28, 2011
Here’s the thing about microphones: Stick one in front of a fool, and he just gets louder. Unfortunately, you can’t really blame him, can you? Fools are foolish, just like lungs are for breathing and fire burns. Trying to change an idiot is like lecturing rocks for being too hard. They don’t care and can’t [...]
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by Paul Carlucci
November 16, 2011
Please, for the purposes of smooth narration, allow me to lump you in with all the others: short and scruffy street brats, dirt-faced and hungry, smeared cherubs wandering around with your palms out. I know you’re all different: sex and gender; histories, national and personal; favourite colours; rows of teeth. But you’re also one seriously [...]
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by Paul Carlucci
October 30, 2011
Rush hour in Accra: It’s where meticulous, Ghanaian refinement goes to die. You see adults, grown men and women in formal wear, hurl themselves at moving vehicles, faces all squished up with competitive strain, and it’s just a shameless melee of flying elbows and civil degradation. A few days ago, I saw a little old [...]
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by Paul Carlucci
October 24, 2011
A neighbour stopped me on my way to work. “Hello?” she called out. “Hello?” It was October 21, one day after Colonel Muammar Gaddafi was killed. “Yesterday was an historic day,” she said, wanting to make sure I was aware. It was hard to tell if she was happy or sad, or still trying to [...]
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by Paul Carlucci
October 2, 2011
Weep on this: Hinges creek and the door opens to the public relations office of the Ministry of Local Government and Rural Development. Some guy in a purple shirt and dress pants is sleeping upright on the couch, legs spread open, cell phone loose in one of his hands, his trophy gut rising proudly in [...]
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by Paul Carlucci
September 22, 2011
Night falls fast and dark over downtown Takoradi. Market Circle, the town’s commercial epicentre, is a phantasmagoria of weird shadows and trampled produce. Streetlights are sporadic, and whole sections of road are sometimes just trails through inky darkness, the massive holes in the sidewalks almost invisible in the gloom. But the Zenith Hotel, pitched up [...]
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by Paul Carlucci
September 8, 2011
It’s a bit like a heartbeat. Around dinner time, a deep and gentle pounding floats over compound walls and is smothered in the din of Accra’s audio debris. This is the bass line of fufu preparation. Cassava is mixed with yam or plantain. It’s placed in a pestle and pounded with a long, wooden mortar, [...]
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by Paul Carlucci
September 8, 2011
It’s a bit like a heartbeat. Around dinner time, a deep and gentle pounding floats over compound walls and is smothered in the din of Accra’s audio debris. This is the bass line of fufu preparation. Cassava is mixed with yam or plantain. It’s placed in a pestle and pounded with a long, wooden mortar, [...]
Read more. →
by Paul Carlucci
September 2, 2011
Most of us, somewhere along the way, have borne witness to the profound frailty of flesh. It could be that you’ve been touched by suicide, or that you’ve watched an elder die, or that violence, with or without design, has crashed and thrashed its way into your life. In some parts of the world, a [...]
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by Paul Carlucci
August 20, 2011
God is everywhere in Ghana. His proclamations are stenciled on the rear windows of trundling taxis and tro-tros; His grandeur is recalled in the names of chop bars and canteens; self-styled preachers shout His verses in the quiet of rising dawn; every Sunday morning, His people flow through the streets, all wildly coloured dresses and [...]
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