Kit Ingram

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in Canada



Member Since
November 2018

Kit Ingram is a queer Canadian writer based in London. His poetry has earned short-listings for the Bridport Prize and Fish Prize, and his fiction a long-listing for the Grindstone Literary Novel Prize, among others.

In 2019, he published Paradise, a novel, with Ganymede Press and in late 2021 will publish his debut poetry collection Alice and Antius with Penrose Press.

Raised in Calgary, Alberta, on the windswept foothills of the Rocky Mountains, Kit went on to graduate from the University of Toronto with an Honours Bachelor of Arts in philosophy. He now freelances as a storyteller working with various start-ups, creatives, and Indigenous-run businesses.

When he isn’t considering line breaks or the lives of his characters, you’ll find him pla

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“Some people will tell you that Toronto, in the summer, is the nothing more than a cesspool of pollution, garbage, and the smells of a hundred ethnicities competing for top spot in a race won historically by curry, garlic, and the occasional cauldron of boiled cabbage. Take a walk down College Street West, Gerrard Street East, or the Danforth, and you'll see; then, they add—these people, complaining—that the stench is so pervasive, so incorrigible, nor merely for lack of wind, but for the ninety-nine percent humidity, which, after a rainstorm, adds an eradicable bottom-note of sweaty Birkenstocks and the organic tang of decaying plant life. This much is true; there is, however, more to the story. Take a walk down the same streets and you'll find racks of the most stunning saris—red with navy brocade, silver, canary, vermillion and chocolate; marts with lahsun and adrak, pyaz and pudina; windows of gelato, zeppole, tiramisu; dusty smoke shops with patio-bistros; you'll find dove-white statuary of Olympian goddesses, mobs in blue jerseys, primed for the World Cup—and more, still, the compulsory banter of couples who even after forty years can turn foul words into the bawdiest, more unforgettable laughter (and those are just the details). Beyond them is the container, the big canvas brushed with parks and valleys and the interminable shore; a backdrop of ferries and islands, gulls and clouds—sparkles of a million wave-tips as the sun decides which colours to leave on its journey to new days. No, Toronto, in the summer, is the most paradisiacal place in the world.”
Cory Ingram, Paradise

“His hands were magnets—shifting polarities—drawn and repelled to the unknown parts of another man's body.”
Cory Ingram, Paradise

“The headlights of parked cars shone through the rain, and the sidewalks extended, empty, into the darkness. Underground, the sewers surged like rivers, and a few blocks away, sirens blared. He was no longer aware of his heart or thoughts, only the image of a sunken face staring up from a well, the paleness rising through the water like polished bone. A ringed hand reached toward it, but as the fingers approached, the face would sink away, its eyes opening, closing, and the droplets of red falling like leaves. He was a child running through an autumn cemetery, leaping over cast iron fences, the rain bleeding into the tombstones and the roofs of the mausoleums, his legs following the wings of a crow, flapping to the north. A hedge of withered roses stood between him and his childhood house. He tripped and grazed his cheek on a manhole, his red blooming in the water. The sun set behind the hill; the house turned black—abandoned and derelict—and Chris knew he had to keep running, ahead, into the unknown.”
Cory Ingram, Paradise

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