Patrick Poulin
Bio
I am a young writer, actor and filmmaker based in Montreal. I am passionate about art and storytelling. I am a student at McGill University in the Bachelor of Arts program with a major in Literature.
They/Them
instagram: patrick_poulin2001
Stories (13)
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The Death of Our Valley
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. When I was a child, the trees told stories of the Valley thousands of years ago. They told us of the times when the Valley was peaceful, alive. The Valley they knew seems so far away now. My childhood days seem so far away now. The trees tell no stories these days, the wind dances with no leaves.
By Patrick Poulin4 years ago in Fiction
Eyes Ashore
She stared at the waves, flowing back and forth onto the shore. The tears brought her peace, as though his hand were still on her shoulder. A cold, spectral fog crept up from the corners of the window, obscuring her view of the lake and forcing her to pull her blanket back up around her shoulders. She took one last sip of tea, set her cup down and headed outside.
By Patrick Poulin4 years ago in Horror
Remembering Laughter with Her in the Summer
I was 12 years old when I first saw her, passing by for only a brief moment. I was helping my father in the front yard, chopping wood, mowing the grass, and engaging in all manner of manual labour I couldn’t see the importance of. With my father’s focus solely on his work, I wiped the sweat from my forehead and allowed my mind to wander. My eyes soon followed suite, as they usually did, wandering to the sky, the Sun, the leaves, and finally to that old pear tree that loomed high above the rest of the town. That’s when I caught a glimpse of a beaten-down car approaching from across the street, with scratches all across the sides. Her arm lay out the window, her hair flew in the wind, and her head gently moved to the beat of the barely intelligible old songs coming out of the broken radio speakers. Her mother was driving, and a moving truck followed behind them. The world, it seemed, was forever, with her in it.
By Patrick Poulin4 years ago in Fiction
The Cake, and the Empty Counter
An abrupt knock on the door shook me away from the void, from the empty bitterness I had been staring into since I woke up. I sat there for a moment, unsure of how to move. In numbing my mind, had I forgotten the most basic of human functions? After a few seconds, I let out a deep sigh, pushed myself off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. I thought throwing some cold water on my face might make me look more awake, more alive. It didn’t.
By Patrick Poulin5 years ago in Fiction
The Blood of the Pig
It was crimson. Wet. Bubbling. Warm. It still haunts me, even to this day. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. I feel its heavy, dense air weighing down on me. I feel it stuck in my hair. I taste its stench, stuck in the shadows of my nostrils after all these years.
By Patrick Poulin5 years ago in Fiction
