Cannery Row Novels & Stories

“She hadn’t picked one out yet.” “What about Rowan?” Kenna asks. “It means red, or red-haired, right? It’s as good a true description of her as anything.” “Rowan. I like it.” Kaylani says. When we finally finish the raft, it’s dark. Kenna lights a fire on the beach, then Kaylani and I shift and gently put Rowan on the raft. We shift back and the four of us walk her into the water, the waves gently lapping against our bodies as we carry Rowan out to sea.

I then rowed and rowed while the water swayed back and forth. Like the song... Row, row, row your boat Gently down the stream Merrily merrily, merrily, merrily Life is but a dream Is life indeed a dream? I guess it was before but now, it's a nightmare... I know arrived in one of the states of Hawthorn and it is called, Dill. Like he said, "Come to the borders of Dill" I went out of the boat as I approached the borders, "there you will meet your boon companion."

We went ashore in twos with nails between our teeth, a whisper-army of paper, and stubborn. You learn a town by where its doors are happy to take nails. Caul’s Point had been one kind of lesson; this harbour was another quieter, bone poor, angry only when fed. Fishwives took pages with fingers that had seasoned every kind of grief and told us without asking that they knew which pilings made men read and which made them look down. A sawyer laughed dark and stapled a copy to the jawbone of a shark hung for brag, reading for men who pretended they couldn’t.

The one-way mirror should keep me hidden, no matter how large the hole in the wall might be. Even so, every time Antonio seemed to glance in my direction, my imagination ran wild, filling my mind with thoughts I couldn't suppress. It felt like he had thrown himself on me, sending a shiver down my spine. My name was Yvonne Barker. I was a confident and curvaceous woman in the prime of my life, but my husband, Philip Barker, struggled with certain issues and hadn't been able to meet my needs in that regard. Philip, a long-haul truck driver, was often away from home, leaving me feeling lonely and unfulfilled.

I got into the matte black Land Rover and pulled out fast, tires crunching softly against the gravel. The estate vanished in my rearview. The gun pressed against my ribs like a second spine. One I’d need if this went sideways. And I had a feeling it just might. Fog clung to the city like it didn’t want to let go. The alley reeked of rusted metal, piss, and engine oil. Marine Dock Seven had been dead since the shipping companies pulled out, but the old cannery still stood—half-burnt walls and corrugated tin breathing in the wind.

The wheat was so tall it felt like a golden ocean, swaying in a rhythm that didn't belong to the wind alone. Every time a gust of air moved through the stalks, it carried a hum—a soft, melodic vibration that sounded like a lullaby I had forgotten long ago. Rowan stood in the center of the field, his boots caked in real, wet mud. The sun on his neck was hot, a physical weight that reminded him he was alive. But the warmth was a lie, or at least, it felt like one.

Then, as if yanked back into the water, he was gone. Fares forgotten, Clarence’s hands shook as he tried to return the oar to its lock, missed, got it. Then he was rowing as if the devil were coming for him. But other hands were on the gunnels, bloated faces glowing in the luminous fog. *** Beneath a bridge on a cobbled path beside a canal, Ol’ Daniel Tobin raised a bottle to the dead and sang into the billowing fog: No more we’ll go a sailing,

On Monday and Tuesday you could see her presents On Wednesday and Thursday wine was blended On Friday and Saturday they caroused for the big day Among roses, wine was blended On Friday and Saturday they caroused for the big day They drank for days, they drank for two But go to the beds the bride would not do Among roses, they drank for two days But go to the beds the bride would not do They drank for days, they drank for three But the bride did not want the beds to see Among roses, they drank for three But the bride did not want the beds to see Then entered a little sailor boy And he was all clothed in blue flannel Among roses, a little sailor boy And he was all clothed in blue flannel He st

Irene Evening unrolls itself slow and golden, like honey sliding off a spoon. The air inside the pack house smells of woodsmoke, roasted herbs, and something buttery that Rowan swears he didn’t burn. The omegas move through the kitchen in soft rhythm—two boys chopping onions, one humming off-key as he stirs the pot. It’s the kind of song that doesn’t need to be good to make the place feel alive.

The hatch shifts slightly. Locked, but old. Rust weakens everything over time. Rowan uses the last of his strength and slams into it once—hard. The hatch gives. It bursts open with a metallic shriek. Rowan freezes. Sound. Too much sound. Too loud. But it’s done. The hatch is open. Cold air rushes in from above, carrying street scent—oil, smoke, wet pavement. Rowan climbs out. I follow. We emerge into a narrow alley behind a row of boarded buildings, the city’s glow distant but present, streetlights bleeding pale light into the darkness.