The Boob (Excerpt)

by Kate Lavut

 
 

ABOUT THE CREATOR

 

Kate Lavut is an award-winning playwright, graphic novelist and film maker. Working within a variety of disciplines, she explores a different storytelling technique for every project. Her play, A Little Bit Pregnant, won Best Drama at the New York City Fringe Festival. Her stop-motion animation, Feeding The Birds, is an official selection in film festivals across North America. She is currently working on The Boob, as both a stop-motion animation and a graphic novel.

Website: www.thekatelavut.com
YouTube: @paperdogpress
Instagram: @paperdogpress
Facebook: @Kate.Lavut.Paper.Dog.Press

 
 
Featured
Editor's Note
editorial
Editor's Note
editorial

Jade Palmer and Greg Santos

Bienvenue and welcome to carte blanche issue 55. After an eclectically international issue in summer 2026, we decided to bring it closer to home by featuring creators from Quebec and Canada only. Unsurprisingly, it was no less eclectic than any other issue of the magazine

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editorial
I Can Never Get There
photography
Maggie McPhee
I Can Never Get There
photography
Maggie McPhee

Photography by Maggie McPhee

Traveling to Barbados with my family for Christmas. A set of three diptychs. A string of Christmas lights. A rope that I pull at. I want to get there but I never can.

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photography
Maggie McPhee
The Boob (Excerpt)
comics
Kate Lavut
The Boob (Excerpt)
comics
Kate Lavut

Comic by Kate Lavut

Kate Lavut is an award-winning playwright, graphic novelist and film maker. Working within a variety of disciplines, she explores a different storytelling technique for every project.

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comics
Kate Lavut
The Mountain
creative nonfiction
Willy Blomme
The Mountain
creative nonfiction
Willy Blomme

Creative Nonfiction by Willy Blomme

The smoke is unsettling, but the worst part – more than the smell, more than the haze and more than the irritation at the back of my throat – is that I can’t see the mountain. I stand in the middle of Mont Royal – the street that shares its name with the mountain and with the city – and look towards where it should be, a wall shoring up the horizon.

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creative nonfiction
Willy Blomme
Everything is About Cancer, Except Cancer, Which is About Me
creative nonfiction
Caroline Little
Everything is About Cancer, Except Cancer, Which is About Me
creative nonfiction
Caroline Little

Creative Nonfiction by Caroline Little

My dad belongs to raccoon alley. He belongs to streetcars and skyscrapers, to a rhododendron cloaked in winter canvas. He belongs to jazz standards on an upright piano, warbling their way up the stairs to almost-sleeping ears. My dad is ill-fitting in this domain of single-use plastics. Lately, the plastics seem to disagree. 

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creative nonfiction
Caroline Little
Croc Country
fiction
anya leibovitch
Croc Country
fiction
anya leibovitch

Fiction by Anya Leibovitch

A large statue of a cassowary welcomes you to Wongaling, the midsection of Mission Beach, Queensland. It’s humid as hell and you’re sweating even before the sun is up. Most people who make it this far up the coast are motivated by exotic wildlife and white sand beaches, but you’re not here on holiday. Still, you couldn’t have imagined you’d be spending the majority of your time wearing a hair net and plastic apron, bent over metal troughs elbow-deep in water and rat shit.

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fiction
anya leibovitch
@skunkgrl69
fiction
sabrina michael
@skunkgrl69
fiction
sabrina michael

Fiction by Sabrina Michael

She can see the man writhing on the streetcar tracks through the cracked screen of her iPhone, glinting in the bright sun of high noon. He’s screaming about damnation, in so much distress that it’s affecting his messaging, the specifics of the impending damnation muffled and unclear. Everyone’s damnation, she assumes, coming soon.

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fiction
sabrina michael
Window/Frames
photography
H.R. Link
Window/Frames
photography
H.R. Link

Photography by H.R. Link

Within the frame of a photograph, a window is a recursive frame, a sub-frame. In this series, I make use of these sub-frames in various ways.

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photography
H.R. Link
Pride a cloud
poetry
Calypso Andre
Pride a cloud
poetry
Calypso Andre

Poetry by Calypso André

If you are falling it is not too late trust fall into these words the way I fall through these clouds because Father I am learning cloud is too distant a word for how clear the world is from up here don’t you know birds learn how to fly by falling

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poetry
Calypso Andre
i do the dishes while the magpies build a bridge
poetry
Sarah Burgoyne
i do the dishes while the magpies build a bridge
poetry
Sarah Burgoyne

Poetry by Sarah Burgoyne

but where is my mother? ah, ah yes, by now she is the entire west

out the window, the milky way lets fall its milk from bright glass jars

the fish of the stream won’t stop dreaming

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poetry
Sarah Burgoyne
recitation
poetry
Poonam Dhir
recitation
poetry
Poonam Dhir

Poetry by Poonam Dhir

while pundits perform ganesh puja surfaces are wiped clean and envelopes slip into cotton kurtas. aunty  pushes stories into tiny objects and finds herself missing the receipt.

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poetry
Poonam Dhir
How Quiet, How Quick
poetry
Alana Dunlop
How Quiet, How Quick
poetry
Alana Dunlop

Poetry by Alana Dunlop

This is the place from where I came:

born misshapen, at the women’s hospital, near a strip mall.

When I go back it feels like I am drinking water, rediscovering

a cold feeling in my throat.

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poetry
Alana Dunlop
Over Lunch, She Tries to Tell Them
poetry
Chanel Sutherland
Over Lunch, She Tries to Tell Them
poetry
Chanel Sutherland

Poetry by Chanel Sutherland

and the glasses sweat into the table and the forks scrape porcelain and the air swells with the smell of butter and basil and someone is laughing and someone is saying god, I needed this today

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poetry
Chanel Sutherland
The Evil Eye
translation
H Felix Chau Bradley, Eli Tareq Bechelany-Lynch, Anya Nousri
The Evil Eye
translation
H Felix Chau Bradley, Eli Tareq Bechelany-Lynch, Anya Nousri

Translation by H Felix Chau Bradley and Eli Tareq El Bechelany-Lynch, from Anya Nousri

Look out. When you’re invited to someone’s house, don’t eat what they offer you. S’hour can be visited on you through food. Avoid drinking; if you don’t have a choice, always wipe the rim of your glass so as not to leave any saliva. Don’t let people touch your hair. They could do gris-gris and drive you to your ruin. Don’t send or post any photos online. Learn these invocations and recite them whenever you feel someone staring at you.

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translation
H Felix Chau Bradley, Eli Tareq Bechelany-Lynch, Anya Nousri
NUMBERS; or, DES NUMÉROS
translation
Misha Solomon, Jean-Paul Daoust
NUMBERS; or, DES NUMÉROS
translation
Misha Solomon, Jean-Paul Daoust

Translation by Misha Solomon, from Jean-Paul Daoust

4AM Parc Lafontaine. Ambiance de jungle. The pond. Like a pasteurized swamp. Some fog to make the decor vampiric. The lights float above the paths. Annoying buoys that signal erotic rambles. And the police, watching. Because there are men roving around there. Only men. It's the law.

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translation
Misha Solomon, Jean-Paul Daoust
comicscarte blanche magazineKate LavutComment