You (Streetcar at Night) by Dorian McNamara
The Halifax-based writer has won the 2025 CBC Short Story Prize
Dorian McNamara has won the 2025 CBC Short Story Prize for his story You (Streetcar at Night).
He will receive $6,000 from the Canada Council for the Arts, a two-week writing residency at Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity and his work has been published on CBC Books. McNamara will also be interviewed on an upcoming episode of Bookends with Mattea Roach.
This year's jury is composed of Conor Kerr, Kudakwashe Rutendo and Michael Christie. The jury selects the shortlist and the winner from the longlist, which is chosen by a reading committee of writers and editors from across the country. Submissions are judged anonymously on the basis of the participant's use of language, originality of subject and writing style.
For more on how the judging for the CBC Literary Prizes works, visit the FAQ page.
If you're interested in other CBC Literary Prizes, the 2025 CBC Poetry Prize is currently accepting submissions. You can submit an original, unpublished poem or collection of poems from April 1-June 1.
About Dorian McNamara
Dorian McNamara is a queer transgender writer currently living in Halifax. Originally from Toronto, he graduated with a BA in psychology from Dalhousie University. He is currently working on his first novel as well as publishing the creative newsletter Dear You.
McNamara told CBC Books about the inspiration behind You (Streetcar at Night): "Growing up in Toronto, I've always loved the streetcars. When I come home to visit my family, I find I am often on the streetcar. There's always a lot of memories tied to them, but after coming out, I got anxious that people who knew me before would recognize me then. Part of me wanted them to remember me and see me now, but another part of me was afraid of how people I used to know would react.
"I took an introduction to creative writing class in university and the professor recommended all of us submit to the CBC Short Story Prize. I ended up submitting a short story for the 2023 CBC Short Story Prize and decided I wanted to submit another one this year."
You can read You (Streetcar at Night) below.
There is a certain feeling that can only be experienced when taking the streetcar at night. I am not sure how to describe it. Relaxing is a little too sleepy. Soothing has a hiss to it, so perhaps that is better. Streetcars have a song at night, after all. It only exists during the night service, when the sky becomes a black blanket outside of the windows, and the lamplights and lit storefronts are dreams. Then, when you board a streetcar and take your place, the music begins. There are the bells of the fare box, the rhythm of metal wheels impacting steel rails, the metronome of the wipers. Even the lights hum in a tone that is unique to after dark. You are cushioned by the music. It rolls under your feet and spreads above you. It fills my lungs. The other passengers feel it too. They rise up and merge together, only keeping their individuality out of sheer politeness. It is a dance of a sort, the type that reminds me of home. I let my eyes fall on the crowd towering over me, not looking at any of them in particular but letting my eyes focus on itself as a whole. It is an organism. Waves and breath. I am a part of it. This gives me a sense of excitement, electricity zipping about my ribs. But the organism parts in front of me without my contribution, and suddenly I am thrust outside of it, forced to look at the other side.
The seats on the other side of the wall of sleepwalking strangers are full of more strangers. They are lulled too, eyes glazed over, head bowed. At least they should be. There's a flash of movement. A boy lifts his head back to stare up at the harsh lit up sign and I pause. The electricity stumbles. The boy tilts his head back and I realize in a moment that I know what his laughter tastes like.
It tastes like you.
We used to be in the same class together. Actually, we had been in the same class for a while. Our school was small and they tend to keep classes grouped up in waves. By the law of coincidence, I had fallen into your tide. That day, I noticed you for the first time. I don't know why that day. Maybe it was the sky. I have always liked grey skies. I like them for the sunlight. My breath would be punched out of me when the sun peaked out from the clouds, distilling into gold rivers that floated to the ground. My mother used to tell me they were angels answering prayers. On overcast days, I would look up, hoping to catch Michael on his flaming sword. There are no angels that day. There are only grey clouds and grey light. The teacher is saying something, voice harsh, and I realized I should probably be paying attention, but when I looked towards the whiteboard I saw eyes staring at the sky. You were looking towards me, but you do not see me until I actually look at you. I know you. I have known you for a while. We are in the same Sunday school. I know the starch of your shirt pressed against my white blouse when we lined up on Sundays. I know you with the same absent familiarity I know the grocer. But your eyes meet mine and it's all ruined.
You have a storm of dark brown hair that curls into your neck and the meat of your cheeks. It reminds me of the sculpture books in the library. Your nose is crooked just the tiniest bit, in a way I don't remember in our confirmation celebration photo. It suits you, with the way your eyes droop, half sleepy half puckish. They're so dark, pitch black in a way that makes even casual interactions arresting. My face heats with their intensity. The teacher is still trying to get everyone's attention, to be good. I feel shame building right behind my throat as her voice grows wilder and louder. She has almost resorted to threats when you grin at me. Your lips separate enough to show a glint of teeth and the edges hook up like crescents. You look every bit the image of a pleased cat. The shame bursts. By the time I have collected my courage again, you are turned back to the whiteboard. I trace the seam where your hair falls against your neck for the rest of the class. It is an inch longer than regulation. The noticing doesn't stop. I see you everywhere now, always on the fringes of my world. A thunderclap of laughter drags my eyes to a pack of boys kicking a ball across the field. I follow the power up your legs and watch your shoulders spread like wings.
You are in most of my classes, we sit three rows apart in history and four in English. You notice me too, even though I don't want you to. When I speak in class, you fix your dark eyes on me. Something about the way your chin moves tells me your entire body is focused on listening to me. My hands shake. The teacher responds with some comment about a green light, and your spine relaxes, head slouching up lazily to catch the fluorescent overheads on your brow bone. Dying Achilles. I look it up during lunch. It's in the Achillion Palace, made by Ernst Herter. I have never been to Greece. Your brows furrow the same way when you cry, I find out later.
You catch me after school, a week after I see you in the field. You are loitering in your rugby uniform. The gold stripe cuts across your chest, the navy collar soaked with sweat. You take one look at me and grin. It's a different smile. This one is bright, full of casual, genuine joy. It has a glare of cruelty. My hands are full from my art club's project - I am supposed to finish the piece over the weekend - you crane your head to look at it. Your hair fluffs out with the movement, like a pigeon's feathers fluttering as it pecks along the sidewalk. I am laughing before I realize it. Your smile lights up even brighter, and it strikes me. You tell me your favourite colour is red. I frown. I don't understand. You keep smiling. I wonder if you are ever not smiling. Your cheeks flush and I realise I said that out loud, but you aren't upset. You think I'm cool. I do not know if I want to be. When I get home, I stretch out the canvas on my bed. It is a human form painted entirely in shades of blood.
You grow bold. Maybe I do. It's hard to tell. You speak to me during the post-service coffee and whine that the coffee is too gross. I switch the one my mother made for me, khaki-coloured and sweet, for your plain one. Your eyes follow the bobbing of my throat when I swallow the burning liquid. We do not have much in common, but you seem to like that. You keep asking me questions. I try to respond. You have an older brother. Your father works in a fishery. Your mother is a kindergarten teacher. I was in her class. You like playing rugby the most, or soccer, so long as it's with your friends. You ask me if I was using a model for that painting. I say no, not really. This shocks you. You don't know how I can make up something from nothing. It isn't really nothing. I take little bits from everyone I see. It's easy. You just have to be good at watching. You want to see the painting again. I will be in the art room during lunch. You can visit me.
You promise you will. I am still surprised when you do show up. You spend the entirety of it chatting and eating an apple and slouching on the windowsill. There is a group of boys kicking a soccer ball around on the field. I recognize one of the blondes as a common companion of yours. I don't like him. His hair is too close to mine, our faces the same round shape. Something about watching him, shouting and running, makes my skin feel too tight. Your feet are planted firmly on the floor. I want to paint you. I don't want to distill it by mixing it with others. I want the bones of you. I do not tell you this. I let you open the window and am thankful it is the perfect excuse for how I fumble a brushstroke.
Two weeks later you kiss me. You kiss me and it is soft and I know that I am wrong. You are soft. Not soft like you should understand. Not soft like I should understand. My mouth was half open in prayer, but you were sweet. Soft in a way that wasn't afraid. You are kissing my reflection and I want to press you closer until your lips break the glass. I want your mouth to fill with my blood. I want you to swallow it. You make a small noise and open your mouth and I let the blood in my ears drown out my thoughts.
My mother adores you. You are a good boy, a sweet boy. You sit next to us in church and hold my hand when you walk me home and call my parents Sir and Ma'am with a shy voice. You are the son she always wanted. I will laugh about that in a few years.
We date for two years. It's a long time, especially for me, who rearranges my bedroom every five months. We pour over futures that spread out from us. You want to stay close to your family. I have something hungry inside of me, and as I get to know it, the more it scares me. I want to tell you, but the words are never right. I spend hours trying to find new ones, in books and the family laptop. I learn how to erase my search history and it feels more shameful than if I was watching the videos the boys pass around when the teacher turns their back. One of the neighbourhood kids comes out. My mother tells me this as her worn hands clutch her tea. He's Matthew now. We used to play family together and mermaids in the community pool. It's been years since then, though, and I find his new name is easy to take too. When I catch sight of him in the alleyway next garbage day, I feel a bolt of comradery. I feel seen. I am never brave enough to talk to him, but I think about him so often it feels like our friendship has revived. Not that he knows. It is all in my head. I never tell you about Matthew. Your mother is friends with his. You don't say anything either.
I don't know how to tell you I am not a girl. I don't know how to tell anyone. The words, so hard to come by, are even harder to understand. I let them ripen in my chest and then keep them there longer. You say I've stopped talking so much. I pretend like it is anxiety of the future. The truth is that I am choking on the life inside of me. I struggle to talk around it, the rock in my throat burning hot and too smooth to cough up. It is about to rot, and even I know patience is so easy to spoil into futility. I tell a friend. A best friend. It tumbles out of my mouth when I am tired and drawn out from final exams. We are on the sidewalk of a large bridge, and cars are rushing past us and below us, and for a moment I think I can let the words be carried away in one of them. I am so tired. I lean into her dark hair and my confession comes out stilted, but it comes out, and I want to cry from the relief. She reels back like I slapped her. There's a pause, a whirl of clicking in my mind as I look at her and see something. Something that makes me want to reach out and hug her. A car bolts down the road. Its headlight makes the cross pendant in the hollow of her throat shine. I hold her. She leans into my body and I lean into hers and I think this is it. I am here. I am here. Her nose is cold as it touches my neck.
"I'm sorry. Can I still think of you as a girl?"
Her voice is shaky. I smile. I laugh and tell her of course. It's all right. She can take her time. She tells me she still loves me. I am her best friend. I love her too.
By the start of the summer, we are not talking anymore.
You break up with me sometime before the leaves change. Maybe I break up with you. The memories blur at the edges. What I do remember is that your hands settle on my hips, and mine gravitate towards your throat. It feels wrong. The wrong bleeds from my skin into yours and you can tell. I am supposed to feel sad.
I move away for college. To a city, a proper city, a city by the sea. I think about telling you then, when I come out. I come out properly, to my roommate who grins and shows off their nonbinary flag hanging over their bed, and then later to my professors and friends who switch with easy grace. I trade one biblical name for another. I pick it from one of the angels my mother used to pray to when I was sleeping in the incubator.
The bus tells me my home is close. It announces my stop and I think for a moment the boy should respond to it, but he is not you. His nose is wrong, too round. The hair is too light too. He is wearing a wedding ring. I think about my apartment. I miss my home, the one with the family photos and my grandmother's cabinet full of crystal. My mother hasn't smiled at me with soft eyes since I was 17 and getting ready for junior prom. I call my roommate instead.
My voice is visible in the cold night sky. I speak just to see it and get full off of the sight.
The End.
Read the other finalists
- Love is the Enemy by Vincent Anioke (Waterloo, Ont.)
- Ghostworlds by Trent Lewin (Waterloo, Ont.)
- Lessons from a peach by Emi Sasagawa (Vancouver)
- My Father's Soil by Zeina Sleiman (Edmonton)
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