Edmonton Story Slam | Creative Non-Fiction Storyteller | Writer & Live Performer

Creative Non-Fiction Storyteller, Edmonton Story Slam

Literary Arts • Creative Non-Fiction • Storytelling • 2017 - 2019

Project Summary

Edmonton Story Slam is a grassroots, volunteer-run storytelling event series that features an open-mic competition format for writers and performers to share five-minute personal stories. This project involved developing clear, engaging, and SEO-aware content that reflects the organization’s inclusive mandate, event structure, and community-driven identity. The content was designed to support audience growth, improve clarity for first-time attendees, and strengthen brand storytelling within Edmonton’s arts and culture scene.

This organization gave me a chance to share my work. I created a personal narrative for live performance that combined journalism-inspired storytelling with creative nonfiction techniques.

My Role

I created, revised, and delivered an original nonfiction story to a live audience. The project emphasized improving written messaging, engaging the audience, and enhancing projection and volume when speaking to a crowd.

Key Contributions include the following:

• Wrote an original creative nonfiction story.

• Researched and developed authentic personal narratives.

• Edited content for live performance.

• Delivered engaging storytelling for a public audience.

• Strengthened narrative voice through spoken-word presentation.

“Long Long Legs”, Story Slam Edmonton (2019)

Long Long Legs By Dylanna Fisher for The Edmonton Story Slam 

I can’t really remember where we were on the highway between home and camping. It doesn’t really matter though. I guess location didn’t have much relevance. We were a few yards away from it, and I could tell what it was. This was one of the first times, I’d actually caught a good look at a dead animal. I’m not saying I’ve never been around dead animals, but for whatever reason, I was never able to actually see them.

Though here I was.

Those first moments were filled with a mutual silence as we both noticed it at the same time. The carcass was subtle like smoke against a cloudy sky. You could barely see the difference, but you couldn’t see it at the same time. I’m not sure if that makes sense, but it did when you saw our reactions. Even as we stopped laughing, the music faded behind us. The sounds of our voices and the tunes of the radio were left to hang in the air to become thin.

Then came the moment that we were side by side. The driver stared ahead. Focusing on the road, the trees on either side of us. The living trees. I instead stared at the body on the road. It was just lying there. As still as death and as dead as the stillness around it. I continued to stare at it, at the long legs covered in soft pale fur. To call the legs white would be too harsh and beige too mundane. Its legs extended parallel to the road. Beautifully parallel. I could see a coat under the carcass. It looked like a pool of caramel hidden under a grave. That’s all I saw, and it was over.

Too soon, it was the moment after. We were driving away and began talking about something irrelevant to the concepts of life and death. We didn’t talk about the corpse and probably never would. I’m sure that if we had stopped, we would have been able to find out what colour it was. To find out if the coat was really the colour of caramel, or if it was a mere trick of the sun or autumns leaves. I would have noticed the gore if there was any. The trauma of death. Some telltale sign as to how or why this animal had to die. I’m sure I would be able to see its eyes. Whether the shine within our eyes abandons us upon death or if it lingers as a remnant to what was lost. At the very least I would know what kind of animal I was mourning. I guess it could’ve been a deer. But during that moment, all I saw were the legs. What a funny thing to focus on. I think back and can only associate those legs with freedom. What a notion to connect freedom with a creature that wouldn’t move again.

Throughout the day, those white legs followed me. I couldn’t help but think about them. Until I wasn’t thinking about them. We arrived at the campsite and the distraction began. Those legs, once bright in the front of my mind, were soon pale and fading to the back of my skull. It didn’t seem like long, but the distractions lasted until night fell.

As the last glimpse of the sun left our campsite, we sat around the campfire. It only took one person to look ,up and soon everyone was star gazing. I tore my eyes away from the pinpoints of light to look at who I was sharing the sight with. My sister, father, uncle, and cousin, all circled around burning wood to gaze at something burning light-years away. I looked around the fire and just took a moment to appreciate the ones around me. It was peaceful, and for whatever reason, which triggered the memory of the animal’s legs. I felt my eyebrows furrow, but it was invisible to the others.

As I returned my focus to them, I heard my uncle chastise my cousin, Brody, for getting too close to the fire. Brody was the youngest of the campers still awake, the youngest of the ones sleeping too, come to think of it. Seconds passed, and like many young kids, he did it again.

This time he went too far and fell forward. My uncle didn’t miss a beat and pushed him back against his little Pixar camp chair. It teetered slightly before bringing the panicked little boy to a stop. I could hear his breath snagging as he cried. He had tears running down his face. Although I couldn’t see them, I could feel the echo in my chest.

His father repeated Are you okay until he got an answer. My knee is all that the poor kid could get out. My uncle asked again if he hit it on the ground or the fireplace. Understandable because one was a simple booboo while the other might mean a bad burn. He didn’t answer the question, instead, he answered with hysteria.

I don’t wanna die.

I don’t wanna die.

I don’t wanna die.

I don’t want to die.

After some artificial light, we learned that Brodie wasn’t hurt, merely terrified. I couldn’t help but think about that animal in the middle of a highway. It must have been both hurt and terrified as it died alone.

Forgotten, save for its long pale legs.

I wonder if the animal was thinking the same thing as Brody.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die.

But it did die.

“My Purpose in a Single Gasp”, Story Slam Edmonton (2017)

My Purpose in A Single Gasp By Dylanna Fisher For The Edmonton Story Slam 

My first time reciting a short piece of fiction in front of an audience was nerve-wracking and exhilarating, all wrapped into one. I had shared a story before but never in front of strangers. Never had I shared a story in front of people that I couldn't gauge their reactions. Yet there I was with my hands sweaty, but my mouth so dry I couldn't swallow. Standing on stage in a darkened café, I stood there telling a tale about a simple camping trip, providing a deeper glimpse into what life is and that it one day ends.

It started with the death of a deer. Being hit by a car means that it didn't have much of a chance. The deer was dead and alone while I was going camping to be surrounded by life and love, and light. And that moment impacted me so much, I felt the need to share it with strangers.

I couldn't see the audience, not because of the darkness but because I couldn't see past my knuckles growing white from gripping the paper. At that moment, there were only the recounts of the story; A story of death, and of death being so close yet so unfathomable.

I spoke with a clarity that I didn't know I possessed.

"As I returned my focus to my family, I heard my uncle chastise my cousin, Brody, for getting too close to the fire. Brody was the youngest of the campers still awake. youngest of the ones sleeping too, come to think of it. Seconds passed and like many young kids, he did it again. I said, pausing to catch my breath and the audience's attention, "This time he went too far and fell forward."

I paused again. But something other than my heartbeat filled the silence.

Without being able to see her reaction, I could hear one of the audience members gasp while leaning forward in her chair. Her gasp was so audible, I swore I could feel her exhale against my cheek. The chair legs scraped against the concrete floor, proving that she wasn't the only one on the edge of her seat.

Her gasp is the best inspiration and advice, I've ever gotten because it's always stayed with me. I'll never forget that moment, that connection with my audience. That's the point of all of this, of all my writing, of all my content. Connecting with people is why I write and why I love to write.

Writing is subjective. Everything is different for each writer and each specific work. The ways we get inspiration, the ways we maintain inspiration, the ways we construct prose, the ways we proofread, the ways we publish, the ways we maintain ourselves as writers are different. The ways we continue as writers differ with each word, with each sentence. What works for James Rollins won't work for Ross Campbell and vice versa. The advice given to writers is amazing and helpful but isn't universal because writers aren't universal because writing isn't universal. That's the point of literature.

That single gasp is one of my proudest singular moments as an author. I was able to make someone feel something. My words brought forth more than just a logical reaction but an emotional one. One that's more than a facial expression but an expression through her entire body.

I connected with my audience that night, and I want to do that every single day.

“Pigs”, Story Slam Edmonton (2017)

Here’s a story about one of God's creatures that in its lifetime goes from cute to cuisine. From Stuttering Porky Pig to pink pork sausages too quickly. When one thinks of pigs, images of Miss Piggy, Piglet, holiday ham, and back bacon flood to their mind. They ponder the differences between Canadian bacon and American bacon, between a pet pig and a non-pet pig.

I remember the day when the word pig was no longer innocent. I was seven. I was seven the first time somebody called me a pig, and I knew they were not referring to a cartoon, home cooking or anything I could be proud of. Instead, they shot me at point-blank range with a single bullet, a single word: pig. It left an entrance wound to my heart, rattled up my throat, choking me until finally planting itself in my brain. Without an exit wound. From there, they watched my tear-soaked face mimic a draining carcass of pork. The tears ran red as it filled the empty tray in my chest. The pig carcass looked as if it were crying, but it was only meat meant to live then die. It's funny how the flesh of a pig and the flesh of a little girl look the same sometimes.

I began to see myself as a pig’s peer. I sympathized with Porky Pig and his stutter. I flinched every time someone commented on the amount of fat on an Easter ham. Every picture of a wild boar being roasted over a spit made my skin burn as if licked by a campfire. In their mouths sat an apple to keep its squeals internal. I felt myself choking on that apple, unable to cry out, unable to squeal.

Always the boar came to look like a mirror. The mirror I look in every day shows Wilbur without Charlotte's webs. I looked into that mirror, and it was clear. A Sow's ear can’t make a silk purse, and neither can pork make a princess. The clothes I put on my body, this body suffocates me like a pig in a blanket too tight.

My feet seem like hooves being forced into ladies' fashion. As the seeds of the apple cut my throat, I continue the persona of the pig. I remain silent and seemingly ignorant. To this day, I can’t talk to a doctor without hearing them mocking me. I fake a smile as my teacher mutters to themselves, a confirmation that the torture of my childhood never left. I pretend that I don’t notice how people look at me as I walk past them. That I don’t see how she looks at the body hidden under these clothes. I’ve seen the mixture of disgust and pity so often; they are inseparable, combined in my mind forever.

To this day, that word, pig, has never been delicious. My stomach churns as I even think of placing it on my tongue.

I can’t take another serving; I refuse to get force-fed this holiday ham. I rip at the label on my jacket. It reads a fully cooked boneless smoked ham. It doesn’t say anything about less fat, but it says 25% less sodium. Fuck that. Fuck what they say. I’m still raw. The blood pumping through these veins hasn’t been spilled yet, and my spine.

I try to reject the persona of a pig placed upon me without my knowledge. I am not a pig. I am not a bacon trend. I am not a helpless piglet being slowly led to your slaughterhouse. I am not something to come out at your beck and call when you want something to roast over an open fire. My flesh is not for your consumption or amusement.

I am not a pig.

I am a human being, not Wilbur, not piglet, not bacon, not ham.

I’m not a pig.

Oink oink.

Learn more about the Edmonton Story Slam by visiting their website.