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Caged

By Elizabeth Jacob, Production Assistant

She heard her slowly and stealthily climb

up the stairs but the creak of the floorboard

in the second to last step gave her away.
The teenager threw her head back
and groaned realizing her attempts to

silently go to her bedroom were thwarted

as she heard her grandmother call her
name. Upon entering her grandmother’s
bedroom, she found the room ina

dilapidated state; papers were congregated
in heaps stained yellow and tattered with
age. Exquisite wooden birdcages hung from
the ceiling, their residents gone in search of
better days leaving nothing but an exterior
shell of rotting wood and peeling paint.
The desk beneath that cascade of cages
was littered with old bound leather books
with their spines unravelling while delicate
apothecary bottles encasing a variety of
dried coloured inks were scattered about
the desk. Cloths of intricate beautiful
patterns and textures that were thrown
upon a beaten truck were now sagging
onto the floor, their vibrant times fading
into memories. The room always deem
seem stuffy to the teenager; it was as ifa
bazaar had spilt its life contents into the

called her grandmother's name and from
beneath a beige-coloured sheet, a pair of
glistening eyes peered at her. Her silver
white hair was painted over the dark
blue pillowcases and her crinkled lines
at the corner of the eyes were among the
first things the teenager always noticed.
Hands reached out from beneath the
sheet and gently grabbed the teenager’s
hand and she could feel the warmth even
through the thin skin and bony fingers.
The guilt building inside of her was too
overpowering, so she climbed in bed and
wrapped her arms around the frail little
woman who wore a smile from ear to ear.
She took a deep breath and inhaled that
familiar fusion scent of talcum powder and
coconut oil reminding her of childhood
days at grandmother’s house. The feeling
was comfortable, taking her to a place that
removed her from reality that lay within
her arms.

The utter bliss to be wrapped up in

the warmth of family, nothing could
beat this feeling. She held tight to her
granddaughter’s right hand and felt the
flesh of youth. She slowly lifted it up and
gazed at the hand all the while aware

of the lullaby of soft snores emanating

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cruel. People always did say that aging was
a part of life and time waits for no one,

but how interesting would it be for time
itself to feel that ache of age. Perhaps ifa
clock’s hand suddenly lost its systematic
rhythm, or melted like Dali’s clocks, it
would understand that slow seepage of

life leaving you and leading you to a place
where you either welcome or fear that
black net that captures you like a school of
fish. She slightly shook her head for talking
nonsense and brushed away the pointless
thoughts. Yet in her heart, the fear of
closing her eyes into that sea of black and
never having that darkness be pierced

by light was her constant companion.

She glanced towards the desk, since
sleep had evaded her with all her fears
astir, and took notice of her room. It
certainly had seen better days; it was a
space for her to store precious souvenirs
from her trips but now it had become
nothing more than an old antique shop.
The birdcages swayed against a breath of
the summer air and she was reminded of
how she had to barter with that merchant
from Marrakech so she could buy a couple
for her parakeets. She ached for those
clicks and sounds of those birds, for
some type of noise that would bring her

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nothing but an adventure in exploring the
world and writing her stories in books.

She loved breathing the air ofa foreign
place and mapping out her life with places
rather than birthdays. But time, with its
unyielding loyalty, did catch up to her,
ravaging her sense of explorations and
companions and leaving her a hollow
skeleton with wishful thoughts and
diminishing memories. Her days of living
were now just years of existing and she
was now nothing more than an old woman
who jabbered on about lost worlds. She
was viewed as if she had no past to call her
own, but just titles of wife, mother, and
grandmother. How easy it was to forget the
person beneath the wrinkles, shaky hands,
repetitive behaviour and distant eyes. How
simple it could be to move into someone
else’s space and erase their presence,
which they tried so hard to preserve.

She looked her around at the room and
realized this was all a culmination of her
cocooning herself with things she loved

all the while trapping herself within a past
that no one could touch. She suddenly

felt weary as her mind did not have the
energy it once used to think up an essay
of thoughts and ideas and she felt tired.
She felt sleep slinking towards her and

back to younger days instead of the quiet
cage her room had become. She moved
her eyes over and noted the cloths and
rugs and reminisced about looking up

at the assembly of stars while lying on
the sheets with her husband beside her.
How beautiful time was then, life was

for a moment thought she heard the
clicks of her parakeets but closed her eyes
into that familiar sea of black while her
daughter downstairs called her name.

small area leaving no space untouched. The

window in front of the desk was left open

allowing the summer light and muggy air

to breathe life into this jumbled disarray.
She walked over to the four-post

bed with its draping mosquito netting

resembling a canopy of spider webs. She

from her granddaughter next to her. She
compared the hands, how similar they
were yet while one was the colour of a
blush rose and swollen with health and
vitality, the other was translucent in colour
and speckled with brown spots and carved
with deep lines. How time could be so

Exploding a Moment

By Morgan Hannah, Contributor names that sound good and feel good

By J. Savage, Contributor

Original passage: That night she went to a party at a friend’s place.
There were lots of people. They played her favourite music. The
snacks were good. The guy she liked was there, too. It got so loud
that somebody called the police. She was home by midnight.

She fluffed and puffed and poofed and primped her hair for the night that
she knew would be arresting. Her many gowns were suspended on her lithe
frame, giving her a more garish and ample figure. She hoped she would be able
to chicane the other guests. She had been invited to her friend’s place, a palace
of a place at the end of the block. Everyone knew the place - colossal coloured
skylights encompassed walls made of red brick, bristly bushes bounced in the
breeze all along the driveway, and a saccharine smell surrounded the property.
One had to be of noble stature or royal blood to find themselves invited.

Dight and decorated in her finest bijoux, this fancy lady found
herself finally finished and fixed. She flounced down the stairs to find
her father fanning himself as he loitered for his dear daughter.

“Don't let any of those dandiprats do anything
malicious to my sweet, hmm?” He winked.

“Don't worry, daddy. It won't be any trouble at all. I suspect I will only
have a scruple of fun...” The little rapscallion of a lady linked arms with
her old man. He was a camelopard in comparison to his compact child.

The two strolled down the block, savouring the sugary scent of the
serene Summer night, and as they neared the hulking house, the little
lady’s father bent down and planted a puckered lip on her forehead.

“Love you lots, my little lady.”

Asunder from her father, she followed the sound of a quartet crooning a
chorus from the lounge. Two men in filibegs sat in an impaired state, giggling
at the sight of the little lady. She pointed her slim index finger at them and
chortled right back, then she picked up her skirts and skittered onward, in
search of her beau. She knew he'd be here and she longed for his laud and
tender affection. Daddy didn’t know she had a man, but the little lady found
it only fair. Her father was the cicisbeo of a matron other than her mother.
Her father was a coxcomb of a man. Though she loved him, she couldn't
help it. She loved men more than any broad, even the one that birthed her.

The music was a forceful fortissimo hubbub, the fare was
finer than she had ever experienced, even under her own roof; crab
soaked in a buttery, savoury sauce, steamed herbs, soft samosas,
beefy tuna salads, cakes of all proportions and tints; the room was
exploding with sweets and dishes to delight every palate.

Her boy bobbed behind her, brandishing a tot of cognac.

With a clink and a kiss, she tossed the liquid down, it was
smooth and slinky as it slid down her throat. It was hot.

The night took a tantalizing turn, when a troubled character
called out, “the police! The police are on their way! Avaunt!”

The little lady found herself cozy and comfortable in her cot by
midnight. Her daddy didn’t seem to object to picking up his darling daughter
earlier than anticipated. A smile on her lips as her thoughts floated back
to the party. She parted ways with her beau, promising they'd indite each
other. What a romantic night of mischief and pleasure it had been.

i sat across from jacob martinez. we shared
the extra creamy strawberry milkshake.

there aren't a lot of people who'll stick straws into
the corner of the mcdonald’s restaurant booth

let you compare anecdotes: do you think
he—christopher—is really dragging it out,

is mark hot enough to warrant me ruining
his marriage, or would it be my fault to

begin with. the fries are very salty. i
was five when i saw my first dick does

that count? of course not. if counts when
you really want it to.

when we leave we walk like we're 15:
talking about boys and discovering possession for

the first time. there’s a certain untouchable-ness
that comes with going through the same

thing as someone else, provided the
person makes you feel your best self.

jacob martinez is as short as iam and he
is always so happy to see me. we walk

to the willingdon overpass and wait for the 123, talk
about who suits their scales and scales their

suits best. in his face there is only a warmth.
the moon is always a cold white. jacob

martinez’s name rolls off the tongue so nicely
i have to remind myself to say it every chance

i might have. so different from how i stutter. can
iask who-? i tell jacob martinez i don’t want to

If you would like your own creative work to be fca-

tured in our Creative Writing scction, send pocms,

short storics, excerpts (of 1,500 words or less), and

original artwork to

assistant.otherpress@gmail.com or

editor.otherpress@gmail.com. We publish

weckly, and chosen writers/artists will receive $50
for every three picces they have published.

say that man’s name. i made a rule and it’s
like this: you should only say names that make

something, somewhere, feel beautiful. i love
the way it sounds to say jacob martinez: like a

sunny sweet strawberry milkshake you d really
been craving when you know you deserved it.