A

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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

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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.