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Maggie Mortimer (CANADA)


Near the end of a walkway were fourteen counted garbage bags. Black and bloated they held skeletal remains. Expired clothing, a Sunday brunch, and the drained indifference of an IPOD. Surrounding these museum pieces, like sinew, were the baked-on grease and food packaging. Sammy was finished with his duty for another week. Friday morning’s rituals fast arriving.  Sam brought with him two small coffees from Saver’s Donuts. One for him, and the other, his trusty cook, Dalilah. Lil was named everything from friend to card player in their fourteen –yr. relationship. Rarely, if ever, wife. The sun burst on the alcoves of the antiquated rooming houses and apartments. Its rays hitting and missing curbs of nearby pedestrian traffic. The sight, an ingenious rhythm, complimenting and hurting branches and clotheslines. Back at 405, Lil spelled a-g-o-r-a-p-ho-b-i-c for her guide crossword. She then read a comic featuring a great ape with the…