Jaysee reported to decontamination, wondering why there hadn’t been a revolt by the augmented long before.

As the title of this essay implies, I hope to shed light on Otieno’s elusive St. Isilian Postcolonial Era films. As my well-earned reputation implies, I don’t intend to write this in an orthodox way.

To ghosts like me, outside is the world beyond the stories.

This is my exile: it may be interminable, but I do not see why it must be spent in agony.

My grandmother turned into a cocoon, and there’s very little left of her now.

Near the end of her days, Abuela Manuela Corazon Monquillo would make the confession that the secret to a long life—if that was anything to be desired at all—was a thorough accounting of sins and carefully crafted deceits. When she made that observation to her devoted secretary, she was aged more than a full century. She was beyond the graying years and was already as melancholy and stooped as a weeping dalakit tree. She was, truth to tell, edging towards her 150th year, but her mind was still sharp—even if memory itself became, for her, an act of occasional negotiation she didn’t always win.

Kia ora te whānau, welcome back to term 3!

The trick was simple, in theory. To bring someone back, you needed an anchor: something that held the memories of the person you were looking for.

Next to the line, “Do you have any objections, medical or otherwise, to temporal sliding?” I ticked “NO.”

In a low mountain quarry, an exile memorized the story of her shadow play.