Feature Voices Stories
- Published on Tuesday, 05 March 2013 15:48 05 March 2013
- Written by Dan Mackenzie Dan Mackenzie
Roped in to act out a murder mystery, all thanks to wine
At least there was alcohol.
There I stood in a garish tweed jacket rolled to the elbows, with my girlfriend's black beret rakishly obscuring my vision. Meanwhile, some guy named Jack accused me of writing a pre-mortem obituary for the dead guy in the bathroom, but at least I had a drink in my hand.
Blinking in the blazing fluorescence of the cavernous room, raking my semi-intoxicated brain for the hastily memorized lines, my only solace was that everybody else looked almost as ridiculous as I did.
Roped in, I thought. I was so roped in.
- Published on Wednesday, 27 February 2013 17:03 27 February 2013
- Written by Rachel Kane Rachel Kane
Parent-child interaction can't be replaced with reading devices
"Oh come on, please, just one more story before bed?"
This all too familiar phrase rings oh so clearly in my head as I think of the times that I stayed up begging my mom or dad before I went to sleep.
I longed to hear about the princesses, dragons and far-away lands that were in my books, so that I could relive the stories in my dreams.
But I can't imagine that it would have been the same if it wasn't my parents actually reading to me.
- Published on Wednesday, 27 February 2013 10:48 27 February 2013
- Written by Sarah Comber Sarah Comber
Children across Canada live with victimization daily
I can still remember, vividly, what it felt like — walking back to my seat after lunch.
Trying to get there as quickly as possible.
I was wearing a pink shirt — my favourite colour. I thought it looked OK, but as I felt their eyes staring into my back, and the whispers uttered through 10-year-old lips, I began to doubt my choice.
- Published on Wednesday, 27 February 2013 10:41 27 February 2013
- Written by Scott Kingsmith Scott Kingsmith
1980s rule in place to protect blood recipients, says organization
It took me about a week to work up the courage to walk into the blood clinic. The sterile smell filled my nostrils as I grabbed the clipboard from the front desk.
I sat down on one of the hard, lavender-coloured chairs and began to fill out the medical forms.
Feeling well? Yes. Taking any medication? No. Recent AIDS test? Yes. Any travel? No.
When I was done with the forms, a small, grey-haired nurse escorted me through the waiting room and to the rear of the clinic. Her orange crocs squeaked with every step on the linoleum.