Fly Me to the Moon_Moving_Fire on the mountain, Run Boys, Run_the turbulence of Marco
Catalog Guide:
Fly Me to the Moon
I had only hap-hazardly packed up my room on the day that I was supposed to leave. I wished that I could slip out without anyone knowing, without causing a scene. I almost got awawww.onedoor.ccy with it; my dad had only just found out that I was leaving that day. “What?!” he exclaimed, and then promptly went back to his crossword puzzle. And that was that. I could always rely on him for an easy exit.My mom, however, did not offer me the same luxury. Even when I would go spend the night at a friend's house, I would try to sneak out, not because I wasn’t allowed, but because I wanted to avoid hearing, “You’re...
Moving
“It’s not just cold it’s dry too. In the summer it’s nice but in the winter when I sleep my tongue cracks. Right down the middle in the front. And when I wake up and I can sense it and I try to fold my tongue in on itself to feel the little gap. And there’s a weird taste in my throat, part of it is I’m dehydrated but it’s like I didn’t brush my teeth the night before even if I did. And not just my tongue but my thighs, they get so dry they crack. I get these chalky white lines and when I’m wearing pants it itches. So I scratch it and scratch it and when I take my pants off the skin is all red ...
Fire on the mountain, Run Boys, Run
The Hickory Stump had sprung from the ashes, and yellow tape, and crumbling concrete of Seventh Ave. There was never a construction crew, never any solicitation of Appletowns city hall, only one morning it was there, building permits nailed to a sign upon the door, an envelope, fat and stuffed with bills beside it. The sign read in a flashing green and blue:OPEN: 3AM-? CLOSED: SUNDAYS.The buildings, which had turned to ash around The Hickory Stump were, according to fifth generation Fire Chief, Trevor Denricks at the press conference covered by the High Schools newspaper and AppleTart report, ...
the turbulence of Marco
We are gripping the chain-link fence together, feeling it vibrate as it holds the runways in and keeps us out. Planes scuff the pavement, puff rubber clouds as they touch down, slit lines of silver through the humidity with their wingtips as they pull up and away.Marco has grown old since I’ve seen him. He is chiseled chin and arms, with just the slightest excess of weight left at the hips. His skin is the same color it’s always been, though darker in this dusk; he is the color of figs. His facial hair grows in uneven spurts. The black hair atop his head is still clean and waxy, but he’s cut i...