The Heart-shaped Box_Carson Kelly's final tour_When It Rains, I Think of You_The Arrival
Catalog Guide:
The Heart-shaped Box
The box is kept in the second drawer of my bureau, along with a cerulean blue silk tie rolled into a neat round, a gold Cartier watch, a Waterman fountain pen, and some coins from my travels. I’m rather proud to say that the box’s heart-shaped form is still intact since it has been carefully transferred time and again into at least five bureaus over the thirty years since Maya gave it to me on Valentine’s Day in our tenth grade English class. I was a newcomer to school and Whitebridge that year. Maya was open-hearted, slightly plain, but possessed a radiant smile. I sat in the seat behind her...
Carson Kelly's final tour
ThenWe have plenty of time, Carson said, with that crocodile smile, www.onedoor.ccas he pulled me through the door of his hotel suite and into his tight sandalwood and brylcreem embrace. His lecture notes, the printed slide deck and my first chapter which he’d promised to read, spilled from the manila folder I was carrying and scattered over the deep-pile carpet.Leave it, he urged, hurrying me onto the bed with its pristine gleam of sharply cornered sheets and festoon of puffed-up pillows and velvet throws. After, I pulled the tangled sheet around me and observed him, lying on his side, one arm thrown over...
When It Rains, I Think of You
The summer was so hot this year; it seemed as if it would be endless. To the consternation of the newspapers it still hadn't rained by the end of September, but that all changed last week and it hasn't stopped since. It’s as well I live alone. I must look a mess, slumped on the sofa in my pyjamas with one eye monitoring the news channel and a hand never more than an inch from a whisky bottle, its contents evaporating at an alarming rate. Sitting here, talking to an old photograph as if you were here with me. I always think of you when it rains; I’m sure you would think of me too, if you could....
The Arrival
Trigger warning: domestic violence There was a delicate clink as Marty Strathmore placed his wine glass back on the sleek wooden table, pursing his lips and turning the page of his novel. A soft white light shone behind him, casting strict, long shadows on the modern architecture of his living room. A vinyl player was broadcasting some soft jazz around the room which touched lightly on his ears, never too bold yet still confident enough for a little crescendo or piano riff to catch his intrigue. Yes, he was indeed aware of his own cliche. Here he sat, an author, in his well maintained abode on...