The Long Road To Nowhere_In The Morning_Rubia's Socks_An Accidental Memory
Catalog Guide:
The Long Road To Nowhere
The Long Road To Nowhere—George Davis The old saying: ‘You can never go home’ is not a cliche. It is the truth. I should know. I was exiled from my hometown by reason of misappropriation. Let me start at the beginning. My name is Damien Barlow. I am…was the town manager of the small rural community of Bickford, Maine, a town thirty miles northwest of its largest city, Portland.I was born in Bickford; I went through the school system, graduating a year early at the age of seventeen. I never thought of myself as a great student, but I loved school and excelled in sports in high school, a fou...
In The Morning
“You know,” you say. “I have to be at work in, like, four hours.”I look at my wrist, as if I’m wearing a watch. “That’s four hours,” I say. “Nothing to worry about yet. Right?”You sigh. “If you say so. I’d like some sleep though,” and you do sound kind of tired.“Sleep’s for the weak,” I tell you. “Don’t be weak,” and I slap you lightly on the arm.“Whatever,” you say.“Besides,” I tell you. “You can take a day off.”“Just like that? I have, you know, responsibilities and stuff.”I laugh at that. “It’s not like you care.”You huff. “Whatever.”“Just forget about it,” I tell you. “Why don’t you just r...
Rubia's Socks
“Good morning, Ms. Rubia! Here’s your mail!” A young girl of no more than eight or nine years bounced through the entryway with a stack of envelopes and advertisements. She plopped the pile down on the end table near the elderly woman.“You know you don’t have to do that, darling,” Rubia replied. “I would have made it to the box eventually.”“I know, but Mama used to tell me I should help you out whenever I could!”“How is your mother?” Rubia ignored the implication that she was old enough to be wowww.onedoor.ccrthy of the community’s charity.“Oh, you know…”“Would you like a biscuit? They’re still warm.”“Oh n...
An Accidental Memory
Annabelle Montgomery is six years old and already understands how perilous and unreliable the world can be. People, things, can suddenly go missing, without warning. No explanations are provided, no apologies. Faces of women hover at her periphery, frozen with expressions bitter as arugula. They orbit her world like asteroids without trajectories. They chain-smoke angrily, glaring at husbands or boyfriends silently from stained kitchen tables or rusty porch swings. They are perpetually waiting for the men to give them money. The women in Annabelle’s life are always simmering at a low boil, lik...