New Autumn_Willow's Whistling_A New Abode_Routine
Catalog Guide:
New Autumn
CW: Mentions of suicide, anger management issues.By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire.I had only caught glimpses of the upcoming equinox during my six month stay at the Cedar Crest Residential Treatment Center: nurses shaking off wet www.onedoor.ccumbrellas in the lobby, my psychiatrist meeting me with fallen green leaves stuck to his shoes. With no windows— that would be a hazard to us, after all— in the facility, these small clues of autumn were the only evidence of this literal change of scenery.My view, however, had not changed during my stay. The cream-colored walls of my treatment ro...
Willow's Whistling
I walk up the creeky old stairs. It seems like forever since I have been here, and I'm not sure I want to go back. Murder. The word haunts me in my sleep. Of course, they are here to interview me again. Just when I was getting away from the past. The wind hollers out my name like a lost boy searching for his mother. The thing that I always feel when I come here is back. It's dark. And cold. The statues of angles don't even look close to friendly. Nothing here does."Back already?" I hear her call. She's in my dreams every night, and I shiver then. I'm shuddering now."L-Louis! Thank goodness you...
A New Abode
Varun boarded a bus to travel to St Paul Boarding school in Mercara; a hill town, also known locally as Madikere. His mother Prabha had come to see him off at the bus station. He was a big boy now and his mother trusted him to travel by himself; she promised to come and see him when she had time on hand. This was the first occasion that he was leaving home; and he was nervous. His mother had schooled him on how to manage by himself. He put on a brave face in front of his mother, but began to sob as soon as she left. She didn’t wait till the bus left, she was a busy person. His co-passengers lo...
Routine
I do not have the reason why we do it. All I know is that we always have. The day the frost nips under our plumes and bites through the leather of our feet is the day it begins. As if our brains are one instinctual entity, we take flight together, our wings spread regally and our breasts, soon to be raw from the constant wind, exposed to the crisp Ontario air of November. We will not stop until we get there. I do not know the way, but I know when we arrive. This year, the first frost bit as the sun rose, and we were off. There was not an announcement; there never is. In unison we took wing, as...