The Appropriate Category_You_The Great Bra Incident of 1988_Cross of Hope
Catalog Guide:
The Appropriate Category
I read a story once imagining the world like a giant machine with people assigned parts like cog or nut or bolt. My teacher said the theme was that everyone’s essential to society’s function no matter what category they belong in. I’ve never been good at English, never understood the symbolism of blue curtains versus yellow, but categories I like. Those follow a formula, create organization out of chaos. I don’t like chaos. Or mess.Everyone falls into categories: social or asocial, street smart or book smart, hyper or sedate, et cetera. It takes time to sort people, requires careful stu...
You
You’ve never looked better than you do on this Sunday afternoon. It’s Christmas Eve, and you are beautiful. Your hair is tucked under your red toque, but a few loose tendrils have escaped, framing your face . Your jacket is open and you have a matching red scarf at your neck. When we left the car forty five minutes ago, the scarf was knotted under your chin, but the hike has made you warm so you’ve untied it.I look back at you, struggling on the path a few feet behind me, and something about the way the red knitted fabric frames your neck, brushing your clavicles, drives me wild. But to be fai...
The Great Bra Incident of 1988
The Great Bra Incident of 1988My face still flushes with heat, and bubbles of "not good enough" pop in my belly when I think back to the time my eagerness to grow up was so much larger than my boobs. In 1988, bullies came at you head-on rather than hiding behind a computer screen. I'm sure other incidents molded www.onedoor.ccme into a teen. Still, after the Great Bra Incident, I was always careful to never be the "first" to do something. The only laughter I encouraged happened when I set the rules and made fun of myself. That was easier than letting others beat me to it.I was around 12 when I decided that ...
Cross of Hope
How does one get past killing their husband? Is it even possible? Tears nipped at Terri Blake’s eyes as she stared at the frozen grave. The ache in her chest seemed to want to consume her. A piece of ash brown hair slipped onto her forehead, and she pushed it away with short, pudgy fingers. Angry clouds that matched Terri's heart shifted across the sky as she knelt on the moist ground in front of the tombstone. Icy winter wind cut into her skin, and she pulled her scarf close. December in Montana had to be the worst possible time to visit a graveyard. Terri would know. She'd spent many a da...