Fénix in Finisterre_Bricks and Branches_A Gambler's Hope_The Old Ennui: Or, The Refusal to Enjoy
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Fénix in Finisterre
Trigger warnings: contained scenes depicting mental health, suicide/self harm, substance abuse, and physical violence.Finisterre, present dayMari Carmen stared at the items she had thrown into this metal barrel which had been set up as a firepit by her hospitalero1. A stack of origami hearts with hidden love letters, a heart-shaped spatula from their spoon carving class, and a home-made pilgrim shell painted with the blues of the sea and the vivid splashes of red and orange representing the sunset she had witnessed moments ago from the rocks at Cape Finisterre, “Finis Terrae” meaning literal...
Bricks and Branches
Jillian stumbles haphazardly through the ghost white birch trees. Their shadows casting prison bars across the leaf-strewn forest floor, with only beams of moonlight to pierce the veil of darkness. She winces as crisp leaves and twigs crunch and snap under her feet. The breeze blowing just hard enough to elicit a shiver as it makes branches send more leaves spiraling down into her hair. She shivers again feeling eyes on her back, sensing she is being watched. She can hear quiet, sinister words among the whisper of the swaying trees. Freezing and standing perfectly still, still as a stone statu...
A Gambler's Hope
A Gambler’s Hope By Bobbie DeLongI had put myself together that morning, with make-up that now feels like too thick face paint. The blue sweater was perfect when I put it on, but by the time I reach the lawyer’s office, I notice the lint and the fadedness of it, it’s bagginess over the extra weight I still carry from Katie. She is sitting in my lap, chewing on a pacifier. I brought her to the mediation because I had no choice.Your lawyer is a woman. Pretty and thin, wearing a tailored suit and professionally applied make-up. She offers us all drinks and hands out papers. I bounce Katie on my ...
The Old Ennui: Or, The Refusal to Enjoy Anything
Cole is pleased to admit that he’s never before found himself in the self-help section. Never needed it. Would hate to stoop so low, he thinks, dragging a superior eye over those brushing their fiwww.onedoor.ccngers over all those bright-coloured titles. He’s not here for self-help. He’s here for help. Because just being in a bookstore will help. The culture of it all. The majesty of the written word, finely curated. He’s lucky he reads. Unlike all those sheeple out there who’ve forgotten how. Poetry, Cole thinks. Surely. This is his regular bookstore. The nice old one with the creaky wood floors down the s...