Reborn_We’ll Meet Again_HEAD IN THE CLOUDS_Blooming Love
Catalog Guide:
Reborn
Who am I? My eyes flutter open landing on a short female, a “Dr. Sanders” as it says on a rectangular card pinned on her shirt. There are crowds of people running around, testing things, like they’re in a hurry. Laboratory. The word comes to me quickly, though I was fine with the “not knowing” I had always been accustomed to. The Dr. Sanders places a hand on my shoulder and smiles. “You’re finally ready.” I can tell from the color of the sky that it is going to be a different kind of day. The Dr. Sanders, as usual, presses a few buttons on her mechanical device, and I feel a tingling sensatio...
We’ll Meet Again
Ever wondered what the colour white smells like? If it smells like anything, it’d be like the air in this examination room. Stale air that seemed to have stood still, with a hint of weak disinfectant that’s almost undetectable. All walls in this room were white; all the machineries, equipment and tools were too. Computer screens beeping, graphs flashing, different coloured lines representing Clive’s vitals cross-wiring.“Are you scared?” The technician asked while clicking through Clive’s health reports on the computer.“No.” Clive replied, laid down flat on the examination chair with his sight ...
HEAD IN THE CLOUDS
HEAD IN THE CLOUDS:It was March 2003, and we’d just moved to Colorado from California, to be closer to my parents. My father had been unwell so we’d made the decision to move closer so that we could help support my mother. We’d only been there a week, so we’d had a busy time moving in and making our new home comfortable and livable.I remember the day clearly; it was a Monday morning. My plan was to drop the kids off to their new school and then call mom to tell her that I would be there for lunch and I would be surwww.onedoor.ccprising them with a treat, so to get the coffee started.John, my husband, had me...
Blooming Love
The first contact of the cold sugary liquid was like a pin prick on the soft skin between the index finger and the thumb, sending a light jolt of electricity down the spine. The green popsicle—sweating in the sweltering heat—Jason’s favourite lime-flavoured treat, sold by a jolly old man in cargo shorts and striped polo, tufts of white hair peeking out of his boonie hat. He sets up his ice cream bike next to the duck pond every July, calls it The Icicle Tricycle. You can find him there every morning of the month, 9 a.m. sharp to 2 p.m., and gone by August 1st. Jason knew this because he had wa...