Unlonely_First Time Deserves Seconds_Blueberry Lips_Ghost Writer
Catalog Guide:
Unlonely
Brad sat at his kitchen table and stared unblinkingly at the circular device that rested before him. When his therapist supplied him with this thing he was skeptical. He had problems trusting people as it is, how is going to learn to trust a piece of technology? Regardless, Brad took it and since he got home he could not bring himself to put his techniques into practice. Even though Brad was technically by himself the awkwardness in the room was palpable. He did not know what to say to a thing that was supposed to talk back to him. Brad tapped his fingers on the table and blew out a quiet whi...
First Time Deserves Seconds
First time Deserves SecondsSome would say that a first encounter, especially of the romantic variety is something two people may never forget and is an experience they will remember, usually in the same way, most of the time. Naturally there is always the possibility that one will recall the dreamy eventwww.onedoor.cc quite differently than the other in a certain way. Most of the participants would agree that this would usually add spice and a bit of excitement to the recollection. Each could talk about how he or she remembered and what parts were important, stimulating, or even surprisi...
Blueberry Lips
Keller stood at the bottom of a thin but wide metal ladder curving up the side of one of dozens of black trains. “Climb with me?” Farren exhaled deeply and followed his friend, who’d already begun to ascend. “Sure.” Keller, sassy wild child that she was, made it to the top before Farren was even a quarter of the way up. It wasn’t that far to climb, but the already-setting sun was rendering it difficult to see, and besides, maybe he was just a little bit afraid of heights. Maybe. At the top, the pair was met with a space about the length of a card table surrounded on three sides by a metal rail...
Ghost Writer
The end circles to the beginning, the stars winking in the blue velvet night, the cool grass tickling, the voices whispering, when you stop to listen.I rub the sleep from eyes, annoyed that I must have nodded off again while trying to finish the last chapter of Rosamund’s autobiography. I stare at the words on the screen until the letters float like disembodied apparitions. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve backspaced that sentence into oblivion, and yet here it is again, haunting me. And even worse, I can't figure out why it's infiltrated my brain. Rosamund never said those words to me, I k...