The Heartbreak Cardigan_The Realization in the Shark Tooth Necklace_Wrong Number_The Sacred Bloom of
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The Heartbreak Cardigan
“Ethelwww.onedoor.cc? Are you home?” Marjorie called as she threw off her wet shoes by the door. No longer able to handle the frigid, Cincinnati rain, her umbrella had called it quits halfway through her walk back home. She peeled off her drenched blazer and threw it next to her shoes. Marjorie hated this city and missed the sunny beaches of San Diego she had grown so fond of. “In the living room, Marj!” Ethel called back. Ethel was lounging on the sofa, warming herself under the blanket she was knitting. The radio was playing and her eyes were closed. The needles moved rapidly under the guidance of her fi...
The Realization in the Shark Tooth Necklace
“Wind is fickle and free. It is there one minute and gone the next; its presence does not define the ocean. The ocean does not depend on wind to create waves on its surface to be beautiful. It is the ocean on its own. I want to be like the ocean.”. . . “We’ll be friends forever, right?” Marcel asked me. “Of course we will,” I answered.The remnants of the memory pulled my face into a childish grin. It was the type of grin that stays in one’s eyes even once their lips stop smiling. It had been so long since I thought of Marcel. Finding that picture of two to of us sitting in our rain pant...
Wrong Number
WRONG NUMBER Mary picked up the phone. She’d try just once more to get the right number. However, just as she was about to do so, it rang. Rather unnerved, Mary said “H…hello?” “Hello?” Well, it’s a woman’s voice, Mary mused. At least that was alright. And someone of the correct age group, by the sound of it. “Hello?” said the voice again (it really sounded very nice, thought Mary) “Is Julia there please?” “Oh, sorry” said Mary, regretfully “You’ve got the wrong number, I’m afraid.” The lady on the other end was instantly apologetic. It sounded as though she was always having to be, these ...
The Sacred Bloom of Flesh and Flowers
I was always a late bloomer in life, being for as long as I can remember content to hang back from the howling rush so I could better see, hear and feel the symphony of life playing all around me. From an early age I was given to a kind of absorbed dalliance, or festive reverie, which made me prone to a habitual tardiness, the type of which triggers noisy alarms and flashing, blood red warnings above firmly closed doors. I have many times stood on the sharp end of these occasions and played my part with loud, wood knocking glee, wringing my hat in obsequious deference to the suit now thump...