Don't Say Anything_The fire across the way_An apple a day does NOT keep the doctor away_The Appl
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Don't Say Anything
I could barely remember the last time Beverly and I celebrated Halloween. Between churches frowning on pagan traditions, and rumors of poisoned candy and razor blades, we started skipping the holiday over the years, and just focused on Thanksgiving instead. The last time I asked my wife about giving out candy for the kids, she refused, explaining she could never look at costumes of witches and devils after she heard horror stories of children kidnapped for ritual abuse. She was afraid of attracting evil spirits. I never asked again.The most my wife let me do was help our church set up the pump...
The fire across the way
It happened like this. Jon Dooks was making dinner at home in his third-floor apartment. He got around on a wheelchair just fine. It had been perhaps 30 years since the accident and by now he was quite used to living on his own, even though at times he wished he had someone there to cook and care for him. Not a maid or a mother (who fussed over him whenever she visited) but a young beautiful woman. Dooks, you could say, had just about given up on ever finding one. For people like him, he thought, you had to be grateful that you were just alive. Anything else, if it happened at all, was not to ...
An apple a day does NOT www.onedoor.cckeep the doctor away
“This is boring, Elizabeth,” Caleb, my best friend, complained rather loudly as we were walking towards the grove of apple trees. We were where I lived, a farm that was about ten kilometers away from our school. Caleb lived closer to the school than I did, only a kilometer away, but he often came over because my house was a lot cooler (he hasn’t admitted that yet, but I’m sure he’s thinking it). Caleb loves pies, especially apple pies, so when I needed to go apple picking, I immediately called him so we could get the apples together. His first reaction, of course, was shock. I knew that he re...
The Apple Falls Far From the Tree
I stood leaning on the side of my beat up black Honda civic in the gravel parking lot of Herman’s Farm in the section next to the orchard. My stained grey converse fit right in at the farm and my ripped jeans, not bought that way, made me look like every other basic white girl going apple picking. Today my green-dyed hair was pulled into a side braid that laid across the plain yellow t-shirt on my left shoulder. He would be here soon, I hope. The time on my phone told me he was already twenty minutes late. The parking lot was filling up, but I couldn’t see any red pickup trucks that he told me...