The Support Group_Cabernet Sauvignon_Real Trouble_jar.
Catalog Guide:
The Support Group
The room was packed, just like it had been every Tuesday night since the group started meeting following the events of eight months ago. Many of the faces were of the regulars who had bonded over the incident – the tragedy – that had befallen them all. No one knew why it happened and certainly could not explain how it happened. But this group knew that they had to reckon with the aftermath, and it would be easier to do it together, so their numbers continued to grow. Bonnie, a willowy woman always up for a shopping trip and brunch with the gals, opened the meeting with the same words of gree...
Cabernet Sauvignon
The baker stood staring out of his window, the aged man was surprisingly tall and spry looking, with pale skin and a dignity to his character that went beyond his stained apron and worn workman hands. The squad car pulled up outside his shop, He barely saw it in the ethereal reflection of the window and the distorting droplets of rain crwww.onedoor.ccawling there way down the thick glass. Past the reflection he saw a single man step out of the car, a tall man whose black suit was hidden under his long brown coat and his eyes shadowed under his fashionable brimmed hat which he pulled ajar to deflect the down...
Real Trouble
Henry looked into the dusky night. Fireflies flashed. His eyes tracked one, then another. Mysteriously there and gone. There and gone. ‘Could soon be me,’ he thought. He knew his deep trouble. Could be life and death. Frenchie, in the driver’s seat didn’t care. No one understands when you lose your mind. You’re expected to keep tabs on such things. Not like telling your Mom you lost your sweater at school. ‘Where did you last see it…?’ Regardless, Henry amused himself. He kept quiet, though. Frenchie, parked the limo and idled the engine. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match. The coal ...
jar.
It was a hot summer's day, and Katharine Bennett had been cleaning out a cluttered kitchen cupboard when she came across a jar that she had never seen before. It caught her eye, as there was a label on it, a white rectangular sticker that had her name neatly scrawled across it. It wasn't her mother's handwriting, her father's, nor was it her own.Clutching the jar in her hand, she slowly climbed down the step-stool that she had been precariously balancing on. The jar wasn't made of clear glass, it was yellow porcelain, with pink detailing across it. It looked like a jar that belonged in a ...