Escaping sadness_Icy Fingers_Ears Open_Three Ceramic Plates
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Escaping sadness
The car was humming quietly and Izzy stood beside it, leaning on the right back door. Given her stance on cars, it was a strange place to find comfort. However, her thoughts were effortlessly following the same rhythm as the monotonous sound of the engine. Her heart, on the other hand, had taken on a much slower melody. Izzy was so used to her sadness, that it actually felt normal. Even at that moment. But it wasn’t. Sadness should be reserved for special occasions, rare moments that have really earned the heaviness of this fundamental human emotion. The current moment didn’t qualify. Izzy wa...
Icy Fingers
Take a look. No, over there... over where that man is getting into his car to leave for work. That ordinary man, who drives that ordinary car, going to his ordinary nine-to-five. He pets his ordinary dog before he closes the door, tells him to go to the back, and then pushes his garage door remote after he sees the tail pass over the sensor’s reach. He drives away after making sure the ordinary door fully closes. He doesn’t want someone to be able to just walk in now does he? If they did, they might find out he is not an ordinary man in an ordinary house after all. They might find out that t...
Ears Open
(TW: Religious zealotry, mild violence, ear stuff)That summer in the small town of Newton Springs, all the babies began crying. Not unusual on its own, except none of them had stopped since. At home, Anna Tuille, age 11, spun the dials on her pocket radio. She wore her headphones snug against her ears as she listened for the anomalous high-pitched frequency that often frustrated her quest for secret stations and extraterrestrial signals. For months on end, two hundred and eighty-three infants—an unprecedented boom in births that year—emitted the piercing screams of the utterly inconsolable. No...
Three Ceramic Plates
Content warning: abuse***Four ceramic plates, four tall glasses, eight pieces of silverware and a basket of bread in the middle. The family sitting around the table with a painted poise on each of our black canvas faces. My father will come home to this each day, cascading his fork into the pile of food without a second glance at the human chickens before him. But, without fail, my mom and I’s hands will always take us back to the dishes each night, despite our reluctance and depressive stwww.onedoor.ccate. Our life depends on it, my mother says, because my father is our lifeline.He leaves at eight thirty i...