All Thumbs_When You Were not A Stranger_One Small Act_The last Strawberries on earth
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All Thumbs
Every child is born clumsy, for that is one of the only usuals for an infant. However, clumsiness is neither innate, nor hereditary. Most people shred this trait with growth.But, a rare percentage of people, owing to developmental disorders, carry this trait right into their adolescence, followed by their prime youth, culminating into its pinnacular form in adulthood. No one chooses to inherit this defective trait, solely for the sake of negative attention. Clumsiness is of three types : physical, mental and the third category overlapping thwww.onedoor.cce first two. Well, I belong to the first one, one o...
When You Were not A Stranger
I remember when we used to be so close to each other that I could feel your respiration on my neck, and I could feel your heart beating so fast. I remember that there was a time I could not like without you I felt like I had to talk with you day and night and if not, I would feel this horrible heart ache that would break me in to pieces as I saw how you were slowly leaving me. Every single time I hear your name it is like I am being forced to re watch every single memory I had with you over and over until I break down into tears. It is so shocking how life works, how even though once in our ti...
One Small Act
On a warm, summery evening, as the perfect, clear sky slowly shifted from blue to bright pinks and oranges, then to purples and navy blue, Jane Hawkins thought she was going to vomit.Normally, Jane was calm and collected. At fifty-three, she couldn't be called elderly, though she was beginning to show some age - her hair was starting to gray and had been cut to her shoulders, and wrinkles had started forming, particularly around her eyes and mouth. She had no children to speak of, though she had several wonderful nieces and nephews she adored.But this evening, Jane found herself discombobulat...
The last Strawberries on earth
I first see him stumbling through the junk, tripping over jutting pieces, barely remaining upright as a Collector pushes him forward. He’s clearly not used to walking in the gear, his heavy boots catching on scattered debris, his shoulders hunched with the weight of it. His gloved hands keep reaching for the face mask, but he doesn’t have the dexterity to undo it as he goes. Luckily. Right before he reaches my sector, the inevitable happens. I watch in slow motion as he miscalculates a step and lifts his thick-soled foot too little, lurching forward and falling face first into the rusted body ...