Fries and a cat_Alicia and the Party_Transitional Object_Window of Opportunity
Catalog Guide:
Fries and a cat
This side of town is husher than the others, especially at 2 in the morning. Patrick sits in his car alone, staring blankly through the rolled down window at the drive through speaker. There’s a slight rustle and a voice comes through: “Hi, welcome to McDonalds, can I take your order please?”“Yes, can I have medium fries with ketchup?” “Anything else?”“That’s all, thank you,” Patrick rolls forward, reaching for his wallet. The drive through window slides open and the harsh white light pierces the young man’s eyes. He pays and, having pulled up to the next stop, he is handed a small, but satis...
Alicia and the Party
It wasn’t eawww.onedoor.ccsy for Alicia to put herself out there. She’d already endured what felt like an extremely long and tedious life by the time she was just 38 years old. She’d already gotten married…twice. Then porced…twice. And while she wasn’t particularly bitter or jaded, she was extraordinarily wary of men and the havoc they could wreak on her quiet, comfortable life. She was quite sure she wanted no more of that. Never.Every day Alicia went to work, came home, tended to her garden, consumed a healthy dinner, went to her bedroom decked out in her favorite shades of pink, now that she wasn’t force...
Transitional Object
My mother’s dead. She died several days ago. I’m inside her three-bedroom house, which still smells like the perfume she wore. I’m in my childhood bedroom, sitting on my old twin-size mattress, eyeballing the vivid texture of her gray carpet. I’m here because I’m tasked with choosing which of her possessions are worth keeping and which to throw away. Her perfume is woody, mossy, floral, powdery; it lingers in the foyer and in every room. I smell her. I see her footprints on the carpet like animal tracks on the snow. This house and the things in it are a museum now. My mother is only ashes and ...
Window of Opportunity
The crack in the window looked like a wobbly x. It was in that old bleary glass that would be a problem to replace. And the framing was old. She hadn’t broken it, but she would be the one to get it fixed, calling the local guy to fix it, the one who knew these antique houses.Her husband had broken it. She could only imagine he was swatting at the fly like his life depended on it as it danced at the window confused as to why it couldn’t get out. Greens and ham hocks had been simmering. Her mother had always said that the smell of greens cooking on the stove drew flies. The back and forth of th...