The Preacher’s Kid_50 Years Past_The Cistern_First Impressions Soaked In Whiskey and Poor Words
Catalog Guide:
The Preacher’s Kid
It was inevitable. I just had to wait. What day was this? Saturday? Yep, on Monday it would be all over except for the crying. And crying there would be. Monday would be my first day of high school and the dreaded words would either be whispered behind my back or if there were a particularly bold imp, right to my face. Preacher’s Kid.Preacher’s Kid, or PK to those in the know. Most people are definitely not in the know. Were that so, my life might have been spared a bit of grief. PK was a bit less in your face. It hadn’t always been that way. When I was getting ready to start the third grade,...
50 Years Past
For fifty years the road stood unchanged.The road upon which an old man appeared. It was a cold day, gray as the man himself, who stood fixed upon the near ancient gravel glowering at the brownish cottage with white trim standing upon his right hand. His eyes turned away but his step failed to advance. He simply stood immobile, as if lost in thought, his weathered face and narrowed eyes reflective of a man struggling with a memory, a pattern of thought that would not form. The old man stood thus for several long minutes. Repeatedly he seemed verged upon continuing, only to pause and glance re...
The Cistern
Dust swirled around the two gaunt figures as they stepped up to the cistern. They struggled to pull the lid off of the shaft. One man climbed down the ladder. He soon came back up, shaking his head. “It’s down another two feet. At this rate, we’ll be out of water before the winter.” “I wonder how Chancellor Drake will fix this one.” “In the worst way possible, Greff. We both know that. Everything he fixes needs fixing again.” “Well, we’ll tell him the bad news. Come, John, let’s go back to the village.” Heading slowly down the dry hills, they made their way to a group of scattered huts made of...
First Impressions Soaked In Whiskey and Poor Words
There was nothing special about the bar that Melony was sitting in. It was a quaint place. Shiny red counters and red walls covered in photos and newspaper clippings that had been there since before Melony was born. She was sitting atop a wobbly barstool, her favorite one with the chipped legs, writing on some wine-stained paper with a thin black ink pen. Melony had decided to dawn a low cut yellow dress that night. It was hot outside, mid-July in the middle of Los Angeles. She was feeling the effects of the heat. It was the time of the year when she had to give in to wearing as liwww.onedoor.ccttle fabric ...