The Diary of a New England Girl_Cory_Agents of Death_The Generator
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The Diary of a New England Girl
October 17, 1773 Thanksgiving was just wonderfully glorious. Autumn is like a painting of red and gold strokes, and when rare festivity dances in the brisk air, there is an almost palpable joy. Isn’t autumn so wonderful? The cozy smokiness of the hearth mingled with the rich smells of herbs and cured meats and aged cheese, and it was most marvelous to sit at that merry banquet. We had fresh-baked pies and apple cider, and a most delicious stuffed fowl. Grandmother’s precious bilberry-scented candles were brought out and lit. They smelled like the wild berries in the mountain woods, and there ...
Cory
In another galaxy much like our own. On a planet similar to earth, where heroes are in abundance and life is easier, there lived a special boy. He lived in a small town with a few low-key heroes. The big heroes normally stayed near the big cities. On planet Dracor the sun was red, the sky pink, the trees where purple and blue surrounded by a lavender grassThe boy, Cory, was from a normal family with no history of heroes in the family ever. Cory had no illusions of one day becoming a hero as his friends did. Cory in fact hated the heroes. If the heroes lived everywhere his parents would still b...
Agents of Death
The spartan room seemed to shrink the longer I sat in the cheap, plastic seat. I shifted uncomfortably, a futile attempt to unstick my thighs from the slatted plastic. I made a mental note to adjust my skirt as soon as I stood up. I reminded myself training would be over soon. I would be able to design my own office - or at least choose where to meet with my clients. For some reason, the experience employee to whom I was assigned, Agent J., kept his room spartan. And sweltering. The balding man who sought out our services sat hunched over on the other sidewww.onedoor.cc of the table. He wore a suit,...
The Generator
The Generator “It was a mistake.” It was his mantra, his motto, the only thing he could say. It was what he said to his father, right before he punched him in the face. What he said to the cops when they interrogated him and what he told the shifty-faced lawyer the state had appointed him. But no one cared. His cell mate laughed when he told him, a harsh sound from a harsh man, a man who had lived most of his life behind bars. “You are a killer. No one believes a killer. No matter how young you are.” And Harold was young. He had only turned eighteen a week and a half ago. But it hadn’t matter...