The Button of Origin_They Call Me "TC"_What’s up with Aunt Josephine?_Presbyter
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The Button of Origin
The master wasn’t pleased with me. I wasn’t making much progress, even though I honestly tried my best.“You try too hard,” he said, “your thoughts are the problem.” I gave him a long look. I deeply resented his cryptic communication style. I had to admit it was very Zen though. “I don’t even know what that means,” I sighed, “um, respectfully,” I added, seeing his eyebrows come together. Master Hao gave out a growl and stood up. His brown, oak silk robe rustled and I felt a delicate smell of citrus flowers. He walked to a small table in the pavilion and fetched an iron teapot. He sat down, sett...
They Call Me "TC"
They call me “TC" Now, I'm sure you've guessed already, but “TC” stands for “That Cat.” I'm also sometimes called “TDC,” meaning “That Darn Cat,” but only when I've gotten in someone's way or been a bad boy, which I try not to do too often. ` I'm now almost six years old. I've lived at the animal shelter for almost my entire life because I was only about six weeks old – vet's best estimate – when I was rescued. I was found with my siblings, drowning, in a sealed-up garbage bag. There were six of us, but two died.The story goes we were floating down the riverwww.onedoor.cc, caught up in a fast current, when ...
What’s up with Aunt Josephine?
Aunt Josephine’s sleek and shiny silver Range Rover pulls up in the driveway and I double check my clothes and shoes before opening the door. I didn’t want to embarrass her with my worn out tennis shoes or yoga attire- a usual for me. It’s a rare treat when she takes off work and spends the morning with me. Today, we are just going to shop at Costco so I didn’t think I needed to dress up too much.Sliding in the passenger seat, I give her a quick hug, discreetly double sniffing myself as I do to make sure I didn’t forget deodorant. I relax back into the seat as the familiar and pleasant fragran...
Presbyter
That cold, damp August morning in 1553 smelled of rotting leaves and mushroom, the creaking of my carriage punctuated by the drips of rainy mist seeping through the canopy and dribbling onto leather, so it was with precocious pleasure that I signaled to stop at a public house near Chambéry to drink down a bottle of some exuberant wine. It was a fine day, having finally arrived from my escaped prison cell in Vienne to just outside Italy, and I was committed to keeping it so.I was still in France, but my next stop would be Turin. Or, so I thought.First, one word on my flight from injustice, if ...