Remnants of Memory_Strange Tales_Ye 'Ole Family Window_Roses Are Red
Catalog Guide:
Remnants of Memory
Here I sit in my 90th year, not recognizing the man I see in the looking glass. I have been told that I should write down the events of my life as they would mark the passing of an age, one filled with wonders and of hardships. You should know that my mind and memory is not what it once was and my body shakes the quill in my hand, so writing isn’t an option. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll dictate, and like our ancestors for generations, pass on the story of my life verbally. As you’re well aware all stories have a beginning, and an end. I can’t remember the beginning; I assume I was born to paren...
Strange Tales
“Come on in, partner!”The home felt nice, and snug, a fireplace roaring, and the nostalgic smell of a home cooked meal filled their noses.Stepping out of the rain and into the warmth, the man welcomed the two strangers into his home. He took off his drenched gloves and plopped them by the fireplace, without a care in the world. His children, running down the stairs to meet their father, only to stop in their tracks when sighting the strangers.The man looked at his children and smiled. “What are ya starin’ for? That’s no way to treat guests. Pull up a chair, get them some food!”With the f...
Ye 'Ole Family Window
An...interesting window adorns my boyfriend’s house. He bought the house when his parents passed on to the summerland. So, all his siblings got money; he got the house. You know, one of those deals.Originally, the house belonged to his great-great-grandparents. It’s been passed down through the line. Always one of the male children takes it over from the parents.Except for one time. The name Lilly comes up in whispers. But if I ask, or they notice me listening, they shut up. I assume from what I’ve caught that that generation had no male heir.I can’t get any more of the story than that...
Roses Are Red
He stops. He stands, almost intimidated, before the open window of the bedroom. A chill breeze breaks the silence and like a claw, it penetrates the room, reaching for his face and scratching it. His cheeks begin to grow numb, red as blood. The curtains have been thrust aside to reveal the ominous night skies. His hands hover for a moment, over the windowsill, not wanting to touch it as the last thing he had touched was the hand of his deceased young wife. She had been buried yesterday afternoon, less than 24 hours after she had passed. A sudden powerfwww.onedoor.ccul gust of wind threatens to throw him of...