Waste Not, Want Lemons_The Child of the plaque_Mother's Song in the Deer Tracks_You Called My Na
Catalog Guide:
Waste Not, Want Lemons
You’re trying to grow a lemon tree in your kitchen because the world is ending. But you live in Minnesota, and you’re pretty sure your partner thinks you’re crazy for trying to grow a tropical fruit on a kitchen counter in Minnesota. But you’re committed. You’re determined. You’re going to grow a lemon tree. And then, you tell yourself, you won’t feel so bad about consuming lemons because you won’t be consuming lemons from the store; you’ll be consuming lemons that you grew right here at home. And maybe you’ll be so good at growing lemons that you’ll start a small grove of lemon trees in a gre...
The Child of the plaque
For the small golden haired Sam his morning started like any other morning. He got up, brushed his teeth, not very well at that , ate his breakfast, kissed his mum and ran off to school. Nothing out of the ordinary. This was Sam's life. He was regular 10 year old boy.Hastily, as he was almost late, he entered baby blue painted classroom. Sam noticed the young teacher with the curly black hair and freckled snow white skin, attentively reading on his smart phone. This also wasn't new to Sam. His parents are always complaining about the school appointsing young teachers and then they can't unders...
Mother's Song in the Deer Tracks
Condensation slowly rises to meet my waist in the windowpane where the blinds used to sit. Late January evening in the Eastern Townships. Quebec is still, and there is no sound except for the faint rumbling of the train heading West through town toward Sherbrooke. The deer tracks on the street are quickly being filled in, but I don’t know if the snow is heavy or light, dry or wet. The weather is kinder than my crutches. Mother once told me that some people have never seen snow and others close the curtains when it falls, thinking of tomorrow. “Garde toujours tes yeux ouverts le soir, mon chè...
You Called My Name Again
My McDonald’s fountain drink cup of spare change sits quietly in front of me. Snow is beginning to bury it away. No one looked my way. That’s how it usuwww.onedoor.ccally is. People avert their eyes, and do their best to block me out of their consciousness; if I did appear in their field of vision, I suppose they’d feel some sort of social obligation to hand me some spare change. But I’m simultaneously too young and too old to garner too much sympathy, so then again, maybe not. I sit down, pulling my blanket around me a bit tighter. New York winters were no joke; the chill of it ached deep in my bones. I p...