Tulips_The Siamese Twins_THE DEATH OF A TEACHER_Epidemic Of Days
Catalog Guide:
Tulips
Content warning: domestic violence, assault, mental illnessI looked up to see a woman in a grey jacket staring at me. One of her eyebrows was raised and her nose was turned up at me. She shifted in her seat and looked towards the window on her left. She held a large pink-faced baby in her lap. The baby was in a light blue dress covered with white daisies. The baby was pointing at the man who had his hand on the long pole commuters hold on to for dear life twice a day.Once at 6AM when surbubia opened its mouth and spilled its residents out into the city centre, and again at 6PM when it opened i...
The Siamese Twins
The aura in the house was quiet and windy. The only noise pervading the house was the loud silence emanating from the two of us. The TV was off. She was seated in a reclining chair on one end of the living room, busy on her muted smartphone. I was sitting on a couch, engrossed in a mystery. We were Siamese twins, conjoined by nuptials, but swimming in an icy ocean that three months earlier had been our hot bath. Our real journey had begun nine months prior. We had tied the knot in a very elaborate ceremony. Friends from perse walks of life were in attendance. Her bridesmaid, Nancy, was her co...
THE DEATH OF A TEACHER
This year began as the best year of my life. Now, at the end of this long, hard, pandemic year – one of the hardest ever for every teacher – my classroom phone rang, as it sometimes does during class, but instead of ‘please dismiss so and so” the principal’s secretary was on the other end. It was three-quarters of the way through fourth period. “Is everything okay?” I coughed. “Hon, ask your neighbor teacher to come watch your students and come on. The principal wants to swww.onedoor.ccee you.” That wasn’t a yes or a no. My students stared at me as I excused myself carrying a pad of paper and pen. I was...
Epidemic Of Days
“I’m allergic to the sun,” Avara said. I looked at her. Blinked. “I’m sorry. What?”“The sun,” she said. “I’m allergic to the sun. Well, specifically, sunlight. Here’s my doctor’s note.”Avara leaned forward and placed a folded note atop my desk. The desk was cluttered with invoices, worksheets, checklists, applications – the typical busy work of a mid-level manager of a mail order pharmacy. Avara sat across from me in my office which occupied a closet-sized nook in this fifty-thousand square foot highly-automated drug warehouse. Through the walls, we could hear the incessant hum of the conveyor...