Bread Loaves_A Dream_IS OUR FUTURE IN OUR HANDS?_Floral Notes
Catalog Guide:
Bread Loaves
The tile floor is wet, glistening from murky water of a dirty mop. Someone was cleaning, clearly, when the sirens rang out. I had hurried, pulling up my pants, but I couldn’t get out fast enough with the rest. Why is this day one of those, where I’m straining in the bathroom for an eternity? On top of it, only lukewarm water from the bathroom faucet to wash up. I probably had a hard time because of all the meat and cheese I ate yesterday. No fiber, now that I recall. The gourmet cheese case is nearby, humming with electricity. No power outages yet. The grid is still up, but that won’t last...
A Dream
Charlie’s favorite thing in the whole world, was the ocean. Although, at the age of ten, she had never been to any ocean, it didn’t matter to Charlie. She dreamed of seeing it one day. The particular ocean didn’t matter, as long as she got to feel the wet sand squish between her toes, splash the salty water, hear the beautiful waves crashing, and see endless water stretching across the horizon. In school, Charlie wrote about the ocean, any chance she got. At any oppowww.onedoor.ccrtunity, she would gladly talk about it to the point that whomever was listening often grew tired of her endless monologues. Her...
IS OUR FUTURE IN OUR HANDS?
IS OUR FUTURE IN OUR HANDS? My mom used to say that the drama in real life is many times more complicated and sadder than the soap operas we watch on TV. I always thought, “is she right?”. I was in middle school in history class learning about the Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna of Russia whose father, of course, was Tsar Alexander III; her mother was Empress Marie; her grandfather was King Christian IX of Denmark; and her aunt Alexandra was the Princess of Wales. When Olga was born a 101-gun salute welcomed her to this world. She emigrated to Denmark escaping the Russian revolution where she...
Floral Notes
His fingers trace the bend of the mug handle. The ceramic is warm from the hot coffee inside. Around him the fancy iron leg chairs scrape on the cobblestone patio periodically. Scooters pass by on the narrow street with their feminine horns bleating now and then. Samuel is suspended amongst these sounds, hanging in the ethers, everywhere and yet attached to nothing. He sits in dormancy.Early morning diners sit at the outside café. Their conversations are low, the kind that suit a day just starting. Forks clank on plates. Waitresses ask gently, “Would you like a refill?” The sunlight i...