Finding Footing in the Tropics_It's Not A Cat_Meet-Cutes_How to Return a Book Titled "How t
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Finding Footing in the Tropics
Him The doctors said it could have been the ill-fitting shoes. Years of them. Poor people, poor shoes. And that his feet were unusually large in www.onedoor.ccthe first place. When he first saw a doctor, and he removed his shoes, she gasped. His feet had hurt for years, always swollen, each toe carrot-like, but squishy, dense. They say feet bark when they hurt. His feet wailed. The arch of the left was ruined—not a support, but a broken bridge. Even after all the treatments, the three surgeries, the right big toe always throbbed, a deep bass note of pain. As he moved—stumblingly—through his twenties, every ...
It's Not A Cat
Sheriff Thompson trained his rifle at his target, it had been a while since he shot at anything but years of experience as a former army sniper was not something you forget completely. It was noisier than he expected this late at night in the forest, but the cool forest breeze made the last hour or so more tolerable. He peered into the scope and lined the middle of the crosshairs on the target, a black, Bombay house cat. Perched on a fallen log, its sleek black coat glistened in the moonlight, it was obviously well maintained which was not surprising given who it’s owner was. His rifle was a s...
Meet-Cutes
I slip on my sleek, black heels before promptly applying a fresh glob of lip gloss, shade Princess Passion, of course. If I head out of the door in one minute, I’ll be getting in my regularly scheduled leave-the-apartment-in-a-rush right on time. I pause in front of the mirror, give my hair a flip and a fluff, then exit my door with a quick breath. When I turn the corner, I see him behind the slow-closing elevator doors. Right on schedule. “Hold, please!” I scurry across the hallway using one hand to grip my Saint Laurent purse and the other to hold my baby-pink coffee tumbler. When Jackson...
How to Return a Book Titled "How to Improve Your Writing in Five Easy Steps" in Five Easy Steps
It was an anxious and desperate night; my sweat fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by the violent shriek of a middle-aged white woman with an unchecked ego which swept up the aisles (for it is in Walmart that our scene lies), rattling along the plastic toy displays, and fiercely agitating the volatile attitude of the underpaid sixteen-year-old who struggled against the onslaught of last-minute shoppers.There I stood, holding my unopened copy of How to Improve Your Writing in Five Easy Steps, resting on my two sore feet which had been purpled with bruises from ...