Them and I_The Quiet That Says More Than Words_the Dead President's Namesake Society_A Yellow No
Catalog Guide:
Them and I
“Are you coming tonight?”I screamed as the glass I had just picked up fell from my grasp. Chocolate almond milk seeped across the floor as I whipped my head around to face the intruder, who had just slid in through the open fire escape window.It was Evan. He giggled at me as he swung a leg over the sill. “Hey dude, you dropped your nut juice.”I heaved a sigh of relief and rolled my eyes. “First of all, don’t call it that. Second, you really gotta stop coming in like that. You’re going to kill me, and besides, you have a key. Thirdly, you know full well I am not going.”“Geez, you’re such a buzz...
The Quiet That Says More Than Words
The first time Kasia sees Marlie, she is ten years old and everything is wrong.Not really everything, of course - that would be impossible - but for Kasia it might as well be. Life, she’s known for what seems like forever, is very similar to a play. Everyone acts out their part, and everyone ignores the fact that that’s what they’re doing - acting. Following a script. Hiding behind predetermined roles and predetermined lines.Kasia has always been very good at it. She’s always been able to carve her lips into warm smiles and shape her words into plain, repetitive sayings with no true meaning a...
the Dead President's Namesake Society
“Hear, hear! The meeting is called to order.” Reagan knocked his mug on the wooden table top to make it official. “Question?” Reagan sighed. “Yes, Clinton?” “Can we get the mozzarella sticks? “Yes, Clinton.” “Cool.” “Um…” “Something else?” “Should I put an order in before we get to the addendum or whatever?” “I think it can wait. May I proceed?” “I also have a question.” “Lincoln, if we don’t hold the questions to the end we’re never going to get twww.onedoor.cchrough this. Can it wait?” “I guess.” Lincoln leaned back with a slight smirk and put an arm around Clinton. “Thank you. Now as I was...
A Yellow November
It was November; wintertime. A dead, muffled stint for most living things. Not much movement but the brown weeds on the valley’s hills, and the ocean beneath them. It wasn’t so much the weather that embodied this silent three months, but the colors. There were shades of greys, blues, browns, even dull yellows. Every day the hills were woken with reds, or perhaps purples, but then waxy yellows started in early morning, blending into another light grey. The yellow was May Hopkins’ favorite color. Mostly because of its rarity, but also because it reminded her of something a long time ago. Some ...