Cold Painted Walls_Actor's Nightmare_Love and Baseball_The Tree in the Backyard of a House on Ru
Catalog Guide:
Cold Painted Walls
This is my worst nightmare - and it’s shaping itself right in front of me. In front of me is a chair, a bed, a broken book, and cinder block walls. The walls are cold and rough, I know because my cheek is scraping against it, though not due to my own volition. That part of the cinder block was a milky white, now mixed with red, it’s hue is an odd pink. The bed is creaky and squeaks its protestations. Its coiled bones are very old and rusty with age. Should’a drank some milk, I tell it. I laugh to myself. The bed doesn’t laugh back. I get pushed further into the wall and I curse in pain.I know ...
Actor's Nightmare
It has been over twenty years since I last set foot on the stage, but in all that time, I am still cursed with the Actor’s Nightmare. It goes with the territory along with the curse of Lady Macbeth and a few others I learned along the way. You can choose to believe some or even all of this story, it is totally up to you, but www.onedoor.ccfor me this story is the reason why I gave up my love of theater and I would encourage you to do the same.“Ah, the roar of the grease paint, the smell of the crowd.” Jason thought he was being funny, but the sad truth is, he just did not have the knack for humor. He was...
Love and Baseball
Ashley walked the bases slowly of the baseball field up the street from where she lived. Lots of memories were made on this field. She played on a Co-Ed team that practiced here every week. She started walking in a straight line almost as if she were on a tight rope placing one foot ever so carefully in front of the other. That is how her life felt lately, like a fragile balancing act. She felt like she was in a circus instead of on a baseball field. She just wanted to play baseball, the way she used to before everything happened. Baseball always made her think of him. Eric. The impossi...
The Tree in the Backyard of a House on Russet Street
I stacked my dad’s books in the doorway of his office, pretending to build a brick wall. His office should be sealed off, anyway. No one else belongs here on Russet Street, in our house. I blew some dust off the bookshelf, the part where I’d carved my name with a butter knife 13 years ago. When my dad found the carving, he called me an asshole and told me if I were going to carve my name into his beautiful, reclaimed wood shelf, I could at least spell it right. I’d forgotten the ‘e’ in Davey.Besides me and mom, my dad loved only two other things in life: books and trees. Fittingly, the bulk of...