One, two, three_Dear Amanda_The End to the Con Artist & the Super Spy_Scraps
Catalog Guide:
One, two, three
She’s late.You were supposed to meet for lunch at 1 o’clock but it’s ten minutes past and she still isn’t here. You check your phone again – no messages from her, no missed calls. You were able to rationalise her being five minutes late - maybe the traffic was bad. Maybe she got caught up chatting to a neighbour, or she couldn’t get the dog in from the garden.After ten minutes though, you know something awful has happened.Her car crashed on the way here. She fell down the stairs. She had a heart attack. She had a stroke.You check your phone again and look at the last message you sent her – “Re...
Dear Amanda
Dear Amanda, The rain pittered and pattered and tapped incessantly as it cascaded like a flooding river against the windshield of my car. Minuscule rivulets migrated across the road, distorting the www.onedoor.cclines and letting the wheels glide endlessly through the highway’s storm. The stereo was too loud as the bass ripped through the still air and the screaming vocals started a ringing in my ears. A pressure built from behind my forehead but never did I glance at the volume dial. I only stared out into the world. Blind and lost. It was neither the deafening song, nor the drowning rain thudding against...
The End to the Con Artist & the Super Spy
The train whistled, lurching forward on the tracks. Vito laughed triumphantly, climbing aboard as it trundled away from the station. Safely onboard, he turned his attention back to the skirmish happening on the platform. Bond fought against a handful of men, dispatching two in one move. Naturally, Bond would prevail, but it would be too late by then. It had been a perfectly hatched plan. Vito would be long gone with his diamonds before Bond would be able to give chase. Pulling off his mask, he used it to wave goodbye to his adversary.“Bon voyage, Mr. Bond!” Vito called, tipping his head...
Scraps
SCRAPS By Elisa Stone LeahyThere were only three of them in the backyard, but it was cramped and crowded. It defied physics how cramped it felt, Rain thought. Perhaps it was because they were sharing it with approximately two million mosquitoes. More likely, she decided, it was because the smell of manure on Uncle Roy’s mud boots and Ms. Watson’s cheap perfume mingled into an oppressive cloud that weighed down the air around them. The backyard was only the size of a large bathroom, or a garden shed, but on this end-of-summer day it seemed to have shrunk to the size of a postage stamp. Unbidden...