For The Night_Deliberately Anachronistic_Pottering_Confetti
Catalog Guide:
For The Night
For the Night It was a warm night. James peeled his eyes away from the bathroom window where he could see the night sky donned with flickering little stars and a huge moon that reminded him the night was still young. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and saw the indecision in his eyes. He felt too old to go out and socialize with millenials tonight, yet he can already taste the whiskey in his mouth. He needed a drink. He closed his eyes and imagined what a bar of young people would be like now. It has been ages since he’s been to one, he’d always taken his drinks at hotel lounges or se...
Deliberately Anachronistic
The smell of tannin was strong in my nostrils. My great-granddaughter's more refined nostrils probably found it far more unpleasant than mine did. I opened the front door, letting in fresh air.“Great-grandfather, why do you even bother when there are machines that can do what you do?” she asked in frustration. And not for the first time, either.I shrugged. “Maybe I prefer to do it for myselfwww.onedoor.cc. Even if it means deliberately being an anachronism in this day and age.” I turned over the uneven square of tanned leather, checking it for imperfections. Finding none, I hung it up to dry on the clothes-...
Pottering
“I’m just going for a potter round the garden, love,” Jack said. “Fine,” Delia said, with a smile. But though she hoped it didn’t show, the smile was forced and actually no, it wasn’t fine. But how could she say so or even raise the subject without sounding mean? Maybe it was true that a lot of men eventually turned into their fathers. But the trouble was, over the last few years, Jack had been turning into his grandfather. Now Delia had been extremely fond of Jack’s grandfather, the late Herbert Mason. He was a lovely man. He had taken her under his wing and stuck up for her when some members...
Confetti
“It’s been months and I’m still cleaning the last of your confetti—confession, I can’t recall every detail of us but I do remember how happy you were to celebrate.” I put my pen down and turned to the bedroom window towards the singing of the piping plover sitting on my sill. It was another humid day in August and I was melting off the side of my sheets sifting through memories of you. I thought of how you never got to meet the poet in me. And who's to say I'm not a writer despite the fact I've never been published? And who’s to say you won’t one day stumble upon my poetry book in a bookstore ...