A Hard Pill to Swallow_The Secret Place_29 for Dinner_Please Don’t Judge Me
Catalog Guide:
A Hard Pill to Swallow
Trigger warning: allusions to sexual assault, kidnapping, muggingDon’t shoot the messenger, it wasn’t my idea to begin with. I was forced to go along on the ride but I admit it wasn’t our first go-around. We had done this plenty of times before with a lot more unsuspecting people. So in a way, she can’t really blame herself. She was forced into this game just like I was. It didn’t always start out this way. The four us use to be real cool. We would hang out all day and have dreams of the life we wanted, visions of the future. I guess those dreams were too hard to bear and they had to make them...
The Secret Place
Sometimes I return to the secret place without you. It is not my body that returns, but my soul. You would not believe it, but all of those trees still have our childish drawings carved into their skin. The canopy of leaves still stretches far above the damp earth, cloaking everything in that familiar shade we so often yearned for in the summer months. My mind puts me along the bank of the creek, skipping rocks across the calm rapids. Sometimes I see you there as well, laughing with me like we so often did. It's funny thinking about our secret pact, the pact to not bring others there. It was...
29 for Dinner
29 for Dinner From her vantage point at the kitchen counter, Addison could see that the conversation on the patio was flowing smoothly. A promising sign since eight virtual strangers were meeting for the first time. They were all neighbors on one cul-de-sac in a newly constructed community, and Addison had made this grand gesture, a dinner party to get to know her those who would be living closest to her family. So far, it seemed to be going well. She removed a pan of warm canapés from the oven, transferred them to a serving plate, and carried them outside to join her husband, Sam, and their g...
Please Don’t Judge Me
Unlike most children, it took me quite a while to weed through the corrugated cardboard boxes that had been shipped to me after my mother’s death. They contained items that I imagine my other siblings had either not taken or simply not wanted. At its bottom, a pair of eyes were staring up at me. They belonged to Jesus. It did not look like the picture of Jesus had been drawn or painted; it possessed a photographic quality. But how in this world, if I may ask, could this ever be a photograph? On the back and in my mother’s distinctive and flowing cursive handwriting was written. “God is alwwww.onedoor.ccays ...