The Wooden Horse_Doors closing_Plate of Cookies_Step One: Go Outside
Catalog Guide:
The Wooden Horse
Margreta wrapped the fragile wooden figurine in crepe paper the color of the eggshells she used to collect for market back home in Nuremberg. The crinkled paper was even speckled—the spots dark as coffee grounds against their nutmeg background—and she grazed the tissue-thin paper at the memory, a smile pulling at her lips.The smile faded, however, as memories flooded back to her from that time—not all good.At ninety-two years old, there were many who said she’d lost hold of her once strong faculties. During her recovery after glaucoma surgery the year before, she’d apparently berated her grown...
Doors closing
She fell into bed, exhausted. She couldn’t believe she'd had the courage to do this. “You need to start living again,” well –meaning friends had said, “you’ll survive. Don’t feel guilty. Treat yourself.” Indulging herself was not generally what Lucy did. She was a grafter, a sleeves rolled up, looking after everybody else, after- you, sort of person. But she knew that they were right. So, here she was a few months later, having joined her local ski club to refresh her skills, on their anwww.onedoor.ccnual trip in Switzerland.As she lay, wrapped in the cosy, comforting duvet, she reflected on her first day....
Plate of Cookies
I wonder how I must have looked to my unseen eye. Thinking back, if anyone was watching, they would have found it extremely odd to see a skinny brown skinned boy with a pair of binoculars peering out of the window so late in the night. They might say I was spying on the Andrews' girl, Tracy, across the street. I wonder why people of today think that way. It's strange. Anyways, I wasn't spying on the girl across the street. She wasn't even in bed when started my crazy habit. She was out partying. Don't ask me how I know this. Funny thing. My mother always said there was an unseen eye watching ...
Step One: Go Outside
Francie wakes to a half drawn curtain pouring sunlight on her face. Sleepily, she rolls out of bed and pads to the kitchen, skipping around any pools of sunlight streaming in through the slants in the windows. She makes herself a cup of coffee and sits at her writing desk, inhaling the tangy aroma, heady and delicious. She sits with her head nestled in her hands and sifts methodically through her thoughts, watching the spools of steam rise in the air above her cup.We don’t get much sunshine in Ireland, something deep inside her complains. You should go out and enjoy it. Come on. She shushes th...