Pay Attention_A door ajar_Better late_Orange Alert
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Pay Attention
Content warning: references to suicide and death-----------She scrolled past image after square image of happy mothers, fathers, children with their toothy smiles, all appearing candidly full of joy and wonder. This specific photography account she began following a few days ago was becoming one of her favorites. The photographer had a distinct talent at capturing families at their most perfect, their most beautiful. Of course, she knew that photos like these weren’t always real life, but as she looked at a young mother cradling her newborn son on her bed, her husband’s arms wrapped tightly ar...
A door ajar
Trigger warning: Addiction, suicide“Julie, get your things ready now, the bus won’t be long here!”“In a minute, dad” - Julie said quietly while rolling her eyes, slumped in the armchair, left hand hanging loose with the right hand holding her smartphone. Mark raised his head as he was packing his suitcase and could glimpse through the small gap in the door; she was at it again, skimming through more pictures on social media on her phone, some of her friends, but many of herself. No doubt checking if anybody had commented on what she was wearing yesterday.“Now, Julie, please!”“OK, OK, my bags a...
Better late
Better Late By Edward HamiltonThe universe was to blame. He was built this way. He had never been the type of guy to be anywhere at the time he should be. He was born under the sign of Tardy. The only time he wasn't tardy was when he was absent. Stanley had fought many years against the forces of promptness. He was a rebel, a renegade, he fought the power..at least in his mind he did. The rest of the world viewed him as a slacker. Stanley was neither reliable nor accountable. He always had an excuse why the universe kept him from being, where he was supposed to be, on time.This Monday was no e...
Orange Alert
“They had put out a storm warning,” she said looking at him as the darkness thickened outside.Her tone was viscous. It had a languor that clouded his resolve in a layer of weakness as tactile as sin. He held the rosary in the pocket of his habit, with the Cross cradled on his index, the thumb caressing the profile of the crucified form. He could feel his sweat. The rain descended in a scatter of drops on the roof tiles and picked up the rumble of the monsoons over the backwaters, spiked with the breaking of thunder. The lights went off.She cupped the flame from the matchstick until it sprung o...