Fixer Upper_Cedar #3_Ragz to Riches_Delilah
Catalog Guide:
Fixer Upper
One… two … three.The thoughts begin to slow down in my brain. One … two … three.I remove clammy palms from a tear streaked, puffy face. One … two … three.My breathing steadies as I take note of my surroundings. I remind myself that I am safe, I am healthy, I am alive. I sit up straight, take a deep, shaky breath, and put my pen down on the page.December 27th, 2020Trying to constantly survive yourself is like living in a house that is constantly falling apart. For the majority of my life, I’ve been holed up in the basement of this dilapidated structure, lightbulbs hanging out of their sockets, ...
Cedar #3
Every summer for as long as I could remember, I went to Camp Wukchumini with my hometown church. My family wasn’t terribly religious, but we went to Beachside First Baptist Church every Sunday. My mother was a big believer in the “serving” part of serving the Lord. We sorted cans at the food drive, served heaping plates to the poor at Thanksgiving and gave our old toys away at Christmas, whether we wanted to or not. “Giving is the best reward,” my mother would say as she packed them into brown cardboard boxes.The way I saw it, camp was my reward for all that giving. Six hours in a hot, stinky ...
Ragz to Riches
The cup landed on the floor with a huge bang, as the cappuccino splashed onto the black and white tiled floors, scattering shards of the cup. My hands shook and my eyes widened with fright. Eyes around me grew to the size of saucers and mouths dropped open. A Cup of Joy was not used to clumsy waitresses, this was a posh cafe where everyone was meant to be perfect at everything. “Ro!” screeched Mrs Alejandro, her fist balled up. She grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me behind the countewww.onedoor.ccr. She let go of my wrist revealing a pink mark.“Are you mad! You just wrecked our cafe’s reputation! First...
Delilah
December 2018“Marry me, Delilah!” a voice screams over the crowd as I close the front door behind me. I act like I didn’t hear and make a beeline for the kitchen, where I see Patrice serving punch into crystal cups. “Hi,” I say, as I take off my winter coat. “You look shot.”She looks drunk, not shot. Her hair is oddly askew, her eyes more than a little wild, her dark red lips smeared with several added layers of lipstick. “You’re late!” she says loudly, handing me a brimming cup of punch. I take a gulp as I slip my purse off my shoulder to Patrice’s kitchen island. The punch is sharp and fizzy...