Where life just isn't fair_An Inconvenient Flame_One for Three_Unbroken traditions
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Where life just isn't fairwww.onedoor.cc
Welcome to Tinpen Harbour, or Tinpen, as everyone calls it, where everyone will follow the same path in life; first, you get born. Then, you go to Kindergarten, Elementary School, Middle School and eventually, High School. At the end of High School, everyone takes the SCDT’s, the Standardised Class Division Tests. This is where it gets exciting. This is the point in life where you can go two ways; either you pass the SCDT’s, or you don’t. If you pass, you’re one of the lucky ones, your life will matter. You will get to go to a good college, get a good job and live in a good section of town. If...
An Inconvenient Flame
In the small town of Oak-town Hills there lived a Woman named Serenity who owned a flower shop. She was the only person who owned such a store like hers, so she would get a lot of business because of it. Serenity loved to climb mountains and hills so she would pick wild flowers to sell to the townspeople. Serenity's store was next to a shop that sold instruments like guitars, drums, or small woodwind instruments.The man who owned that store was named Taylor, he was a few years older than Serenity. He had moved to Oak-town from Japan 3 years ago to start a new life in a smaller place. But Taylo...
One for Three
Three things had roared through my mind on that wonderful day last spring when I got my acceptance letter from Branford Academy. When Penny greeted me scarcely twenty minutes after Dad dropped me off, I was down to one for three for the time being. But at least that one was under my own control.I was still smarting from the first illusion to fall when Penny invited herself into my new room and handed me the second. I was sitting on my new, as-yet sheetless bed, looking out the window at the steel-and-glass view of New Campus when I heard the knock at the door. I didn’t want the view to be unwe...
Unbroken traditions
I ran, breathlessly, to take the best seat at the decrepit dinner table before my brother could get to it. “Afshaneh, let the men eat first,” my mother briskly sneered at me, aggressively nodding her head, and I dejectedly made my way into the kitchen. Friday dinners at my uncle’s house was the happening hotspot for heated debates and political discussions. Differing opinions would be thrown from one end of the table to another while simultaneously stuffing a handful of Basmati rice soaked in Korma daal hurryingly in their mouths. But it was always the men at the table, always the men of the...