A Bit of a Traveller_"Memories"_An apple for the teacher_Making Scents of It All
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A Bit of a Traveller
A Bit of a TravellerThe year was 1969, and the graduating class had decided to put objects into a time capsule, which was buried on in the far corner of the property owned by the high school. It was where some of the students went to go to smoke. There was a large bush that they could hide behind, and not get caught.The plan was to dig the time capsule up and revisit it every ten years, to give it a look, maybe laugh. However, 10, then 20, 30 and even 40 years later, there had been no such activity, even though about half of those class members had come to the first two reunions, and a substa...
"Memories"
10 years ago I had woken up from surgery after I got my appendix removed with no memory of who I was or where I was. The only thing I seemed to “remember” was an unknown woman who had curly ginger hair smiling at me. I couldn’t make out the setting whenever I thought about it but as my life progressed, so did my “memories”. I went to a thrift store and saw a wedding dress and I saw the same women all dolled up with the same dazzling smile on her face as the first memory. Same white dress, same matching veil and a mixed bouquet of white and light pink roses being tossed over her head to a face...
An apple for the teacher
I had been sat on the bench for the last ten minutes taking in the sites and sounds. www.onedoor.ccI was a people watcher; I loved to look at someone, imagine who they were or was and give them a back story to go along with it. I had always found myself doing it. Sometimes I found myself staring a little too long and ended up getting some funny looks in return. Wouldn’t like to think what back story I was being given!I screwed the lid off my new shiny metal flask and poured myself another cup of Nescafe Gold Blend. I missed my usual long black coffee with a dash of milk and a shot of caramel. Every morning,...
Making Scents of It All
The kitchen air kissed her cheeks. Warm. Cosy. She swept her hair up into the claws of a large black clip and rolled her sleeves, so they sat snug in the crooks of her elbows. Oven mitts. Check. Heat mats. Check. She squatted, hunched over, sending up a “desperate” prayer. She stared through the grimy window of the oven door. The baking tray stared right back. The gentle wrinkles at the corners of her eyes crinkled further. More cringe than smile. Her hand moved, before she could reconsider. It swung the oven door down by the steel handle. She shut her eyes against the steam which burst fort...