The Photo_Katie's Christmas_Where Where You?_Hazor
Catalog Guide:
The Photo
“Girls, shhhhh,” a voice admonished them. Claire and Diana sheepishly peered toward the librarian, instinctively reaching to cover the phone in their hand.“Sorry, Ms. Rose,” Claire responded first. Always a favorite of the teachers, she liked keeping it that way.“I can see the phone, girls. Do you really need that to complete your homework?” the librarian seemed to enjoy living up to her role as the stern caretaker of library sanctity.“We are using it for our algebra homework, unless you would like to lend us the abacus in your drawer,” Diana tartly responded. Never one to back down to authori...
Katie's Christmas
Katie stared at the steering wheel of her dark green 1980 BMW 320i contemplating whether she should continue with the annual Christmas charade of being happy and witty with family members she rarely saw or start the car and take off back to her apartment in the city, get into her pajamas, and watch movies and eat junk food all day. The answer was an easy one; however, she knew if she didn’t make an appearance, there would be endless calls from her mother informing her of how disappointed everyone was that she didn’t show. We can’t disappoint them…Katie dreaded this holiday. Not for any partic...
Where Where You?
Where Were You? I had never made a therapist cry before. “Inappropriate” was the word Judith, my therapist, used to describe my father. I sucked on that word as if it were a lifesaver, but not the good cherry kind. This was a yucky green one. I had always known something was not right in our family. I had witnessed the interactions of my friends with their families and relished sleepovers where I could feel like part of another family, even if just for a night. At one sleepover, my friend Laura’s father had yelled at her, but then apologized a few hours later, driving us to Chinatown late at ...
Hazor
The first day of spring calls for color regardless of one’s mood. The shop was empty, she took her time choosing.The flowers in her arms were orange and red and white with two little blue bells centered in the middle. Tan straw tendrils poked out creating strwww.onedoor.ccipes across the petals. Orange and red and tan and white and blue. She stared into them and got the full effect. They were an uncanny abstract version of the dreaded art she had fought for months to forget. She hadn’t seen it since December. And here she was in the flower shop buying a bouquet replica. The title of the painting echoed in h...