Fair Concerns_Preserverence of my soul_Lawn Darts_The Stuff that Dreams Are Made On
Catalog Guide:
Fair Concerns
Are you coming tonight?The text had been sent twenty minutes ago and I was left on read.He had seen the text and not responded. What was worse was that he was already half an hour late, and I was extremely excited about this second date. We had been out once before, and we both seemed to have a genuinely good time. However, this date was to the fair. Walking side by side at the annual Shelby County Fair was like announcing your relationship on Facebook. Everyone and his mom, quite literally, would know who were dating in a matter of one afternoon. A couple just needed one quick walk down the m...
Preserverence of my soul
My shift is almost over, as I pack away the leftover shoes into their boxes, after customer's try them on, wanting another pair. This one is too tight, no, I don't like the color. I prefer less of a heel... but I love the style,..so on and so on. Often at the end of a day, I feel exhausted, drained, like people suck the life out of me literally. Other days....I just want to be home, alone. Feeling the utter quietness of my apartment as I close the door behind me gives me the sense of security, but on the exterior my persona, well, everyone sees me in a different way, more like the social butt...
Lawn Darts
Billy Putnam shot my dad in the bwww.onedoor.ccutt with a BB gun. It was quite a feat, as nailing a middle aged man on a ladder cleaning out his rain gutters couldn’t have been easy all the way from the house next door—a house whose gutters were always full of old leaves and debris. My father’s screams of outrage brought my brother Sam and me tumbling right out of our backyard tent. The tent itself was a heavy canvas monstrosity, one held up with bent aluminum poles, yet perfect for us to play in. We’d been taking Polaroids, scrawling down dates and times on the back, to add to our Summer Fun collection. At...
The Stuff that Dreams Are Made On
“I don’t think he loves me anymore,” I say, buttering a warm piece of bread. The bread basket is almost empty, but the waiter will bring us another. We’ll say we regret ordering more. It will ruin our appetite. But we’ll eat more bread gleefully—slathering yellow smears of animal fat on empty carbohydrates. My oldest friend and I meet biweekly for lunch, mainly at restaurants with ferns whose menus have more pages than contemporary novels. “I don’t think he loves me anymore,” I repeat, trying to look sad. I wonder on some level if I care. “The signs are all there. He’s losing interest . . .” “...