Spit It Out_Where we slept_Don't Die Young_Miss Chagrin’s home for wayward children.
Catalog Guide:
Spit It Out
Here I am, in detention yet again. I hate to say it, but being stuck here is far better than being at home. My home life is absolute chaos, there is always drama plaguing my family. At least when I’m at school I’m away from that mess. Even though it’s detention it feels like an escape from it all. Yes, I have to sit here an hour after school let out, but it’s more ideal than being stuck in that house.You may ask what the drama is at my house, but that’s a very open ended question. There’s always an issue over something, even the most minor bump in the road has an extreme reaction. There was on...
Where we slept
It had been a beautiful day and promised to continue sunny and dappled, into the warm evening. We’d been bushwalking all day, with no real destination, just a rambling holiday enjoying nature, and escaping from the city and it’s crowds, the anxiety of the possibility of Covid infection left behind with the grey noise. Hiking holiday sound way too athletic. Ours was more a very long stroll. Absorbing the green countryside, taking a zillion photos from vast landscapes to tiny cicada shells, and chatting or singing as we walked.Eventually we’d need to find a spot to camp overnight and it was bett...
Don't Die Young
“Where I come from, we don’t die young.” She snapped her bubblegum. She said it so nonchalant – so plain – as if it was. I wrote her off years ago as pompous and self-aggrandized. Poetic. Gold and rubies birthed her, and wealth was a catalyst for that type. I hated thewww.onedoor.cc way she perched on my bed. I bet if she stood, my mattress wouldn’t remember her; she floated. Above us, she floated. Angelic, she floated. My mattress remembered me! It embraced me. She floated. Weightless and witchy and wondrous, she floated – she could not understand that embrace. What did she mean, we don’t die youn...
Miss Chagrin’s home for wayward children.
~I was admitted here only a few weeks ago. Miss Chagrin’s home for wayward children. The title could be improved. The attendance could do some work too. I woke up with little to no memory of my life. I mean, I remember classes. I know the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. I remember rhetorical writing. If I try hard enough, I can even remember the name of my old school. But I can’t even know my own name. I walked to the cafeteria, my hope quickly dwindling. I didn’t think I’d find someone; I just wanted to find something. And now, I have you. Dr. Susannah. It’s a name I haven’t hear...