Sour Apples_Me (or not) by Madelaine Roberts_Gerrit's Game_Flycatcher
Catalog Guide:
Sour Apples
TW domestic/emotional abuseMay spits the chunk of apple into the sink, grimacing. “No matter how ripe they look, they’re sour!” she mutters to herself, inspecting the fruit in her hand. Symmetrical and without a bruise in sight. Firm. Solid. Scarlet, all ‘round. And sour for the third year in a row.“Are you gonna eat that or just stare at it?” comes a voice through the open front door, followed by a rather stout woman with a wide smile.“Charlotte, you startled me!” May exclaims, sweeping anxious eyes from her friend to the orchard beyond her kitchen windows. “John’ll be home soon and I don’t w...
Me (or not) by Madelaine Roberts
I knew I should listen, if only to myself, to the signals my own bodwww.onedoor.ccy was sending me if not to the cacophony of well meaning ‘friendly advice’ bombarding me from all directions. Apparently, my children are being appallingly let down … I am setting a bad example, I am being selfish with our limited finances, I am making their lives infinitely more difficult due to the embarrassment of having me as a mother, I am unable to adequately cater for their needs. When this angle of attack does not seem to provide the requisite emotional (or actual) response, the tactic changes. My children love me and ...
Gerrit's Game
There was no rain yet, but the night above was gray and brooding. Storm clouds lowed in the distance, the sound masked by the monotonous moan of the sea.Gerrit McCole wore a dark scowl. Before him was a small and freckled kid wearing a baseball cap that was too big for his head. The kid nervously handed Gerrit a damp wad of cash.Gerrit snatched the money from the child, then counted the assortment of bills. He tried to hide a smile. It was all there, all hundred dollars.“So you’ll make sure I win, right?” the kid said, his voice timid and afraid.Gerrit gave him an evil scowl and a ghastly eye....
Flycatcher
I breathe, I take aim. He freezes in my viewfinder, silver shadow fur and bleach, caught in the act of turning away with his face still twisted towards me. An eye-shadow bruise leaks down from his eye. This in the breath before hell patches through: the bass thrums, a dark object flies through the frame in slow motion. He cannot see it, doesn´t know until the bottle makes contact with the mic stand and splinters on his chest. My finger falls. The shutter clicks. I put the cap back on my camera, screwing down the lid on the firefly that glows when I shake it around the jar.Some moments of chaos...