That's just how teenagers are_Elizabeth’s Account_A Church for the Holidays_No Risk, No Reward
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That's just how teenagers are
I pounded my fist on the table.She had looked at him in a way she never has.My little girl let out a sigh and touched my face.…ARTI:“Arti.” My father squeezed his hands together, taking off his glasses. He said my name the way he always did, with more pepper than pep, like it was the name of a sleepy cinnamon. The ‘r’ and ‘t’ didn't collide with each other, making it sound like ‘aarathi’ in his thick accent and rolling Rs. “Papa, I know what you’re going to say and all, but I think I’m old enough to make my own choices.” I pulled on my bubblegum pink tank top, suddenly feeling a little too exp...
Elizabeth’s Account
Victor and I are united. My time has come. I stand, solemn in my white gown, watching as the bride in the mirror practices her smile. My time is here and I am his bride, his cousin, his gift, his light. I am the bride in the mirror, I remind myself. Victor, my husband, my husband, my husband. He was always the gifted one in my uncle’s eyes-- the academic with unlimited potential. The son who was destined for prestige and intellectual society. I squeeze the letter in my hand and watch as a tear rolls down the face of the beautiful, shining bride in the mirror-- who I was destined from birth t...
A Church for the Holidays
He finishes reading the passage and we look up at each other. The circular seating arrangement makes it difficult to keep from staring at the person directly across for me: a twenty-year-old man named Curtis who I have already deduced is too young for me to date. I hate that I keep track in my head of who I could date and who I couldn’t.“So, what do we think of that passage? Any first impressions?” Tom asks.www.onedoor.cc He’s the leader of the Bible study, although he’s already admitted that he missed church last Sunday and therefore didn’t hear the sermon on this verse. The sermon should have been posted ...
No Risk, No Reward
I could have been happy, had it not been for that wretched pregnant woman. Perhaps happy isn’t the word, come to think of it, but I would have been fine. I would have been content to sit at this sewing machine day in and day out, letting fabrics from all over the world flow through my fingers and thinking nothing of it. But now each new bolt fills me with torturous curiosity. Whose hands wove this wool? What was their life like? Who did they love? What made their hearts sing and sob? No, Marie. I shook my head to shoo the incessant questions away from my head like so many gnats. I was Marie, I...