Metamorphosis, Again_Bad Feelings_Death and the Ardor of Music_The Unlucky Cyclist
Catalog Guide:
Metamorphosis, Again
Metamorphosis, AgainIt all happened because of that lunch when she ate pork. She knew she shouldn't have eaten that pork. She was a person with plans and intentions. She knew what in her life followed what. She thought she had a picture of her future in mind. She cared about her career and her private life in equal proportions. Both things were more or less under control. She slept enough, she traveled, she took care of her appearance. She was aware of what she was eating, too. Usually she was. And that pork was delicious, and the conversation along with the eating was smart. Later she though...
Bad Feelings
EmmaLynn always knew she the power to feel people's feelings in her gut and in her heart, but this time something is different, this time she can't explain what is happening, this time her gut and her heart is telling her something iswww.onedoor.cc wrong.Since she was a little girl EmmaLynn knew she had the power to feel, the power to know when something is wrong. Her mother calls it a gift.EmmaLynn didn't understand what she was feeling or how far it would go until her grandmother passed away. She knew in her heart something was wrong.EmmaLynn told her mother and she knew as well. At the funeral EmmaLynn f...
Death and the Ardor of Music
The melody of the grieving is quite a symphony of its own. The weeping woman does not notice me pass by her, but she shivers slightly nonetheless, her warm tears streaking down her trembling face.All around me, there are quiet sniffles or loud sobs, the masterpiece of a haunted composer. Off in the distance, the accompaniment plays: a long, beeping noise with no beginning or end, merely a dreadful existence that signals the end of another. When I take the soul in my arms, it has already begun to cool.Nearby, a child wails loudly, a rapidly increasing crescendo of notes in this discordant orche...
The Unlucky Cyclist
That Thursday, several years ago, I decided I did not want to be a writer anymore. My dog, Jumbo, a Pinscher mixed with all the breeds, and I were sitting on a bench in the small park watching the local fountain. Jumbo likes to watch stuff and reflect, just like I used to do when I dreamed of becoming a famous writer. It was late in the afternoon, and a lot of kids were playing outside. There was a young man in his twenties who rode a bicycle with a motor that allowed him to cross the park in seconds. Having disassembled some wooden boards from a closet, he decided to play the cyclist on the w...