Second Chance for Love_Dallas Homecoming_Not-So-Important Memories-- or are They?_Memory, Meet Orcha
Catalog Guide:
Second Chance for Love
When I first heawww.onedoor.ccrd about the new reality show, I thought it was ridiculous. Why would I want to go on a show to find love? Everyone knows those shows are not “reality.” Also, most of the couples break up after a short time. Only a really desperate person would go on this show. Right?So I ignored the call for contestants. So imagine my surprise when I got a call from a producer, telling me they loved my entry. I was going to be on the show “Second Chances.”“But I didn’t apply!” I said.“Your friends sent in your video. It was so great, so real. We know you’ll be a perfect asset to the show.”I c...
Dallas Homecoming
When she was young, her and her brother learned about time capsules. In a world that was not afraid of change, something resting underground, patiently awaiting the light again, was almost inspiring.Almost.She and Mikey had tried to create time capsules to bury and dig up when they were older and wiser, but their family moved every year. They did their best to keep track of the dates and locations of all the capsules. They eventually lost track of the list between moves and bouts of puberty, but their young spirits told them they could have treasure hunt adventure in the future, instead. Optim...
Not-So-Important Memories-- or are They?
"And... there!" exclaims an older man. He pats the dirt down with his shovel, smiling at himself with approval. The man has graying hair, kind brown eyes, and enough stress lines to last a lifetime. He surveys the ground surrounding the patch of land he just filled back up, memories flooding back to him. All of a sudden, he is back in the 12th grade, talking to his friends outside while his teacher drones on about the importance of time capsules. He is tired of standing here, for he is ready to go home already."Jeremy, come here!" calls one of his friends. Jeremy pushes back his shaggy brown ...
Memory, Meet Orchard.
A long time ago, when our father was the age we were then, people took the trains for everything and roads were built for bicycles, not the awkward, shambling cars that gasped in pain up the hill from Fort Spring to The Orchard.Back then, we thought it was called The Orchard because every township had The Store, or, The Diner. This forest of regimented trees full of fruit should be a similar fortunate thing, wonderful food within every ten square miles. Nothing else made sense.My sister and I marked our growth each fall with how easily we filled the trunk; how well we could reach the branches,...