Sweet, Savage Love_Highly Confidential_A Part of The Story_Destination Undetermined
Catalog Guide:
Sweet, Savage Love
“Go to hell, you saggy-faced frumpy old bag.”The words hit me, piercing the tender space between my chest and my heart. My daughter. Screaming at me. Rage puckering her acne ridden face, and her limp hair clinging to her scalp as she flicks it in defiance, stopping short of giving me the single middle finger.The door slams. I blink. My Cassie. Screaming at me. How the hell did we end up here?I walk into the kitchen and grip the bench, my knuckles white, heaving shaky breaths to fight off the rising panic and quell the looming self-doubt.I straighten. If she’s so determined to shut me out of he...
Highly Confidential
[possible triggers: social injustice, physical abuse, murder, suicide]“Here’s a little something for your troubles.”, he says while handing me the envelope, side-eyeing me while I put the photographs away, “Make sure to destroy them, or next time he won’t be so generous.” At this point my whole world is spinning. I take the envelope and put it in my drawer, next to the photographs. I’ll be honest, the amount of money is tempting, but this case won’t let me be. There is nothing I can do, nobody to go to. Everyone's in it, everyone that could do anything about it. I have to play along, even if i...
A Part of The Story
The news of Great Granny’s deadness is wrapped up and sealed in a black rimmed envelope. The envelope and the letter inside it are the colour of a caramel milkshake with chocolate sprinkles. Their edges look like someone’s melt-glued a licorice whip to them.I touched the paper to my tongue - to taste. Why not? Neither the envelope or the letter are licorice or caramel flavoured. Great Granny said to investigate things for myself. If I don’t investigate, I’ll never find my own answers. An answer is like a favourite chocolate, or a pretty pebble.I wonder if she is all pale and filmy - a ghost s...
Destination Undetermined
I remember as a child my mother chaining me to our apartment’s radiator. The tiny flat was on the third floor of a crumbling brick building at the end of Celestial Street. My mom was very concerned that the chain was too tight around my ankle. She was worried that it would cut off the circulation in my foot, resulting in an amputation which we could not afford. I reassured her I was fine, and I didn’t mind the restraint. Chaining me to the radiator became a frequent event and it was ritualized from the start. After securing the chain’s padlock, my mom would slip the key into her pocket...