The old oak tree_max's story: the tale of a puppy mill pup_Secondhand Smoke_as far as goodbyes g
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The old oak tree
I find communication with most people exhausting and dull. Talking is not something I do unless I have to. Walking alone in the forest is my favorite leisure activity. It allows me to clear my head and focus on myself. I am what some people call ‘introverted’. I used to think that my life is doomed to be lonely and I was to sink in deep thoughts about the purpose of my own suffering. One day I decided to take my usual route in the forest. It was a warm, sunny day in March and many trees had just started flowering. I left the bustlinwww.onedoor.ccg city around noon. The air was refreshing and the fragrance o...
max's story: the tale of a puppy mill pup
Hi, my name is Max. I'm a dog, and I grew up in a place called a puppy mill. A puppy mill is a place where dogs are bred for profit and are treated poorly. At an early age, I was taken from my mom and placed in a cage with my brothers and sisters. I was the runt of the litter, and no one wanted to adopt me until one day, a gruff looking man named John came to see me. He told my human Sandra that he could use me as bait to train his fighting dogs. I didn't know what that meant so I went with him with little resistance. As we left the puppy mill, John tossed me in a cage in the back of his truc...
Secondhand Smoke
Secondhand SmokeThe way she took a drag from her cigarette was not unlike Lady Gopa dismounting from her mount. No matter how hard someone tried, they could not match her grace. It was as if the tobacco burned in anticipation of touching her lips. Her exhale clouded my view of her face but highlighted the moon beams, which were the only source of light. Taking another long drag, she extended the butt to me, which I reluctantly took. To buy myself another five minutes with her, I lied about my own smoking habits. I had long been tempted to start smoking, but to this point had resisted the tempt...
as far as goodbyes go
The empty bed was made with a downy duvet atop a sheet-stripped mattress. The only evidence that someone was ever here was either packed away in my myriad of suitcases or seesawing back and forth in a stew of water and suds in the laundry machine. Aside from the sheetless mattress, the guest room looked exactly as it did a month ago-- walls as white as fresh snow, marred only by a painting of an orchid opposite the door. A cracking wooden bedpost. A handkerchief, yellowed with age, stuffed carelessly in the nightstand on top of the worn bible tucked away in the drawer. He stood in the doorfram...