Curiosity and the cat_The Reunion_Whatever Dreams are Made of_I follow where my thought flows
Catalog Guide:
Curiosity and the cat
Amelia gracefully eyed the two doors in front of her. It wasn't by accident that she ended up in this predicament, just a simple series of events that lead to this decision. You see Amelia used to be a resident at the local orphanage at the end of Baker's Street. The same orphanage that mysteriously burned down the night Miss Anna told Amelia she can not visit her litter of friends that brewed out the side of the building. Amelia said that her kitten companions told her they will take her to their kingdom someday. To which Miss Anna simply laughed and said 'you're not leaving this house young ...
The Reunion
Standing on the porch he could see the waves. It was the mountain that spoke. “I was wondering when you would appear”, LT said. Standing behind him was EP, grinning viciously. “It was only a matter of time. You’re late.” Coughing, LT slowly wiped his hands on his legs. “You know that team tag was terrible. Perhaps find another one?” Silence came after, with only a smirk coming from EP’s face. “Nah, it seems that combo was more than enough, though you shall see soon.” Shaking his head, LT walks away, moving closer to the shells that laid out before him. “How long will the cycle go? Aren’t the ...
Whatever Dreams are Made of
George Solid respectability was the understated unselfconscious achievement of George Albert Jones. His style was worlds apart from the prevalent self-opinionated social media posturing into which he rarely dipped, and only then with distain. His eponymous insurance underwriting firm had offices on Fenchurch Street in London with a branch at Manchester’s Minshull Street. When not at work, he was usually home in an extensive five bedroomed Barnes town house and occasionally at the family cottage in Devon. David Lloyd was the only club of which he was a family member, a privilege which his daugh...
I follow where my thought flows
I start playwww.onedoor.ccing the keys, flowing through them as smooth and sharp as a river may go. I don’t know if I’ll make it, for there are too many obstacles, pieces of wood floating downstream, hell-bent on interrupting my flow. I’m a sea now……. Or perhaps a ship floating on its surface..... I can hear violins, sweet and mournful, (is that how they sound?) in perfect rhythm with my playing….. Although… I know not what it is that I am performing, perhaps I practised so much that I no longer feel the need to be there while my hands and feet do their work. Maybe that’s not it; it could be the countless ...