Escaping the Home_While Raking Leaves_"Know What I Mean?"_Cybil Sets the Scene
Catalog Guide:
Escaping the Home
'I’ve got a plan.' she started typing, using only her index fingers, slowly pressing them on the keyboard. Joyce darted her eyes up and down as she composed her message, ensuring she didn’t mistype a letter. She had been waiting for weeks to bring up her brilliant plan to Ernst but had been uneasy about doing it till now. She thought it improper to initiate such a thing and rather have the man suggest it. So, finally, after weeks, he had mentioned doing what she desired. Escaping the old people’s home. The main hall was filled with wide chairs, old books, channelten replaying the events of th...
While Raking Leaves
I swear the trees grow more leaves every year, just to give me more raking work to do in November. I will never use leaf blowers to do the job, no matter how many leaves there are. Raking is a real man’s job. Besides, it’s easy for me to remember which end of the rake moves the leaves, and which I hold in my hand. If I operated a leaf blower, I might make it suck, quite literally. I’m no good with machines. When I went to rake under the biggest tree, the worst leaf-dropping offender, I heard a little rustling up above my head. It almost sounded like the tree was deliberate...
"Know What I Mean?"
“What do you mean?”“What do you mean ‘what do I mean?’”“You know what I mean.”“No, I don’t.”“Yes, you do.”“Nope.”“Quit it.”“Youwww.onedoor.cc totes know, man, quit it.”“Who are you?”“Yeah, who are you?”“I’m a third guy.”“Oh, nonono—” “A third guy? Yeah, absolutely not.”“This is gonna get way too complicated with three guys.”“Yeah, seriously convoluted. Get outta here.”“Fine. Whatever. You guys aren’t even that interesting to talk to anyway.”“Wow, rude much.”“I know, right. Who just butts into other people’s conversations like that?”“Rude people, that’s who.”“Exactly. Now, what were just you and I talking ab...
Cybil Sets the Scene
She’d gotten good enough at it after so many years. The writing was getting tighter, her voice finally distinct, the allegory true to life. Each Friday evening, she sat at her Olympia, the typebars slapping the page as her fingertips punched the keys. Her Persian cat, Smitten, stretched her white paws upon being woken following a particularly violent smack of the parchment. The cat’s blue stare bore into Cybil with the unflappable criticism of a creature not finding much sense in any activity other than steadfast rest. The record player in the corner sat while its needle skipped for the pas...