Misreadings_Favorites_will of the mill_It's Just Dirt
Catalog Guide:
Misreadings
I’ll never understand it all.“Come to prom with me!” CeCe squeals and bounces on my bed sending my Psychology textbook flying. I turn around towww.onedoor.cc acknowledge her.I studied her.“It’s going t-to be noisy and loud. Too m-many people. Not to mention the overwhelming stench of cheap perfume mixed with fruit punch.” I get off the bed to retrieve my book. “No thank you.”“It’s not going to be noisy. There won’t be speakers ‘cause it’ll be a silent prom with headphones and everything. We can’t really get rid of the perfume, but I promise it’ll still be fun. It’s an Aspie’s dream, Cosima.” She managed to...
Favorites
I saw a tree and thought of you, or rather, thought of the way you see trees. I remembered when we walked through the Ramble in Central Park, a wild place in the center of a place wilder still, resplendent and emerald in the early summer sun. You stopped suddenly when you saw it. I remember how you cocked your head in appreciation, a tendril of hair escaped from behind your ear. You brushed it back with an unconscious hand.“There it is,” you said, with such earnest excitement that I couldn’t help but feel I was missing something exceptional. I was, as it turns out. You stepped over the little ...
will of the mill
The usual sun rose and the morning routine started for the town of Trezet .It was the baker’s coarse voice “I have a whole basket of bread .lalalalalalalalalaaaaa.” “Jolly Good.” says the woman is a pink dressing gown. Then comes another vendor yelling at the top of his voice named Mr. Crate but surprisingly because of his extra-ordinary gift of a loud voice he was called the micro human (microphone+human) selling dry fruits “O ye friends ,have some pistachios have almonds along have cashews ,walnut ,figs and pine nuts too”. The town buzzes with god knows who including the potter, the milkman,...
It's Just Dirt
It’s Just DirtDust boiled up.I always wondered who first started using that descriptor. It’s a good one. I squatted in the shade of a mesquite tree, and watched that proverbial dust boil up as the cattle, my cattle, stirred about in the shipping pens. Twenty-six head, on their way to the feed lot, and eventually to American dinner tables. In the distance, I could hear the rumble of a big diesel engine and metallic rattles of the truck, coming to take my life’s blood away. I was almost used to the pain. I had been selling off the herd in bits and pieces for fi...