The Taste_The Fig Tree's Love_slow burn, overdone_Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison
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The Taste
The Taste By: Ann Yuan Twenty years later, when www.onedoor.ccJodi saw Venessa walk into her Café at Hampton plaza, she swore that a trace of bittersweetness, the taste of almond or walnut, welled up in her mouth. “Hi, congratulations on your grand opening!” Venessa said. She wore a cute black wool coat, immaculate make-ups, honey hue hair in delicate waves flew down to her shoulders. She took an inspecting glance over the dining area, then came up with an approving grin on the corner of her lips. High-spirited, amiable yet fastidious, trying to be perfect in every subject, which she succeeded at most of th...
The Fig Tree's Love
Cormac was a toothy old Irish man, living in the French countryside with his young daughter Fayette. His wife, Félice, had recently passed on to the other side due to birthing complications. The child was a stillborn. There was no money for a funeral with a cobbler’s salary, so Félice was buried down by the stream where she played as a child, and their son, Jean, was bundled up with her. His name meant “God is gracious”, but after the tragedy Cormac began to question just how gracious God really was, or if he was even there at all. When Félice and Jean were buried, he poured out a bottle of b...
slow burn, overdone
"You'll never know unless you try"---he handed me the cigarette and I handily proceeded to light it, the air was cold and I couldn't remember why I'd decided to leave home, or how my night, or this moment, had come to be. She was sheltered by a million hands and not too far from the darkened corner where a burning barrel was our only heat. "Go on", he said, "what are you waiting for"...I looked around and saw white smoke every time I opened my mouth to breathe..."I don't know", I said. There was an icy stare upon her face, but I knew it could not be that she'd deign to look at me.The last drag...
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison
"Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison".The euphonious petitions of the choir ring through the high walls of the church. Our priest swings a luxurious golden globe of myrrh incense, while one of the clergy boys sprays holy water at the congregation. The droplets land at my feet and I run the soles of my Converse over them; for these thoughts that inhabit my mind, I will need all the purifying I can get. Behind the alter there's a cathedral glass portrait of Mary mother of Jesus. My eyes stay glued to it and all I feel is a borrowing pit in my stomach. The more my mind works, the faster my heart beats...