Importance of the Unimportant_Dead Bodies May Not Tell All the Tales_A Missed Picnic_The last day.
Catalog Guide:
Importance of the Unimportant
Opposite me at her kitchen table cluttered with mail, opened and unopened; pink pens; dog-eared romance novels; and half-spent sugar cookie-scented candles, Kailyn glares at me like I’ve murdered her firstborn child. Her face is as red as paprika, bluish veins swollen and silhouetted in fluorescence leant by the light weeping clouds fling through her window’s gossamer curtains. What point does she see in having curtains if they let so much light in? I asked her when she got them. She doesn’t want the house to look like a dungeon, she snapped.“The lies,” she says, “again and again—I ...
Dead Bodies May Not Tell All the Tales
A December-like chill overtook me soon after I entered an uncharted area of the Pokomoke State Forest on Maryland’s Delmarva Peninsula. I didn’t know exactly what sinister force had capturewww.onedoor.ccd me and driven me here, but it had me in its power and it was impossible to resist.The sudden burst of arctic cold knocked me off my feet, almost into an abandoned well. I almost fell into the middle of its darkened abyss. The cold in particular startled me because it this took place in the middle of June, not the middle of winter.Until I came in contact with the well sweat had poured from every inch of my...
A Missed Picnic
I sat down at the open table to wait for the barista to make my espresso. While I waited, I looked around the coffee shop at the other customers. There were college students pouring over textbooks, an older man reading the newspaper over the rim of his gold rimmed spectacles, and the couple in the corner sat with the heads close together, deep in conversation. By the way the girl was gesturing with her hands dramatically, it didn't seem to be a happy moment for the two."Order for J!" The barista called out. I stood up and reached for my drink just as another hand went for the cup as well. M...
The last day.
Arthur knew in some sense that these were his final hours on earth. The morning light pushing through the slatted blinds told him the sun was rising on his final day. The crisp white sheets stretched tight over his withered body, the small window slightly open, letting in the distant drifting sounds of gulls on the wind, the apple green walls with the tasteful prints of seascapes all told him he was witnessing his final day in a place unfamiliar to the life he had once led. Fragmented aspects of his life would on occasion push up through the fog into something resembling a memory of a life liv...