Blood Is Not Everything_A Call For You!_Sara_The Imago
Catalog Guide:
Blood Is Not Everything
The ringing of the doorbell jerks me from my slightly uncomfortable sleep on the sofa. I brush the hair out of my eyes and get up, wobbling on my feet. The doorbell rings again. I yell that I’m coming, finding it a bit weird in itself that Mom would ring the bell more than once. She had once waited almost a half-hour outside the door for me to finish a shower, it was quite unlike her to ring it again within the span of a few seconds. Opening the door, the back of my mind pokes at me, telling me to have looked through the peephole. Maybe if I’d have looked, I wouldn’t even have opened it. A wom...
A Call For You!
She remembers how excited people were about Alexander Graham Bells invention at first. It changed people’s lives being able to talk to each other from any place in the world. Of course, It was slow getting started at first you had to go through an operator to place your call. Then you could place it directly.Switch boards are a think of the past also. You can leave a message on a voice mail directory now. Ellen misses the time when they use to have phone booths in the street and weird shaped phones like radio phones they were big in the eighties. Ellen also misses her business of repairin...
Sara
Rufus Shanks was 76 years old and hadn’t received a single visitor in the fifteen years he’d resided in his 6x4 bungalow. Every morning, as he hobbled to the mirror, he summarized that nothing had changed overnight. Quilt-splattered sunspots decorated his boastful cheeks, his eyebrows (as lovers) ached for mutual touch, and his forehead could be strummed likwww.onedoor.cce a guitar. His breath still stunk of pickles and the holes on his shirt continued to reproduce. In conclusion, his life was utterly devoid of variety. Rufus was simple. He considered pennies as pennies and dimes as dimes. Interactions were...
The Imago
Mother was in her dreams. “A butterfly,” she said, looking at Mother. “What does a butterfly have to do with it?”They were in a meadow. Tufts of grass plumed up around them like little green fires. The sky overhead was a deep blue, vast and wide, bluer and fuller than the sky had ever been in the waking world. There were no trees, only plain, undulating meadow for miles and miles, touching the blue horizon like the confluence of two rivers. “A butterfly,” Mother said, and as she spoke a richly-colored monarch butterfly fluttered gently down to settle on her finger, antennae whispering in the...