Not Picture Perfect_Whimper_A Autumn Day_Jonathan the Duck
Catalog Guide:
Not Picture Perfect
Kayla hugged herself as she read through her chats. Her relationship was only few days old but she felt like quitting already. She had sent Dylan a text five daysdays before but he was yet to answer. She kept loading and reloading, waiting for his text, but it didn't pop up."Didn't he see it?" She muttered, her thumb swiftly wiping sweat off her brows. All the messages she had sent were marked seen yet there was still no answer. She didn't want to dwell much on it but she just couldn't hold it in."080..." She reeled off under her breath. "Should I dial it or not" she asked her dog, Gr...
Whimper
Seun has always been, well, Seun. Not just now that we are older, since when we were little children running around the streets with our panties, rolling around motorcylcle tires, and girls playing "ten-ten", or "Suwe", both a game of counting. I have always been where I was supposed to be, among my peers, the boys. But Seun, she's been different. She loves spending time with us boys, competing with us, even sometimes getting into fights with one of us. We, boys have always taunted her and asked her to go count "Ten-twww.onedoor.ccen" like her so called mates. She wouldn't hear of it. She was what would b...
A Autumn Day
By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. And I don’t mean literally as some may assume by reading this. I mean fire only Mother Nature herself could create. The reds and oranges swirled together against the autumn sky making the trees seem ablaze. As I stepped, wrapped in my soft fleece throw, onto my porch, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, allowing the smells to center me in that perfect moment. I opened my eyes and sighed softly, a small smile playing on my lips as I gazed across my lawn littered with the leaves from my large tree. The kids had created small piles of the ...
Jonathan the Duck
The door squeaks open, revealing the dark, stuffy attic we visit once in a blue moon. A treasure trove filled with history buried in every brown box resting in a forgotten corner. The floorboards creak beneath me when I shuffle to the window. Muddy pink curtains are lazily hanging on the nook, lint and dust bunnies decorate the old curtain, complimenting the holes the moths made. I pull the curtains open and allow the sunlight to pour in. The room is a little brighter now, light peeking through the windowpane. My husband slides beside me, offering a mask and gloves when I start sniffling. “Are...