Seasons: The First Part_Trans_Final Project_Gravity in the Mist
Catalog Guide:
Seasons: The First Part
SeasonsA prologue poem I present to youA group of fairies, a group of 2+2、Bringing joy to boys, joy to girlsEveryone seasonal change while their dresses twirlsAutumn, Winter, Spring and SummerWithout these fairies, the world would remain a bummer.We start the story, we begin the legendA short, simple story, which all may comprehend.Do you know how seasons come and go? Do you know why summer is so hot and winter is so colwww.onedoor.ccd, why does an indian summer occur? Many believe that It is based on the Earth’s rotation, and that’s correct, but throughout millenia, humans have had their own takes on how ...
Trans
Mika thought the hardest hurdle would be the surgery. But the truth was that the post-partum hump, when you were still navigating gauze and getting to know your body again--getting to understand the indents, the silicone or lack thereof, the shifting fabric of your own organs--the sagging flesh and stolen body parts, in truth, was by far the worse part. When Mika looked at herself in the mirror, she was not like she once was. Her skin was different--the stitches and incisions made her look like a practice medical dummy--perfectly threaded and reassembled like Frankenstein’s monster. She looked...
Final Project
I had just concluded my final therapy session for the day when they found me. I stood up from my arm chair and outstretched my hand to a much more composed Brenda Farley, knowing it was the last time I’d see her, professionally at least.I was happy to help. In just 1 hour, 37 minutes she’d let go of 51 years of anxiety, depression, physical and sexual insecurities, self-hate and paranoia, all stemming from childhood trauma and subsequent failed marriages.Mrs. Farley stood and took my hand in both of hers, wrinkled and veiny. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you,” she said, smiling ear to ear ...
Gravity in the Mist
The pain of thought tortured many. He flung himself down in a rickety chair in his dusty apartment, feeling the ghost of thoughts come on like tidal waves—relentless pursuit with a water baton raised until he succumbed and prepared himself for the unceremonious thump of impact, the blow that’d knock him out cold; that was what recalling one’s hurtful memory felt like. He was trying to recall what it had felt like. His exhalation caught in the thorax, never arriving in the realm of existence. Just as he thought he was going to give out and be demoted to his previous mundane ...