Sugar Moon_The Day Everything Stopped_Searching For Sanctuary_White Lie
Catalog Guide:
Sugar Moon
The pearly white moon shone over me. I was covered in grime. Plumping myself on the rocking chair, the frail object broke into shreds. I scowled. I stood up, wandering around the peculiar room. A neon jar rolled across the room. Picking it up, I carefully examined it’s label. Another jar, this time purple, rolled across the room. I set the neon jar on the desk and picked up the purple one. I was still curiously observing the itwww.onedoor.ccem when a gigantic sky blue jar fell from the ceiling. Appalled, I became silent. After a little while, I gradually stepped towards the immense jar.The names were all s...
The Day Everything Stopped
The Day Everything Stopped Struter Jones rushed to the corner to catch the 7:58 Fifth Avenue bus. As usual, she had timed every action in getting ready for her daily work grind down to the last second. No fan of her current dull-as-hell-go-nowhere clerical position, she did only what she had to do when she had to do it, as every day she searched for the miracle job that would take her out of the morass that had defined every day of her life for the last five years.However, little did Struter know that her life and her world–indeed, the world of every other person o...
Searching For Sanctuary
Searching for sanctuary Cough. She wheezed. She could hardly think. What would he do without her? The night grew cold. Sweat gathered in beads on her forehead and her face seared like a deadly sunburn. Cough. She tried to open her eyes. She felt him laying next to her and, with the last of her strength, she grabbed his sleeping hand. Then she, too, fell asleep. ∆∆∆ He woke to the sun beaming through cracks in the wall. Nothing stirred. He didn’t hear her coughing. His attention snapped from asleep to alert. He sat up and her hand still clung to his. He felt her face. Cold as the night. He hugg...
White Lie
Firstly, there’s a ski on top of your snowboard. The queue scrapes and slithers forward but you can’t move because someone’s ski is slap bang across your board. Left foot strapped into the front binding, right foot planted on the slush beside the board, you look up and ahead and see chairs coming round and scooping up twos and threes from the front of the queue. Then you look down and trace the ski to its owner. He’s prodding his poles into the snow to push himself forward. You smell Ambre Solaire and garlic. “Excusez-moi?” you say in your poshest French, with attitude, pointing down. The man,...