Written on Juniper Leaves_Butterfly Wings in a Shoebox_Hunter Street_Born in the Middle of Nowhere
Catalog Guide:
Written on Juniper Leaves
Meisie can recall all the names of the dead in the Levell Graveyard. She could list them off on her chubby fingers, starting with the ones placed near the entrance gate. The names were carved and darkened by time and shadows to the point of blurriness. Perhaps that’s why she memorized them. One, two, three, four. Five, six, seven, eight. You knew she was an odd child, but when she told Pa there were 109 in all, he threw his head back and laughed. It was an uncommon noise in a graveyard, almost to the point of extinction. Pa led her through the blackberry bushes surrounding the property. He set...
Butterfly Wings in a Shoebox
Maarte woke with a start, and early. It was dark still. She lay there with her eyes open, searching for the window, trying to remember what day it was. Then she remembered.She rose after a few minutes and went and sat at the kitchen table, watching the window that looked out onto the empty lot next door.Maarte sat silently, listening to the first of the birds outside. After a few minutes she made her coffee and waited for the sun. By the time she was drinking the dregs, dawn had broken quietly before her.Maarte stood and dressed quickly. It would be Sande’s birthday tomorrow, and Maarte wanted...
Hunter Street
Hunter Street was empty on this brisk Sunday evening— apart from two souls, a man and a woman, walking toward each other. It was 6 PM, just as the sun was setting— painting the sky with its glorious mural as it fell out of sight. He gazed up, excited by the sunset. ‘It’s perfect!’ He thought, as his eyes shifted from the sky to the landscape of autumnal leaves covering the ground where they walked. A gust of wind seemed like his perfect excuse to reach into the pocket of his wool coat unassumingly. As he did, the fingers of his right hand clasped around what was inside, ready to p...
Born in the Middle of Nowhere
My earliest memory is playing with my big brother Ricky in the backyard. I must’ve been around 3 or 4 years old. His laughter was gruff while pushing me higher and higher on the swing. Alas, I couldn't hold on any longer and let go of the chain setting myself in flight. I must've landed what seemed to be a few miles down the road. I was scared, cried, and yelled out for mama. A few feet of air and distance at that age and it’s the end of the world.Ricky was always mean to me. He’d call me nasty racist names and hit me a lot—hard, too. I figured it was bewww.onedoor.cccause his skin was browner than mine tho...