The Book of the Throne_Painting Her Dreams_Variety_The Widow
Catalog Guide:
The Book of the Throne
“What did you say we were looking for?” I grumbled. Thorin and I were in the oldest, most worn down looking bookshop I had ever seen. Dust covered just about every square inch, and books were packed in and piled precariously everywhere. I could barely walk through the aisles without knocking a stack over. “Well, that’s the thing,” Thorin said, catching a small pile of books as it began to topple after he bumped into it. “I’m not entirely sure. All Iwww.onedoor.cc know is that what we need is here. There’s something my great grandfather put here that’s supposed to stop witches, I don’t know what i...
Painting Her Dreams
Brock stared at her throughout history class. Why does she dress like that? Her clothes hang on her, badly soiled and worn out. And those shoes! They’re men’s shoes! He was sure his uncle had a pair. His father called his uncle a deadbeat, whatever that was. All Brock knew was he stunk like smoke. But at least he never stayed long, his dad always ushered him out after he asked for money. Anyway, why would a ten-year old girl want to wear men’s shoes?Mrs. Ellingsworth’s voice droned on about the American Revolution, going in one of Brock’s ears and out the other. He wouldn’t have to study; h...
Variety
Richard Miller was average; middle aged, mediocre shape, slightly balding. He was not married nor had he ever been, and he lived in a modest two bedroom Cape Cod on a street called Oak in a town known as Pleasant Hill. Richard had a good job-one that he could tolerate at least, teaching ninth grade English at the local high school. His students were mostly attentive and never gave him a great deal of trouble, except for that time that they found out his first name and used it more than once in a sexual context. But Richard never really cared.His daily routine was simple. He taught until three...
The Widow
Set at a whopping 375 degrees, the old oven struggled to get up to temperature. I kicked the hissing box of scrap metal causing the partially hinged door to fall open. “Shit.” I muttered. I slammed the door shut and set down the overloaded paper bags. My shoulder throbbed wearisomely, and the oven, unbothered, continued to whistle and wheeze behind me. I unpacked the groceries arranging them into an orderly pile and assessed my damage. There were some eggs, a bag of potatoes, and a small slab of red meat but the rest of the items were for my special recipe. I had spent nearly all this week’s ...