My own transparent self_A Moondance With the Dead_Ski Lesson_Little Miss Annie
Catalog Guide:
My own transparent self
I don’t remember how I died. But does oneself really want to take a trip down memory lane, and summon up the dead? More specifically how they died? I don’t remember all the hurt and all the torture I had to endure before I decided to drastically take my own life. I only recall fragments of what happened, which lets me feel like being surrounded by a foggy aura all year around. The glacial razor on my wrists. The endless blood trickling down my arms and amalgamating together with the unceasing tears that I shed. I remember the pain. The relief. The darkness. It consumed me, and I was put at e...
A Moondance With the Dead
“In there?” Matty pointed through the black, spiked, iron gate.“Yeah, why not?” Greg replied.Matty looked across the graveyard, shrouded in a dense moonlit fog and a chill crawled up his spine. The sign above his head read “Garrison Cemetery” in a large gothic font.“It ain’t Halloween for another couple of weeks!”Greg began walking ahead looking for an open gate or a way in. They walked about 30 feet of fencing when Greg noticed a twisted, rusted bar. With a stiff shake, it popped out in his hand, leaving just enough room to sneak in.“Open sesame,” Greg said with a grin.“I don’t know man. I’d...
Ski Lesson
She is walking along the corridor between the church and her room in the convent when she hears someone yell, “Run for cover motherfucker!” It’s not the command that alarms her—nothing so exciting ever happens to her—but rather the voice carrying those profane words: it is childlike. Sweet, even. She stops at a window, and keeping herself out of sight, peers carefully outside. Across the street, in the parking lot of the old parochial school, is a boy with his back to her. He crouches behind an improvised snowbank, his bare hands hurriedly packing snow into tight spheres. He has amassed a mea...
Little Miss Annie
The beat from my father’s lyre courses through my body like a rabbit in a foreign warren. He fiddles with it, eyes closed as if thinking about every beat with great devotion. The microwave beeps and my father springs from the smooth acacia seat. He runs to hail his warmed pumpkin soup. Everything about the day is weird. At least that’s what my mother wanted when she set the Halloween challenge. My father is half Dracula, half a clown. His shoes squeak like a kid’s toy. He straightens the collar of his coat, black and long with Count Dracula’s Coat of Arms on its back. Our cat, spooky sits at t...