friendship
C.S Lewis got it right: friendship is born when one person says to another: "What! You too? I thought I was the only one!"
Not the Goonies Story but There is Still Treasure
June 24th, 1950. It was a beautiful day in the town of Swampscott MA. The warm summer wind blew across the small fishing town bringing comfort and peace to its North Shore residents. Summer was as it had always been since the town was established in 1852. Swampscott, a suburban town with a population a bit over 11,000 and located about twenty minutes North of Boston. It had been a few years since World War II ended and life was slowly getting back to normal.
By Misha Trubs5 years ago in Humans
Our Little Black Book
I close my laptop with a sigh of relief. My little black book full of notes and scribbles still sits open on my desk. I look at the photograph to the right of my laptop, the one I look at every day. “I’m done”, I say to the image of the two of us smiling and eating ice cream: Ella with no hair and me with some sort of braid. The picture was taken the day Ella shaved her head…
By Laura Brooker Manning5 years ago in Humans
In Common
Rumner paced back and forth across his living room holding the phone gingerly to his ear. These conversations were always conflicting. One part of him wanted to talk with Carlos, to catch up with his oldest friend, to inquire about his children, and to complain about work together. The other part of Rumner couldn’t stand the banality of their lives. How many times could they talk about their useless coworkers? How many times could Rumner listen to Carlos go on about his children and where they went to school? Who cared about the new puppy his family had just gotten! It was difficult for Rumner to listen to the off-hand comments Carlos made about vacations he went on, or the dinners he went out to with his family. Inevitably, every time he called Carlos, their conversation circled back to Nicaragua and, like clockwork, their shared past. Resentment rose up and he couldn’t help but spit out a harsh comment on Carlos’ maldita vida.
By Camilo Toruno5 years ago in Humans
The Danish Gambit
Kamy is behind the wheel of the old Altima. Heading up NY 9N, along the west coast of Lake George, it is the last bit of her trip. The I-87 piece from Albany to Bolton Landing is often mindless miles. Today, Christmas Eve, NY 9N can be bare-knuckle driving for most. She looks through the passenger window. Ice is already forming along the shore. This is the most dangerous time of year as north-easterlies can whip icy spray onto the road surface. Or Favonius can bowl the snow down the foothills of the Adirondacks, forming treacherous drifts. Kamy knows this road too well. Her Dad chose to eschew Saratoga Springs for Hague. He would gleefully pilot his old SL500 to Skidmore, top down, deep into autumn. For twelve years, she rode shotgun for the drop off at the central school campus.
By Alexander J. Cameron5 years ago in Humans
Revival
The silver threads in her patchwork shawl glittered and tiny specks floated in the sun-filled conservatory. A smoky Burmese cat simmered in her lap, kneading with splayed paws as though in a trance. Lillian Carmichael regarded the creature with amused affection, her snowy white hair pulled loosely back, a single errant wisp trailing her papery cheek.
By Nilgin Yusuf5 years ago in Humans
Broken webs
The deliberate rearranging of the sheet woke me from a dreamless sleep. Wearily, I focused my eyes on the nurse who nodded curtly at a figure barely sitting in the chair next to my cot. I turned my head slowly and shock stabbed through my useless body. The young man moved forward and apologized for waking me, initially speaking in poor French, but switching quickly to unaccented English
By Fiona Fitzpatrick5 years ago in Humans
