the sobriety of mr andersonthere is an old man who weathers these old grid roads, much like the school halls he used to patrol. he sands the gravel down to fine pebbles, not always within the worn tracks; puttering along the same path three, four, ten times an evening.the sobriety of mr anderson
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cracks and crags carve his face into the grim visage of christmas alone and fights at breakfast that have resolved to quite evenings together in the living room, the television off. "you complete asshole, you pig, you drunken pig" and a bent back from memories of liquor bottles hidden in the ditch (and the shed and the truck and) -- and somehow, the folk around town don't think his wife had this in mind when she wore white at the front of the church.
they say that his mind split when he went cold turkey, shattered like a broken piggy bank on a child's bedroom floor.
it came down to an ultimatum, some speculate. poor stella, bones weary and face haggard underneath her optimistic smile. he had overstayed her tolerance for an empty bed, and, s
cold handsMacy once asked Emma why she always wore finger gloves, even in the summer.cold hands
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Emma told her: "Because my hands are cold."
Emma told Macy a lot of things.
Many were true, like the time she'd burned her hand on the stove or fell out of the top bunk and had to go to the hospital for stitches.
And then there were the other stories, like the ones about her uncle being knifed in the city and her father being kidnapped by secret agents.
But some were half true, like when her older brother climbed up onto the roof and jumped onto the trampoline.
When Emma didn't come to school that one day in Grade Five, she told Macy she'd been sick.
Macy wrinkled her nose and told Emma not to come too close she might be contagious. There was a flu going around, according to her mother, and Macy had a weak immune system.
So Emma, who hadn't been sick, stayed a safe distance for the next few days.
"A moose trampled Grandpa's garden yesterday," Emma said. "He went outside with the shotgun, but it cha
The CollectionIt was something that began long before I was born, slowly spreading and growing to become a part of my own obsession.The Collection
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My father had a room that he always kept locked. He told Mother that it was his darkroom, and he didn't want any of us to ruin his pictures. She accepted his terms without question whether it was out of blind love or fear, I am still not sure. He carried around a camera, but I soon noticed that he never actually pressed the shutter button; he merely pretended to.
Father was a master at pretending. He'd fooled everyone, but my curiosity was spurred at a young age and I watched him closely, learning his habits and his secrets. I learned about his room and its purpose.
I thought of it as a hobby, like collecting stamps or trading Pokemon cards. As I grew older, I realized small differences separating my father from the rest, which soon grew enormous and obvious. Normal hobbies, sane ones, weren't hidden from the world, diligently, meticulously. They weren't secrets