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scriptic | scriptic

andrea-miles's picture
It isn’t every day you trip and fall into the arms of your destiny. At least that’s how I describer Parker to my friends. I was running late, of course, because I’m never on time, and was hurrying down the stairs of my apartment building (damn unreliable elevator) in 3-inch heels no less when I...
andrea-miles's picture
The priest slowly walked beside the guard, his well-worn Bible grasped firmly in one hand. He hated these kinds of meetings. Give him a person on their deathbed, their body wrecked with disease or age or both anytime over this. It was true he didn’t agree with the death penalty, but it was more...
andrea-miles's picture
Hey, Big Brother, It has been awhile since I’ve written I know. I’ve been busy I guess. You’ll be happy to hear I’m making great progress here though. My therapist (we call him Dr. Q, isn’t that cool?) said I was doing good. But I’ve been thinking about you, you and mom. How is she, by the way?...
andrea-miles's picture
“It’s getting cold out,” she said, pulling her robe tighter around her body and wishing she knew what he was thinking about. He’d barely talked during dinner and afterwards, he had disappeared outside before she’d even cleared the table. He remained silent, a solid mass in a worn flannel shirt and...
andrea-miles's picture
She sits at the kitchen table, a cup of cold coffee in front of her. This can’t be happening to her, to her perfect little family. She draws in a shaky breath and then releases it. She’d spent all her tears last night, leaving nothing for today. But how had this happened? The Day had started out...
andrea-miles's picture
My mother sits at the kitchen table, her purple bathrobe loose around her thin body. She covers her face with her hands. I drop to my knees beside her chair and look up at her. I am like a baby bird, waiting to be fed my mother’s wisdom and understanding and love. She drops her hands to settle in...