Home can be a place, a person, a feeling. Childhood homes are altogether more complicated. For Elizabeth, childhood meant dirty feet after a day of play. Feeling isolated. Breathing in the smell of rain. Possessing an overwhelming sense of longing. Home meant being a flower trying to grow in the middle of a corn field.
A Taste of Something New
Ari arrived at my door with a backpack full of wine and the jitters. My heart had been broken all but three weeks prior, giving me a devil-may-care attitude that suited my newly dyed hair. It was fuchsia, and I think he liked this wild side of me.
running down a gravel road
running down a gravel road crunch crunch crunch beneath my bumbling feet open sky and open fields closing in around me
Somewhere, or perhaps sometime, in some distant land or alternate plane, there exists a world that is not round. Not round at all, but indeed very flat and very limited. Its inhabitants are accustomed to its shape. In fact, they have built their lives in straight lines, clean angles, sharp corners; hardly ever a man-made circle in sight. To them, time marches on in one linear path they all must follow. One is born, one lives, and one dies. That is the natural order of things.
Little was known about the tenant of apartment 3B at 1621 Winamac Drive, but one word came to the mind of every neighbor she passed: strange.