#fix-ups

[talented-ela]

Happy birthday Rhoda Montemayor, Jason Smith (May 31ST) and Tim Franklin (July 6TH), thanks so much everyone for the likes and I used to have Power Rangers DVD’s, PS2 game and action figures 😊👍✌

I fixed Tim’s birthday up… ☺☺☺☺☺☺

[sharonquataert-blog]

Fall Fix-Ups For Your Home

[sharonquataert-blog]

Fall Fix-Ups For Your Home

[literaturezombies-blog]

stories i'll fix . hand me thine wrench, wnch .

They say she waited long for them to return, the yarn within her healthy fingers spindling as she looked out the window. In the days of the past she never did this, the waiting, and intentionally busied herself so she never had to. People always wrote to her stories of how their day went, and back then she would read them thoroughly until she had nothing more to read about. The stories inspired her, made her want to stay indoors while her mind traveled moutainous regions, her own oceania, the deep valley and the great prairies. Steinbeck, Hemingway. American classics. Oscar Wilde, Christina Georgiana Rossetti. British classics. Those who died, those who were brave, those who were foolish, and those who kept each other warm in the nights interested her. However, nothing more than her viewer's choice of words. She lived in a glass box, at each corner there was a pendent of memory. On the upper corner was the uppercrust of her memory, where she had hung herself up in thought, the best of her times. Below this was where her foot stayed, pushing aside all the dirt that had piled up in her life. Behind her, always, was the right left-hand corner-said so as she enjoyed for her right to always be pointed in this direction, finding that it always brought her piece and she could live with no fault. In this glass box there was no prairie, no mountains, not even an animal to look at. Everything was outside, and so she spindled the yarn as she wore lambskin. She never knew what else to do. All she could ever feel, and all that could ever get her through the day was to wait for them. She was a writer, she wrote to them, and the response was always a long-coming nervousness. What if they did not return? What would happen to the children they left behind? Margaret continued peering through her window, she read, and felt calmed by this fact in the words from the window. A reader had never sent her so thorough a tale, and even the master felt surpassed by this eager suspicion to know. Her window was full of scenery, and as she looked out of it, from the quiet of her dark but candlelit basement, she knew the reasons for living would heighten as she drew the curtains on the next window pane.

author : demi