There were a lot of cats, five to be exact, sprawling themselves across the recently polished wooden floor of the spacious house. I sat among fifteen other animated attendees, seven people on each side of the long linen covered table, and one sitting at the head. The majority of the people were unrecognizable, probably because I had never seen them, or at least, never paid any attention to them previously. (more…)
In the short story The Black Monk Chekhov writes about death, faith, and individuality. Andrey Vasil’ich Kovrin, the main character of the short story died in a peculiar way. He was visited by a fabricated phantom, started hemorrhaging, and then fell face first into a puddle of his own blood. I took something surprising from the short story which changed my perception on living and dying. (more…)
Smooth jazz played in the background. Sarah, wine glass in hand, easily moved to the music. Regan, tapping his foot to the beat, sat on his shiny leather coach. Windows made up the far left wall, their curtains were open and allowed the light to illuminate Regan’s minimalist furnishings.