The Crawling House On Black Pond Road

I can’t sleep. I have to share because maybe I won’t feel if I share. Dr. Kirsch says to write and get it off my chest. Writing about it might release me from it. What should I title this? “Therapy”? I’m currently seated at a computer terminal in a little, …

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It was an expensive chair. The leather squeaked as I shuffled in it, betraying its purpose by failing to get comfortable. Disapproving eyes glanced up from the heavy mahogany desk that lay before me. After a pause the solicitor continued reading. “And to my grandson, Alastair Kincade, I leave a …

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In my room, on my desk, sits a black, plastic casing which holds my glasses. They have a power of minus 9 and they were very expensive to wear. When I was younger, my mother used to warn me about sitting too close to the television. She used to tell …

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