glambourine's profile

In the summer when Julie Thatch was nine, Tabitha came into the living room where her sister was reading her secondhand Madeline L’Engle paperbacks. She put her hands on her hips, thicker now, and she pursed her lips, painted in red and outlined in black.   “It’s time for you to learn about your body, Julie,” she said. “Come with me.” Thatch could never resist her sister. She put down her book and followed Tabitha into their mother’s bedroom. Th...

September 27, 2008 Mr. Laghi, My name is John Thornton, and I'd like to submit the first chapter of my novel, "The Institute Of Temporal Illusions", for consideration at LJK. Here's the Urbis copy of the first chapter: http://urbis.com/media/view/122858/institute-of-temporal-illusions-ch-1-in-progress I'm just giving you the link to this because I don't want to flood the submissions queue on your Urbis page. If you'd like, you can contact me to get a .doc version of this, or a pape...

Tabitha died. Everyone did, Thatch guessed. Tabitha's bedroom had become Thatch's bedroom, or as good as. No one else wanted to touch Tabitha's things and no one wanted to tell Thatch that living in Tabitha's room wasn't healthy. No one wanted to believe that she'd be next, which was stupid. She wasn't going to be next. Things didn't repeat like that. She was into survival, Julie Thatch was, at whatever cost. Some sisterly aura allowed Thatch to move through the space uncontaminated by death,...

Her parents were the kind of people who never really wanted a child, but–victims of a conspiratorial Fate that they were–ended up with one anyway. They were glad enough about it, after a while; they began to see the benefits, the hidden plusses of the whole thing. But their life was a compromise, and they knew it, and they made sure that she knew it, too. And that was how it was. They were great collectors of antique furniture, and the living room was like a time capsule, a museum. They had a...