Anastasia Barbato
Bio
A modern storyteller and social activist dedicated to elevating our human experience via the written word.
Stories (3)
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As Rina slipped into the bath, she remembered instantly why she always hated them. She could only recall a handful of baths in her lifetime; all in her childhood, never voluntary. Her Papa would tug at her hair like it was a wild animal, brushing out the tangles in her fine curls like it was his mission to make her cry. The water would grow tepid and opaque with her filth, her skin cells floating in the water and the grime only seeming to burrow deeper into her little bones. And worst of all, she hated the quiet when her father would step outside the bathroom door, leaving it cracked just enough so he could hear her if she drowned, so Rina could hear him argue with any number of people on the phone—mostly her Mama.
By Anastasia Barbato4 years ago in Fiction
nobody league
There’s something to be said for rainy days, when the sky is gray and the pavement stinks of petrichor. When the sidelines of the baseball game are roaring with anticipation over the winning ball that lands in left field, the catcher misses, he flies over and falls to the ground, dirt on his britches. He’s too big for them, the britches, he knows this and still refuses to believe he is a enough, he is a character in someone else’s story but not even his own. He doesn’t know his name or where he was born, just that he is here and the sweat is dripping in his eyes and his breath is coming raspy and hot and damp in his lungs; what if he gets pneumonia from playing outside when it’s raining? It’s so fucking cold, he can’t feel his feet.
By Anastasia Barbato4 years ago in Humans
