Isabella Frey
Bio
Stories (4)
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Momma
You were born perfect. Our second boy, just a tad on the smaller side. Your nose turned up just the right amount, your eyes looking up at the pictures on the ceiling, your eyes stolen from your daddy. We stared at you for hours, all smiles and tears. During those first few days I didn’t care at all that you were different.
By Isabella Frey5 years ago in Fiction
A Black Forest Fairy Tale
When I was seventeen, my Oma taught me a traditional recipe for black forest cake. I remember how she leaned over the counter, apron dusted in flower, hand mixing the batter just like they used to back in Germany. I watched as she demonstrated sifting the powder into the eggs, slicing cherries thin to spread in between layers. As the cakes sat in the oven, we made coffee and sat with cookies, and she told me how she met my Opa, her husband.
By Isabella Frey5 years ago in Fiction
And Yet Time Passes
It was 1906 when the men placed my last plank, opened me up, forced them into my walls. They were their own at first, with long braids trailing down their spines and caribou skin hugging their shoulders. Their eyes were always dark; they fell into single file, their united front broken down into child size segments. Yet still they put up masks, holding an identity they knew was theirs to cling upon. Later I would recognize their eyes walking from the showers, now under a head of peach fuzz and cotton pyjamas. Their masks burned alongside their traditional dress; their new home had stripped them bare. They were so small.
By Isabella Frey5 years ago in Fiction
The Spilling of Emptiness
Away from home in a neighbouring city, I was becoming a character worth reading about. Not yet a week had passed when my mothers voice called, dripping and hanging in an impossible balance, she had asked me to come back home. This creature that had clung to my mother’s walls, had pushed her way into the world, precisely six minutes before I came out screaming behind her, was gone. My mother had told us a story, a million times and then some. We both came out of her belly hating it here, screaming and kicking and outrageous to be alive. But then when we were put in a crib together, when we had been swaddled skin to skin, sharing warmth and wetness and life, we never made a sound.
By Isabella Frey5 years ago in Humans
