Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Families.
THE GIFT
Once upon a time, there was an old man who would take a long bus ride every day to feed the birds in the park. Mr. Wilson was about 85 years old, his beloved wife Lisa passed away 10 years ago. His only son Thomas, who loves him dearly unfortunately lives in another state. Many years would pass, feeling somewhat alone in his big old house, missing his beloved wife Lisa. Poor Mr. Wilson's memory was failing over the last several years, so he would write in his little black notebook all the beautiful memories of life with Lisa. Mr. Wilson always kept his black notebook in his front jacket pocket next to his heart. When he was at home the little black notebook would be right next to his wife's picture on the bed stand.
By Kevin Wesley Goodson5 years ago in Families
Book of Lies
Book of Lies By LaShawn Baker John watched the little girl skipping on the sidewalk from his upstairs window; her brown curls and blue polka-dotted dress with a white apron brought a smile to other wise sadden features. He smiled at her and stopped chattering to her invisible friend. From what he could see, her conversation seemed intense. He could not help but think back to a time in his life when he wasn’t like this. Her voice broke through his pity party. “Momma don’t want us talking to strangers.” Her invisible friend supposedly replied. Her little voice said, does he know you? Again she waited for a response. He laughed at the exchange thinking he wished he could return to childhood and his imaginary friend.
By LaShawn Denise Baker5 years ago in Families
Dad's Little Black Book
For three solid weeks I punished myself by eating only cheezies and ice-cream because I had skipped my father’s funeral, although it is true that Maggie and I were expecting our fourth and fifth children and with babies on the way, new Covid restrictions, preparations for a major terraforming project on Mars using a synthetic self replicating bio-organic manure compound I developed, and Doodles, my fifteen year old show Pomeranian’s birthday party, I was swamped. There was a bounty of completely legitimate excuses for not showing up, but there was no escaping the guilt and it nagged at my conscience, briefly convincing me that I would live in eternal misery and shame which only a son who has failed to show up at his father’s funeral can understand. Still, things always seem to work out in the end and thankfully today, I have no regrets or even the tiniest bit of guilt for missing the funeral, since I happened upon a thing far more valuable than bitcoin or gold that day and because in the end I did find a way to pay my final respects to my father, I discovered a little black book and everything in our family changed for the better.
By Steven Hall5 years ago in Families
The Recipes of Madame Powell
With both hands, Matthew Powell cradled a cheap water-glass full of a half-bottle of washington merlot, and stared at the red brick fireplace in his late father’s living room. Rarely could he enjoy sitting in the renovated living space of the victorian home, and now he would have to decide if he wanted to keep the property for himself, a prospect that daunted him. His father Jacob bought the house when Matthew’s mother had passed four years prior, and a change of scenery was necessary to adapt to life in Pine Grove without her. “Always go back to the source, that’s what your mother would say. This house,” Jacob described to his son, “Is also known as ‘Powell Place’ to the local historians.”
By Todd Montgomery5 years ago in Families
Semicolon savior III
“Thanks for all your help, the food was great,” I kept reading the note over and over. What exactly did I help with? I mean we didn’t charge him for the extra olives, could that be it? I gently scolded him as a mother would about exposing that much money in public, possibly. I just couldn’t grasp the compliment. His signature was also just initials and in a script I had never seen. While sitting on one of our outside tables, Robert pulled up into the loading zone and was beginning to get stuff out of his hatchback. “Good morning Victoria, beautiful one.” As I took a sip of coffee I put the note down and offered him a hand. We still had 20 minutes before officially opening and I cherished these quiet morning moments. The sun was rising over the courtyard a beautiful red orange and the birds had just began to chirp. “These canvases are huge!” I exclaimed with a giggle gently leaning over as I put it down. I noticed these paintings were going to be set in a desert of someplace. The rocks and individuals sandal shoes looked like they were photographed, not painted. “You are extremely talented Robert” It must have taken years of practice. As he popped up from his trunk, he smiled and gently said “All we have is now Victoria, the time is now.” I smiled and glanced at my phone checking the time. “Looks like I should get the rest of the coffee on, hope today is fantastic for you.” As I collected my cup and things from the table, I noticed the note had fallen. “Let me get that for you” Robert said as he bent down to grab the napkin off the bricked sidewalk. My hands were full, as they normally were, for I was the type of person to only make one trip. Grabbing the door was also out of the question. “You got coffee on, I may as well grab a cup while I’m in here” Robert said simultaneously opening the cafe door. “Sure do, and thank you, just set that over here on the counter.” As I put my stuff down in the back I could see Robert was glancing at the napkin. “Would you like a medium cup today?” I asked a little louder than normal. “Oh, sorry bout that Victoria, didn’t mean to be nosy” he said as he folded up the napkin in a hurried crumble. “No worries, it’s not personal, just a compliment from a customer yesterday” I replied while pumping from the air pot. “Well it’s not everyday you see hand written Aramaic, I was kind of taken aback.” I paused and thought to myself, he knows the language! “Can you read who signed it?” As I turned around to put the coffee lid securely on Robert just winked “Heck I’m fluent in it.”
By Healthy mountain gal Crystal5 years ago in Families
Little Black Book
I was tucked in a corner of my attic, enjoying myself. I’d found a box of my mom’s, filled with notebooks of every shape, size and color. The one with flowers had recipes, like the one for my grandmother’s tamales. The yellow one, poems; the green one was one of six journals. Some had short stories, including my mom’s favorite genre; mysteries.
By Francesca Bozem5 years ago in Families
The Book of Life
I remember very little about the days after my mum died. It wasn’t a complete surprise of course, she had cancer, and the last time I saw her she looked incredibly frail. But even though we knew it was coming one day, I didn’t know it would be that day, and the call from my brother at 5am was more shock and silence than it was talking.
By Francis Briers5 years ago in Families
