Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Families.
Magic In The Walls
The July air was thick and blistering hot when Maddie got the call. Her father had passed in his sleep from a heart attack. It was a tragedy, yet she couldn’t bring herself to shed so much as a tear. Sure, Maddie loved her father. He raised her, kept her fed, gave her a place to live. Really, he gave her what was expected of a parent; the bare minimum. Maddie’s mother had passed from illness when she was six and the rest of her childhood was just the two of them in their quiet and unwelcoming home.
By Nola Kalapacs5 years ago in Families
The Cottage
The Cottage By: Rebecca Redd The old grandfather clock ticked away in the corner of the parlor. Through the glass window pane, she saw large, soft snowflakes whirl around frantically giving the early signs of a snow storm. A fire was lit in the weathered-brick fireplace; it crackled softly, the occasional ember leaping from the fire becoming white ash. She sat there, in the antique, over- stuffed, arm chair sipping her tea. This was her first night in the cottage alone. The cottage was her inheritance from her favorite Uncle Thomas. After 12 years of seeing his face on the missing persons posters and plastered on every police website, Uncle Thomas was declared dead. The little cottage was half a mile outside of a small town, down a bumpy, dirt road, and set deep in the forest. Upon her arrival, she met the groundskeeper, Mr. Jones, who gave her the house keys. He maintained the grounds for years and gave her a quick tour before driving off into the snowy evening. The cottage had two moderate sized bedrooms, a large kitchen, a parlor room, and two bathrooms. It was perfect. The walls of the parlor were covered by large, oak book cases and each case was meticulously lined with old novels and works of great poets. As she gazed around the room, something caught her eye on fireplace mantel. A small, glass globe sat alone, slightly shadowed by a large oil painting. She set her cup of tea on the end table, slipped her feet into her slippers and tightened her sweater around her body. She stood up and walked toward the oil painting to get a better look. The painting was masterfully crafted; the strokes of paint were raised, creating a unique texture with beautiful autumn colours. As she admired the work of art, she wondered why she inherited this coveted cottage. Just before she headed out for the cottage, her family begrudgingly wished her a good trip, the image of their sour, jealous expressions lingered in her mind. She had recently chosen to go back to school to further her education. The University was located 20 minutes outside the little town near the cottage. For her, the timing of the inheritance and her first semester worked out wonderfully.
By Rebecca Redd5 years ago in Families
I Leave the End To You
The late author, Ms. Steiner, hated to be predictable; her life, work and death were a testament to that. She never married, never bore any children, and never, ever, gave her stories a happy ending. Happiness is predictable, she often said. She had written several famous novels before her untimely death at 72, when the gardener found her body slumped against the lion statue in the courtyard of her estate.
By Robyn Rachkowski5 years ago in Families
The Bracelet
Out of habit, Helena glanced down into the gutter. Whether she was making sure that she didn’t stub her toe on the curb, or that her skirts didn’t trail in the mud, or hoping that there might be a few pennies that some passerby had dropped and wouldn’t mind her taking, she no longer remembered: it was habit. However, it was, as she stepped off the trolley, she glanced down into the mud and saw, to her delight, a gleam of some metal object. She did not instantly grab it—she was too proud to let the trolley-man see her desperation—but stooped to retrieve it the moment the vehicle moved away. The object that came out of the mud astonished Helena so much that she nearly dropped it straight back into the mire: for it was not a dime or quarter: it was a bracelet. Helena looked at it closely as she stepped into the sidewalk, and with her blue, cold fingers brushed away some of the filth. Again she nearly dropped it, for there was no mistaking the glimmer of gold chain. Looking around, to make sure that no one had seen her, Helena quickly shoved the bracelet into the pocket of her rain-soaked overcoat and hurried down the street to her apartment on the third floor of Mrs. Manther's Boardinghouse.
By Saskatchewan Riley5 years ago in Families
