Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Families.
Tattered Legacy
I was sitting here trying to wrap my brain around my Uncle Joe passing away in the other room, here on the farm. Having a cup of coffee, calming down, while hospice finishes taking care of everything. In the last moments of his life, he handed me his tattered black book, that he carried on him everyday of his life since he was 16. This book went to Vietnam, and hundreds of other places in the world with him. He wrote thoughts, prayers, people and things he collected over his travels. As I sit and reflect on his last words to me, "This is your legacy, its torn and tattered, but is everything to me, now it's all yours".
By Cindy Sparks5 years ago in Families
Pieces of a Woman: A Heartbreaking Portrayal of Grief
My eyes are squeezed shut. I can hear the panting and crying of the woman giving birth. There are words of encouragement scattered amongst a repetition of the words “push harder” that are always followed by a long hoarse groan. I vow to myself silently that I am never going to have a child or even have sex because childbirth sounds inhumane. All of a sudden, there is a crash, and a shrill scream pierces the air. A strong cry punctuates the silence that follows, and there is a collective gasp around the room. I open my eyes to find my friend has fainted and fallen from her chair and the woman on the television screen has given birth to a baby girl. I was 11 years old when I studied the process of human reproduction. In some of the classes, me and my friends were in a constant fit of giggles, especially when learning about the male anatomy, and in others stunned into silence, our minds unable to reconcile the stories we had been told and actual biological fact.
By Eliza Wright5 years ago in Families
Big G
Big G A short story written by:
By Denora M. Boone5 years ago in Families
His Loss, Her Gain
The meals weren’t much. Enough to get by, but that’s about all there was. Dinner, lit by a nearby streetlight through the window, contained your basic needs to survive. Bills glared in hunger scratching our wallets as each passing day came up dry. Maybe this is what was meant to be. Much like how a home was designed for warmth and protection. But nothing protected us from what happened. Not even a home was a home anymore, but rather, a place once lived.
By Amey Coleman5 years ago in Families
Little Black Book
Today feels like the day that the hurricane hits me. I tell myself this everyday while eager with anticipation. Some days are sprinkled with inspiration. I make sure to document those sprinkles, so I can use them later to create the hurricane that I’m longing for. I have a little sprinkle collector that I keep with me always. That little black notebook has seen and heard things that would make your mother blush. I mean, you just never know when the hurricane will come in. I consciously tell myself that I will be receptive to whatever form that inspiration comes in, without getting in its way. I observe everything to see if that inspiration is peeking around the corner. I also have to remind myself that while I’m focusing on what’s peeking, that the inspiration could be walking right past me. Don’t fixate is what I can hear my nana say to me softly. Just be open.
By Tiffany Miles5 years ago in Families
The Little Black Notebook
Sarah walked into the old house and looked around. Dust covered everything, floral wallpaper peeling off the walls, and birds had come in through a broken window to make nests in the sconces. She wrinkled her nose at the musty smell and heaved a sigh, wondering what she was going to do with this mess of a house. The house had belonged to her grandparents and she had vague memories of visiting as a child, but had not been there in over thirty years. Nobody had lived here in decades and it was obvious by the appearance. The house had good bones but needed a lot of work to make it livable. She wandered from room to room, looking at old photos of people she did not know and the variety of knick knacks on the shelves. The Victorian style furniture had been covered in protective plastic, so it had been saved from the years of neglect.
By Terresa L Nelsen5 years ago in Families
A Good Man
My father was a good man. Not a great one, but certainly not bad in the least. He was known by friends, family, and acquaintances alike as the man who gave too much, even to those who did not seem to deserve his kindness or generosity. There were also many people who saw him, this small 5’5” man, words laced thick with the love for his home country of Mexico, skin tanned and firm like the leather of his favorite huaraches, and thought,
By Lucero Nieves5 years ago in Families
A Perspective on Divorce in Indian-American Culture
In Indian culture and also Indian-American culture, it remains taboo to get divorced. There is a stigma of shame surrounding Indian divorcees and whispers in the community in the context of there being something “wrong” with individuals who do choose to divorce. Not only does this cultural barrier promote domestic violence to exist in many Indian homes, but it forces people to often put up a front of “toxic positivity” - pretending to others and often themselves that everything is ok when in reality the basic needs and desires of the individuals in the marriage are not being met. Growing up in Indian culture we are conditioned as children to have the mindset that marriage lasts forever, even beyond this lifetime and extending into 7 lifetimes as symbolized by the 7 circles a husband and wife walk around a fire in traditional Hindu wedding ceremonies.
By Suparna Saha5 years ago in Families
Joey isn't the only one who doesn't share food!
If there is one thing that just about all American's can agree on, it's a love of the hit tv show, Friends. And nothing is more iconic than the episode where Joey makes it loud and clear that "JOEY DOESN'T SHARE FOOD!"
By S. L. Harpel5 years ago in Families
The Bounce
Claude was thirteen. He walked down an empty two lane road, avoiding puddles so that the rain water wouldn't get to his feet, through virtually disintegrated shoes, his only means of transportation. He accompanied his older sister and his mother, on the way back to their very humble home from the local store, on Washington state's rural Kitsap Peninsula. It was summer, 1945.
By Jonathan Warren5 years ago in Families
