literature
Families and literature go hand in hand; fictional families to entertain, reflect and inspire.
Honeysuckles
The sound of my boots crushing the autumn leaves sends a feeling of relief. The amusing sound of autumn reminds me of the crisp air and smiling pumpkins. Sounds of children fill the forest even though all I could see was brown and orange. I’m alone. In fact, I’m accompanied by my thoughts and hums. A tune we are all too familiar with:
By Queen Jordan7 years ago in Families
The Bayou and the Clutter, Part I
You could see the whole bayou from the rocking chair on the porch. The blue sky was tinged gold by the setting sun, the narrow waterways rippling in the soft breeze. This was the best time to sit on the porch. No sun to beat you down, and the breeze washing away the remaining heat. It was comfortably warm, and it was beautiful. It’s the only thing she missed when she left. Sitting in the rocking chair on the porch, watching the bayou pull the cover of night up to its chin.
By Charlie Sourire7 years ago in Families
The Journey to Goodbye
The sun set against the horizon, the cold should have begun to set in. Not this day. The air kept its warmth, Frank Moses watched the sun fall. Comfortably sat in his rocking chair, back and forth, he rocked. It was something of relaxation for him, utter silence tranquilized his surroundings. If not working or caring for his wife, Frank found his chair the one place to be. He could admire nature, their house sat in the center of a wide-spread field that they owned, three acres of green grass.
By Shane Laing8 years ago in Families
Silent Night
The last leaf had fallen off the last tree when she woke. The sun was showing bright that day, leaving her long, golden hair glimmering. It had been four days now. And her brother had visited her all four of those days. Her parents refused to see her, ashamed of themselves for letting this happen to her. Her brother was the reason she was there, and even he could swallow his shame and care for his little sister. Twice a day he visited her, once before breakfast, and once after dinner, neither of which she could keep in her stomach either way. Each time he brought her something. She ignored the thought he was only doing this because he felt sorry. She tried to imagine herself before the accident, before she was sent to a hospital to sit in a white bed with white sheets. She tried to imagine herself laughing with her parents and her brother, not being rolled off to some small room once a day at least to be cut open and experimented with. She looked at her teddy bear and imagined herself as that plush toy. She wouldn’t feel pain, she wouldn’t be bedridden. She would be whole again, just like she was before a silver car ran a red light and slammed into her brother’s car. Why did she have to be in that car? Where was that silver car going so fast it just had to run that red light?
By Hannah Shull8 years ago in Families
The Man in the Moon
It was the summer of my eighteenth year. Typically, I would spend my days under a large oak tree on the rolling hills of my yard, reading books under the sunny sky or watching clouds go by, picking out the fluffy cat-shaped ones that reminded me of my childhood. That young girl whose only companion was the white furball of a cat or the characters of my books. It was easy for me to connect with fictional people of other worlds, yet it was unimaginable for me to even dream of speaking to others in my own world. I didn't know anything of public schooling, as I had been homeschooled my whole life. The only people I spoke to were the maids and butlers of my homestead and the occasional stranger that asked for directions. I spoke to my father only once, when I was very young, yet I still remember each word that flowed so easily from his mouth. That was the last I saw of him. I was told he went on a business trip, but the maids have their superstitions. Some say he ran off with a girl, others say he abandoned us for the life down south. I didn't know what they meant as a child, but whether I knew or not I didn't believe them. My mother was only photographs and stories to me; I met her only once, when I first saw the light of this world. She died after I was born, and again, the staff had their theories. Theories or not, the situation didn't change, and the cold truth was that I was left to grow up alone. After my mother died, I was given to the head maid, whom I learned to call Cheryl. She took care of me and raised me as her own while my father grieved over his love. As an infant, I was oblivious to my situation. I became very attached to Cheryl and loved her as if she were my mother. But as my mother before her, she died of old age when I was five. Having lost two mothers and not speaking to my father for five years, I shut myself off from everyone else. I mourned Cheryl deeply, and cried out for my father, yet he never came. Until one sunny day, when I was basking in the sun on our Nebraskan Homestead. My father stood over me holding a box. He wore a black suit and tie, his hair combed neatly back, the smell of cologne wafting from him. He handed me the box which contained a white kitten the size of a softball. I held the kitten gently in my arms and looked up at my father, who knelt down to me, and spoke the words that I had waited so desperately for. I still remember that day like it was yesterday. Twelve years later, his words play in my head like a symphony, the only words he ever spoke to me that I hold so dear in my heart. The words that, despite the superstition, gave me hope that my father will return one day and hold his child as gently as she held that little white kitten.
By Hannah Shull8 years ago in Families
The Struggle with Love and Life
Jeremy "Why does high school start so early?" my best friend, Zoey, protested. "I mean they are always getting on us about getting sleep, then they make us get up at like one o'clock in the morning! I think I'm going to write to the president or something!" Zoey exaggerates like that almost all the time, but I've learned to ignore it. The thing that bothers her the most is getting up early. She gets herself so worked up about it. She's like the Grouch in the morning then at night she turns into Animal from The Muppets!
By Melissa Dillon8 years ago in Families
The Magic Ride
The Magic Ride Adria sat on the floor with her picture books spread in front of her. Adria loved to learn new things and loved books. Her all time favorite was a book about the city of Paris. Ever since she was a pipsqueak it was one of her favorite places. She dreamt of being able to go and see Paris’s greatest attraction the Eiffel Tower. She believed deep down in that big heart of her’s that she would somehow get there one day.
By MorbidlyCuteAriel Lynn8 years ago in Families
The Girl Who Cried Wolf
The beloved shade of green was no longer anywhere to be seen. Not speckled over the thick, healthy leaves on the oak by the run down garage. Not sinking deeper and deeper into the luscious layer of grass so soft more than a few days had been spent laying upon it with nothing but a blanket in between, and possibly a book so torn apart it was barely readable, but beautiful in hands of melted caramel none-the-less.
By Ronnie Sebastian8 years ago in Families
Unspoken Hardships
The bells can be heard from several miles away. They echo loudly through the streets of a tiny town, each ring followed immediately by another. Fine people in fine clothing rush towards the chimes, followers answering the call of a master. The sun light forces itself through the stain glass windows inside the white church. The son straightens his tie as he walks through the front door, his mother trailing behind him. He pauses and waits for her while she hangs up her coat and scarf.
By Katie Healy8 years ago in Families
Men Left Alone
He could remember when he was young, his father dressed him on Mondays and Wednesdays. He dressed himself Tuesdays and Thursdays, and on Fridays, they compromised. He hated Wednesdays the most because he would be sent to school in a baggy T-shirt or a sweatshirt with the name of a sports team he didn’t care about and he had football practice in the evenings. His father had encouraged him to join the peewee football team so he could make friends with the boys his age. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to make friends, he just didn’t like talking to the boys on his football team because they never seemed to like talking about things that he wanted to talk about. Eventually, he stopped speaking during practices and games. Although they were young boys, the games were long and the practices were too. It was a very long time for a person to be silent for. He knew this but, eventually, he stopped noticing.
By Katie Healy8 years ago in Families
To Baby, From Mommy
"Ten fingers and ten toes with big eyes and a little nose...a bubbly smile and a laugh full of happiness is something that most women wish...a little body full of warmth and love that she would call a blessing from up above...Sleepless nights turn into bliss from a mothers comforting kiss..." the pen stopped on the page as she looked upon it with a hazy gaze. Vacant of thought, a hand went to her belly...it jiggled slightly as if made from jelly. Giving a heavy sigh, she tried not to cry, trying to focus the words within her mind. The urge was high to get them down as the snow outside, fell gently upon the ground. It was the day of Yule, a happy time but sad thoughts filled her heart and mind. She did not wish to take the path she had chosen, but she felt it was the right time for where her life was going. With another heavy sigh, she put pen to paper once more...jotting down the words for her baby's letter...
By Isis Stevens8 years ago in Families
