parents

The boundless love a parent has for their child is matched only by their capacity to embarrass them.

Diary of a Wicked (awesome) Stepmother
Hello. My name is Ashley, I am 35 years old and I am a stepmother. A group of nameless voices inside my head reply in unison, “Hello, Ashley.”
By Ashley Sparkles Young5 years ago in Families
Moira Binks
Warning: Third Rail. A little thunderbolt shot through the subway’s electric line. Lane listened to the sounds of the wire wondering whether this might strike like bolt or a fence. All things kill some people, he thought. Lane stood beyond the caution strip that prevents the changeable from jumping. It nobbled along the trench, yellow color broken, intermittently, by black lettering: Do Not Cross.
By Noah Walker5 years ago in Families
Someday, Never
“But I don't even really know him,” Jenny said. She had put on her “good” dress, the one she saved for job interviews and funerals, to meet with the attorney.
By Claudia Choi5 years ago in Families
I Love You, But
Eight days. Eight raw, endless days since the funeral when my father’s lawyer and best friend handed me this package and whispered, “Your father wanted you to have this.” And once again, I sit here, trembling, trying to gather the courage to open it.
By Rachelle Allen5 years ago in Families
The Bizlibub’s
As children, we are fully aware of the magic of the world. The Tooth Fairy cheekily sneaking a coin beneath our pillow, the Easter Bunny strategically deploying his chocolatey treats, the big red man himself silently manoeuvring his way into our homes with the all temperament of a dormouse.
By Aidan McGrath5 years ago in Families
An Inconsequential Life
She had an inconsequential life. It was plain, but steady. A simple slice of American life. It was a life they had worked hard to create, her and the man she had married. They had a long shared history filled with love, joys, sorrows and disappointments. She had lovely daughters and darling grandchildren. The last daughter at home was almost 13. After raising children for 30 years, she was beginning to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe soon she would be able to climb out of the box. She could imagine unfolding her body, straightening her back and stretching her arms to the sky. Her eyes sparkled. She could feel herself take that very first breath of life, feeling the knowledge of herself brand new. Shame and confusion swiftly washed the vision away. She loved her children. She loved her husband. She loved her life.
By J. A. Groth5 years ago in Families
Ghostwriter
Part One My mother loved keeping diaries. For as long as I could remember she had a written account for most things. Over the years her obsession for keeping a notebook in her bag or in the drawer of the end table in our front room, or even the medicine cupboard in the bathroom so she could write whilst in the bath, slowly grew and grew over the years. I loved her for it though. On my birthdays from the age of about 15, she would find an account she had written about me, rip it out of the notebook and place it in my birthday card. Now at twenty-one and motherless these accounts are the one thing that help me still feel close to her.
By Quenna5 years ago in Families
I Had to Kill My Father
I had to kill my father. I pulled the little black notebook from my bag, and turned it around in my hands. He’d left it to me in his will, along with everything he owned. 20 Thousand dollars he’d saved just for me, a few old beaten up psychology textbooks, and a little black note book cruelly filled with his words.
By Simon5 years ago in Families
Father’s Drawer
I spent the afternoon begging god. I was crying for a reversal of fate. My pacing was lit only by the grey window. Leaves fell in a steady rain with the moldering scent of decay already begun. Just as the factory had washed away the fields of the ward, so did the scent of motor oil vitiate the air of my father’s workshop. His grinding wheel was solid amid a sea of tools. I would return here day after day to attempt some sort of necromancy between saints and forgotten gods of the old world. But they were as lost as my father who lay in wake for his last journey home.
By E. Connolly5 years ago in Families
Hidden Treasure
James went to the park that was drawn on the map. The landmark he was supposed to locate was a tree in the northwest corner of the park. That was where the “x” was marked. That was where James was supposed to find his treasure.
By Matthew Douglas Hoover5 years ago in Families
While There Is Still Time
Breathing wasn’t getting heavier for Atlas anymore. He felt like it was stuck at a certain point of level. It was hard to breath-in than breathing out. It was like even the air in his lungs were decided to leave him and how much ever he fights with it, it was all for nothing. It wasn’t the tie or the black suit that he dressed for his father’s funeral caused him this.
By Server Bedi5 years ago in Families
Home Run, Snow Beard
By Aly De Angelus & Robert Haynes It’s been nearly a week since it happened and it still doesn’t seem real. I should just lay here forever. I caught a glimpse of honey brown eyes and spotted fur through a gap in the duvet, just as a thin line of drool dangling from his mouth splashed across my face.
By Aly De Angelus5 years ago in Families