family

Mama's Pear Tree
The perfect storm had catapulted my parents to the home of their dreams. In one fell swoop, Mama had been diagnosed with MS, Daddy had lost his job, and due to a major misunderstanding that would take years to sort out, Grandpa had disowned Daddy and more or less uninvited him to all family gatherings ad infinitum. As grandkids, we were still invited, but we stood with our Daddy and Mama stood with her man. Then our landlord decided that he would rather have his kids live in our house than us, and in the space of one month, we had no job, no house, and no extended family. And Mama was sick.
By Lydia Stewart4 years ago in Fiction
The Partridge
Blood painted the pure white snow an eerie shade of crimson. Agonizing screams replaced joyful carols on the air that December, in the quaint New England town.
By Kimberly Anne4 years ago in Fiction
The Last Days of August
I couldn’t bring myself to climb out of the car. I pulled up to the long, winding black driveway what seems like hours ago, but I couldn’t walk the half-mile to the front door. I sat and tried to steel myself. I tried to breathe. My palms drenched my steering wheel. I took a deep breath and attempted to dislodge the large lump settling in my throat.
By Sarah Paris4 years ago in Fiction
Ripped From The Root
Growing up in a small southern suburb, I was only exposed to a limited idea of femininity, and I didn’t relate to it. Maybe it was the era, but it seemed like “feminine” translated to “useless”; clothes for girls were tight, short, and had insufficient pockets. All of these factors became a burden on the playground. Shoes for girls were painful and narrow. Toys for girls were meant to be looked at or styled, not built for action like the toy vehicles intended to crash through walls, or toy weapons that equipped one for neighborhood dominance.
By Candice Kilpatrick Brathwaite4 years ago in Fiction
The Contextual Beauty of Railroad Tracks
It’s never quiet around here. Especially not at night. I lay down in a bed where my feet hang off the edge, stuffed between my sister and a wall, and I listen. It used to keep me awake, but now it’s like my lullaby. The sound of screaming and breaking glass from the next apartment over joins muffled gunfire in the distance to create the opening sequence of my violent overture. Sirens pierce the night in staccato rhythm, growing softer as they speed towards the city and someone’s worst nightmare. The alley cats are having a turf war in the street below, where I can hear young and old women try to sell what they got to men who’ll take it all and bleed ‘em dry. Whenever Mama’s drunk she tells me that’s where I’m headed. I guess she knows, cause she’s already there.
By Chloë J.4 years ago in Fiction
A PEAR TREE
A young pear tree, full of promise, grew in a garden of life. Surrounded by rich soil, bird song, blue sky mountains, and new construction noise, it thrived. Dark green leaves, tiny buds, thin branches on a yet unsteady trunk, quake in the soft spring breezes. It stood ready for a young city, a new family, a yard, fruit, and recipes of love in the garden of life.
By Lisa Brasher4 years ago in Fiction
The Pear Tree
Dad was home. That could be wonderful or that could be terrible. Quiet was good. The back-garage door was open and the light was on, so Dad was working on a project out there. I walked by his big truck, without the trailer, sitting in our driveway.
By Terry Roe4 years ago in Fiction
Bosco
The musky dew of the morning mist hadn’t yet evaporated back to its origin in the bluish gray Oregon skies before I was already up and ready for the day. Ready for my beautiful Ann to come waltzing into our new home in a few hours from the night shift and dash me her usual three kiss combo before darting off to shower, inviting me in after the first five minutes! Shower time around here is like our fourplay now that we have a walk-in shower and jacuzzi soak tub that overlooks the garden truly setting the scene for romance. The great thing about my wife is that we could be in an alley next to a dumpster and we still feel connected mentally, spiritually and sexually making any scene or destination just that; a place. As long as I see her face and she sees’ mine, it is the best place that could ever be.
By Diana Angela Chang4 years ago in Fiction
The Green Room
"Minna?" "Minna?" "Minna!" 4-year old Jonathan yelled from behind the door. Minna rolled her eyes, set her book down, and slowly cracked her bedroom door. This was the third time today little Jonathan had come looking for her on Christmas Eve - her day off.
By CK Wetherill 4 years ago in Fiction
Anne of Green Fables
Anne needed a kitchen that looked nothing like the one she had growing up, and her desperation for this goal to become a reality had manifested into an all-consuming dream in adulthood. The kitchen had been a happy place for the family to come together at meal times, but in between meals, it was a planning station for the fall-backs regularly experienced due to Mama's inconsistencies and Papa's drinking problems. Finally, her wish was becoming a reality as she helped develop her new home she'd had built over the past year. Anne specified that she wanted a meal room and a place for company to sit and have tea and coffee, while the planning and the bills would be at her desk in the sitting room. Kitchens were places to create new and joyous food wonders, to have conversations with friends and laugh together over delicious tastes, and she firmly stuck to this outlook. The kitchen had to be perfect. It was the center of many potentially good memories to make in the future.
By Dani Banani4 years ago in Fiction
The pear tree
Xiuying was sitting at a small desk pushed up against the window, working her way through a tedious book on the history of Chinese opera. This was the same room she slept in as a baby. Through the window she could see her mother in the garden, where she seemed to be examining the leaves of the pear tree.
By Tomef4 years ago in Fiction
When Did We Start Believing?
When Did We Start Believing? It all happened in a millisecond. My fingertips slid into the wall like sealing a Velcro strap as mini waves of chlorinated water coated my arms and hands before I swiftly swung my head around to scrutinize the board through my water-filled goggles which I haphazardly flung off my face to get a better view. 39.87s. A world record and a PR. I swim over to the next lane to hug my teammate before raising my torso above the surface of the water and throw my arms up into the air with only my index fingers pointing up in a masculine display of energy as the crowd went wild, cheers bellowing throughout the stadium in Sydney, Australia. The feeling was indescribable, unlike the feeling just 39 seconds ago when I could literally feel my heart palpitating in my mouth. At the “take your mark” voice-off my calves clenched for take off and I could visualize my jet-black Speedo cap making smooth contact with the water as I took off from the diving block with a jaguar-mindset determination to eat the distance with my propellor arms and legs. The only thing that was on my mind was having enough strength on my second lap to go as fast as humanly possible. When I took off from the 50m mark I was leading by two seconds and I could hear my breath echolating throughout my entire body as I sped up to the finish line. When I turned around the number 1 was next to my name and I thought to myself “You did it! Wow, this is fucking amazing.” Not used to this level of attention, I was truly awestruck by the Olympic history making results. And of course, before the race the reporters annoyingly asked me if I was nervous for my first ever Olympic race, and I was like “Ha ha…. I’m trying not to be” with the fakest smile that couldn’t be hidden if I was the world record holder in poker faces. Clearly those nervous jitters served me well as I won the gold medal in the 100 free at the stunning age of 42, even though I looked like I was 25, like I came straight out of the movie “The Age of Adaline.” At a decent height of 5’7’’ with long legs, a long torso and regular sized arms I was an ideal fit to be a swimmer and I loved being in the water ever since I could remember. My coach used to incessantly tease the length of my legs by calling me “Mergirl” every time I came to practice. He would do it before, during and after practice on purpose to fuel my anger so I would go faster each time I showed up to practice. I would characteristically shun him for his antics as many more funny names would follow. “Mergirl did you forget your feet in the pool? You’re moving like you’ve forgotten to walk.” His bellowing laugh echoed through the pool deck. I turned around and gave him a smirk before flippantly telling him off. “What you see is all you get. I may be a cripple but at least I’m not bald.” Being the legend that he was, he could have cared less and shrugged it off with a chuckle. When I touched into the wall of my first Olympic race and got out of the pool to see my dad the first thing, I told him was “Sweet victory dad! Sweet victory.” And saying nothing with the biggest smile on his face, he reached his arms out and gave me a huge bear hug.
By Priyanka Thirumurti4 years ago in Fiction