family
Lessons In Listening
“Don’t touch that!” Startled in her tracks, Alexa whips her head around. Oscar stands in the doorway with his quivering forefinger pointing to the brown paper package at the edge of the porch and a wild look in his eyes—they dart around the property for any sign of the mysterious courier.
By Spencer Hamilton 4 years ago in Fiction
The most exciting place to work
My father worked at the box factory for 40 years and told me to never end up there. It was not a profession that offered much respect. Most people assumed that anyone could make a box and assumed that’s how they are made. But there is a need in the job market for professional box makers. Somehow your fireworks, your candies and your nails need to get to you somehow.
By Paul Armstrong4 years ago in Fiction
Boxes of Emotions
Rick was rushing to make the appointment on time. His fiancé was already there and she was texting him, "Where are you?", "You are late again.", "This is important. We find out the baby's gender today.", "I need you here." He would normally respond to the texts even while driving but he had made her a promise that as soon as they were a family then he would not text and drive anymore. It had always been a bad habit that he had. He had been lucky multiple times in his life having barely avoided hitting other cars or people.
By Ronald T Whitley4 years ago in Fiction
12 Months
12 months. It’s been a year since I said goodbye to you. When I drove you to the airport, I drove as slow as I possibly could. I know you knew what I was doing, delaying your departure, but you didn’t say anything. You just held my free hand, intertwining our fingers and gripping tightly. We talked about the baby that grew within me, tossing names back and forth as I drove. I could feel you watching me, when I glanced at you, you would just be smiling as you watched me.
By Tamara McNeill4 years ago in Fiction
It Starts In The Attic
"Misty! get down here! your dad need your back for a footrest!" misty's mom says. "Im coming!" misty responds. You may be wondering.. who is misty? why do her dad need her as a footrest? is she like a servant? a foster child? No. Misty is a 9 year old girl with a heart as pure as gold. she plays with her dollys and can't sleep without her favorite stuffed toy that she named mrs cuddles. she is just like any other 9 year old girl, well minus the part with her parents. her parents may not look like bad people in front of an audiance, but behind closed doors nobody will ever know whats going on.
By crativekiki4 years ago in Fiction
Roadkill
My father was a conundrum of a man. A living, walking oxymoron. He was a good ol’ country boy, but never once in his life did he ever drink a beer. He was an academic, an intellectual – but enjoyed what Jeff Foxworthy would call “a glorious lack of sophistication.” He was a redneck. World-traveled and exquisitely well-read, Dad was, but he operated the world around him on the premise that if a thing could not be fixed with duct tape, baling wire, or JB Weld, it was dadgum well broke. He could (and often did) debate fine points of theology while scaling a mess of fish with his pocket knife, and in the next moment be picking his teeth with the same knife. He was a pastor the first 17 years of my life, and wore a suit most of the time; thereafter he was a residential construction contractor and only exchanged his jeans and t-shirts for suits on Sundays for church.
By Dawn Harper4 years ago in Fiction
A Gift From Above
“Daddy?” A snivelling voice chimed from behind the bedroom door. With a bit of scuffling the door clicked open, light spilling in from the hallway to illuminate a fragile, and shaky little frame. Delila patted her tears with her onesie sleeve she had bundled up over her nimble fingers; her doe-eyes heavy with sleep, welling up with tears. Her button nose seeping, and her puffy rose cheeks stained salty from her dolorous and repetitive weeping. Close to her chest she clutched her PoPo: a tatted hippo plushie with frayed ears from relentless sucking.
By Louis Murphy4 years ago in Fiction
Surface Level
When I came home and opened the front door, the smell of old diapers and microwaved zucchini mush instantly made me gag. I pressed a finger to my nostrils, kicking a rubber ducky out of my way with an angry squeak before taking my high heels off and poking my head in the living room arch.
By Elsa Fleurel4 years ago in Fiction
