family
Drama off the Coast
The sky was clear with only a couple of clouds floating by with the slight breeze as the lilacs swayed next to the path that headed down to the wharf where Harold had his old putt-putt tied up. The commercial cod fishery had begun and the bay was beginning to fill with eager fisher-people ready to put their lines in the water. This is the time of year at the beginning of the summer when all the small communities along the coasts of Newfoundland look forward too, the few weekends they can get out and catch their cod for the winter. Little Mikey and his twin sister Mary came running up behind their uncle as he reached the little boat bobbing in the water. “Do you have everything that you need kids?” Harold asked as he helped them into the putt-putt. “Yes uncle,” Mary replied. “We have a rods, bait, lunch and most importantly we have our life jackets.” The little girl continued as Mikey clambered his way up to his favorite spot at the bow of the put. Once they were settled Harold started up the small boat and they made their way out to the fishing grounds with the putt-putt echoing in the background.
By K.C. Keats4 years ago in Fiction
Key Lime Pie
Anderson is someone who was always able to recount the most minute details of his childhood. He can recall images of the family pet from when he was three years old. He remembers the color of the monkey bars at his pre-school and all the trivial car rides where he’d read the road signs as a way to test his mental fortitude. His grandparents would marvel at this child’s mini feat. The thing is, his mind was able to create symphonies. It allowed him to see cinematic images with his eyes closed. He could visualize things most could never imagine and he’d ultimately use that to escape a world that once constrained him.
By Go Strongwill4 years ago in Fiction
Random acts of kindness
Jodie had lived in Silver Lake her entire life. She loved this sleepy little town, nestled in the hills of the Canadian Shield. The town had been built by the pioneers, lumberjacks mostly, who had left traces of their handiwork in some of the century’s old wooden houses that were dotted around Silver Lake. The town encircled a large lake by the same name, with many bays connected to smaller lakes by meandering creeks. The lake was dotted with many islands, some of which were inhabited, but only in the summer, acting as small fishing cottages that could be rented out.
By Madeleine LQ4 years ago in Fiction
Hidden In The Closet
It was a hot summer! I had traveled from California to Oklahoma to give my sister Lynn a break. She was a full time care giver for our elderly mother. Lynn picked me up from the airport and we began our two hour road trip to the small town in Northern Oklahoma were she lived with my Mom. My Mom had stayed home with our friend Shirley, who was keeping a watchful eye on Mom in Lynn's short absence. My mother could no longer deal with heat and was on oxygen 24/7. We chatted about our respective residences and joked as we usually did. We were thirsty so we pulled into a road side market for a bathroom break and drinks. When we re-entered the vehicle Lynn's expression had changed. She looked troubled.
By Pamela Johnson4 years ago in Fiction
#blessed
The kettle barely has a chance to whistle before she removes it from the burner. Water heated to precicely one hundred ninety degrees is poured into the gleaming cylinder of the french press, already prepared with coarse-ground, organic, freshly-roasted coffee beans from an ethically sourced farm in Columbia. A timer is set for four minutes. While she waits, she leans against the countertop and opens up her phone.
By Lindsay Rae4 years ago in Fiction
Cigarette Freeze
“Why are you smoking? You don’t smoke,” I say to myself. You don’t smoke. Your father smokes. You don’t smoke, I repeat, looking into my pristine mirror that I cleaned meticulously for ten minutes. No streaks, just smoke. “I don’t smoke,” I say, and I blow the Marlboro’s burning taste out from my chapped lips. I just came from a funeral. And my mom gave me his cigarettes. My father’s last pack. My father always said he’d quit. He said he’d always stop. Half a pack a day. Just a few a day. “You don’t even smoke!” I whisper, the tendrils of gray whispering sweet suffering and tender hearted memories. He quit drinking, but he still smoked.
By Melissa Ingoldsby4 years ago in Fiction
Learning to Love
Callie unbuckled the car seat straps and lifted one-year old Jack from the car seat. She debated about getting the stroller out of the trunk and decided instead to carry him to the playground. The sun was shining and there was a light breeze ruffling the leaves on the oaks surrounding the park. Around the smaller trees were beds of marigolds, freshly planted. She was pleased to see it wasn’t too crowded, but it was a Tuesday, her normal day off work. Jack babbled happily and clapped his hands, his latest trick, as they approached the swing set. She plopped him in the baby swing and gave him some gentle pushes. He squealed for more, and she pushed him harder. He had no fear; he hadn’t learned that yet and she hoped he never would, but knew it wasn’t likely.
By Shelly Slade4 years ago in Fiction
