family
Plan A
I find myself in a situation that is unbearable. I was born to an indentured slave who worked for a plantation owner. Slavery was abolished years ago and many slaves found themselves with not enough money to buy land so they were given “jobs” on the plantations where they had been slaves. Some “freed” slaves moved into towns close to the plantations and could not find jobs or housing. Suffering from poverty, some walked into larger towns and found jobs that gave them an apartment near the place they worked. The wages were very low and getting ahead took a lot of patience and determination.
By Don McDougle4 years ago in Fiction
It Wasn't Supposed to End Like This
Did you think love was like a cake lovingly baked through time and error? Did you think measuring out each cup of flour and dusting your face with it would make him stay? Did you think that last birthday cake would secure his affections in a way nothing else could?
By Jillian Spiridon4 years ago in Fiction
Solo
Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear Jessa, Happy birthday to you. Elsie Doakes led the traditional song, her voice cracking as she stumbled over the third line, much more used to having to rush through three names instead of just the one. Keep it together, she thought to herself. Jessa doesn’t need you to bring things down today.
By Darcy A. S. Thornburg4 years ago in Fiction
Death by Chocolate
Death By Chocolate By Luke Woodruff The smooth wisps of chocolate frosting encompassing the piece of delicious art work before him took him back to his childhood. He stared longingly at the piece of cake, as though it could transport him to another world. If only he focused enough. If only he let his mind take him there, everything would be alright.
By Luke Woodruff5 years ago in Fiction
Death by Chocolate
Death by chocolate was a summer’s afternoon at my best friend’s house. Her family bustling around the kitchen in organised chaos. Nothing like my quiet household; there was no death by chocolate at my house, there was no hustle and bustle Sunday lunch tradition. There were only the four of us, though, compared to this family of seven plus visiting family. I think they did this every Sunday. My best friend Arielle was adopted by her aunt, I guess. Her aunt was the matriarch, revered and respected. She had a partner, Mr Horton, whom everyone despised. They didn’t call him Dad or Grandpa; he was just Mr Horton. Arielle said her mother would never marry him; he was just there for companionship (she did, in fact, marry Mr Horton a decade later). Mr Horton was only tolerated on the condition that his position and presence was temporary and served their mother’s need to have someone, but she was still in control. As a mother to three daughters, it was her responsibility to show strength and reserve. Or so was the impression. Mr Horton knew his place, a dark brown lazy boy in front of the television. He didn’t say much, clearly an accessory to the matriarch and possibly overwhelmed by her strong-willed daughters.
By Culture Salt5 years ago in Fiction
Icebreaker
On a cold cloudy afternoon Tommy had awoken to a snowy wonderland waiting for him outside. The winters in Wisconsin can be pretty brutal. His mother had fed and milked the cows before sunrise. Tommy gets away with sleeping in from time to time. For a single mother you have to pick your battles with teenage boys. Early mornings are at 5am and spent helping his father with chores on the farm. Everyone pitched in. But, all that changed since the Great War began. Tommy became the man of the house very quickly, attending to most of the physical labor and anything that needed fixing and mainly being extra hands for his Mother. Today was special, for his birthday, Tommy gets to be a fourteen year old boy. With life on the farm there’s really never a true day off. He’s lucky to have such a mom who looks out for him and teaches him that sometimes growing up too fast can make you forget how to enjoy being a kid.
By Allison Seney5 years ago in Fiction
Continental Divide
For as long as I could remember, Grandpa always had a big car. Not just any car, a Lincoln Continental. Cadillacs were for pimps and gangsters. A Lincoln exuded luxury and the American dream. At the time, the American dream involved waiting for “even” or “odd” days based on the numbers on your license plate in order to get gas.
By Dutch Simmons5 years ago in Fiction
