family

The Visitor
Intoxication used to be euphoric but now I realize how distorted my perception has been as I self-destruct. My chapped lips kiss the bottle of whiskey and I feel the smooth caramel burning sensation tickle the back of my throat through my broken heart. I stumble through tall grass feeling the irritating sting against my arms. My undershirt sticks to my chest in this humid season as the rain clouds dampen the sun but not the heat. Sweat outlines the curves of my stubble narrow face as my work boots sink into the soft earth. I take refuge within this old barn from the setting sun peeking through the clouds.
By AL5 years ago in Fiction
I got you.
“Where are we going Michael?” “Just keep walking, I got you.” “It doesn’t feel like it.” “Listen, do you want to see this or not because I can’t have your negativity messing up the vibe.”
By Tanjanika Lewis5 years ago in Fiction
My Brother
It wasn’t eight in the morning and the kitchen was already hot, sticky, and miserable when I walked in. Texas weather was never what you wanted it to be, but in August it was the worst. My Aunt Helen was standing in a thin yellow sundress in front of the oven, sweating, and waiting for what smelled like biscuits to finish. She turned and looked at me and smiled.
By Roland Snider5 years ago in Fiction
Nathaniel's Regret
Cold October sunlight filtered in through the cracks between the boards in the side of the barn. Nathaniel took a bite from an apple he’d picked from one of the trees outside as he watched his father, Deke, finishing the work for the day. The large nails in the beams overhead were handmade, which placed the construction of the barn sometime in the early eighteen hundreds according to Deke. Nathaniel liked being inside its old walls. The aged, musty smell of ancient wood underlay the fresher, cleaner smell of new sawdust. The gaps in the floorboards were enough to allow the dust to sift through to the ground beneath without the need for a dustpan, and since he usually did the sweeping for his father, Nathaniel appreciated that. Today Deke was carefully sanding the arms of a wooden rocking chair for the third time with the finest grain of sandpaper, which was barely rougher than a piece of cardboard so far as Nathaniel could tell. When Deke determined that the sanding was done, they would go on their evening walk.
By Jackson Eaton5 years ago in Fiction
Different People
My toes sank into the warm grass; the golden heat of sunlight baking my bare arms and legs. I giggled as a worm snaked its way from under my foot, tickling my pinky as it went.
By Nile.5 years ago in Fiction
Grandpa's Barn
The little boy bit his lip as he gazed up at the picture. "Grandpa, whose barn is that?" All of the other pictures were of well known faces- there was his mom and dad, and there was one of him and his little sister. There was Uncle Bro and his family, and one of Grandpa with the Grandma the little boy had never gotten the chance to know. But he didn't know that barn. It looked like an old tired place. It didn't seem to fit with the smiling faces.
By Katie Lynn5 years ago in Fiction
Smile
“Smile,” the photographer said, shaking a rattle in Aurora’s direction, trying to get her attention. The camera clicked away in the hopes of catching one shot where Aurora wasn’t looking at the bale of hay she was perched upon. Her one-year-old senses were easily distracted by simple things, such as how the rough hay felt against her small hands. Getting a photo of her looking up would prove to be difficult.
By J. Lozada5 years ago in Fiction
A While Longer
My favorite part about summer is visiting the coast. It’s so old-timey. We get to visit a part of the world that’s been swallowed up and spit out so many times that the hard rock has turned into soft sand. Daddy says it’s silly to romanticize erosion, but I think we’re like those rocks. We change over time.
By Alyssa DeMoss5 years ago in Fiction
How my brother got his name.
My parents lived on a property in the wool district of New South Wales, in Eastern Australia. My father had inherited the land from his father who had decided that his joints were far better suited to the warm climate of Queensland. Shortly after my parents married, my grandfather packed my grandmother in their car with as many belongings as could be squeezed in, and headed out along the dirt driveway, straw hat on his head, singing the praises of Cairns. They were never to grace that driveway again.
By Joanne Elliott5 years ago in Fiction
James and the Magic Door
James Patterson was a simple, quiet man but introverted by no means. James grew up on his family’s farm in rural Maine. After his parents passed he realized how important community was to him and so he transformed the modest acreage of his inheritance from a working farm into a venue for weddings, gatherings, parties and retreats. He loved providing a place for people to gather, to be in community with one another and to share life’s joy around a table or a fire pit. James found that when he was able to do so, he felt completed. He would throw lavish parties, spending too much of his own money to make sure that everyone had the food, drink, entertainment and atmosphere that would serve to bring them all a little closer together. Then he would sit back with a big smile on his face and watch them talk and drink and smile, listen to their laughter and their raucous enjoyment of one another’s company. He would participate too, sure, but his true happiness came from providing the space and watching his friends and family and loved ones enjoy one another.
By Rob Cunliffe5 years ago in Fiction
Barn Knights
Two blades crossed under scattered beams of sunlight as leaves gently fell. Relentless foes caught in the dance of battle. One parries, one blocks, the other dodges, and reverberating steel rings the ears of those fortunate enough to be near the nimble pair. Leaping onto a nearby rock to gain the upper ground, one warrior gains the upper hand, landing a fatal blow on the other.
By Anthony Criswell5 years ago in Fiction
Àbíkú
I was a mother before she was born. The very few memories of my childhood I maintained are those of me looking at my sister, coated in sweet-smelling shea butter oil and baby powder, being cradled in my mother’s arms as she sang beautifully in her alto voice.
By Damilola5 years ago in Fiction