family
Family unites us; but it's also a challenge. All about fighting to stay together, and loving every moment of it.
Storms bring out what calm seas cannot
Lettie had come out here to die. All her life she had moments like this where her mind rationalized it would be better to be gone from this world than to be part of it. She had driven out to the dock and untethered her parents' ship from where it had sat for years. There was a film of slime all over the controls but other than that she smiled when engine sputtered on.
By yanina maysonet5 years ago in Humans
Patchy & Mitch
Somewhere in the mountains, in a small space with the smell of lavender lingering around. Coming from a candle placed on a square rag. There are apple kernels and chocolate wrappers crumpled in a pile. Scraps of cloth and tattered blankets lying on the ground. Used as beds for the two siblings, an older brother and younger sister tasked by their father to survive 7 nights on their own. Hone their skills as a hunter and scavenge while he went solo on a sailing mission. So, they took camp in a pit in a mountain next to the docs. Planning to catch fish for the duration of their stay. Although on most days they had empty stomachs since Mitch didn't like when his hands got slimy from the bait and would gag when it squirmed on the hook. For some reason, he was in awe when he saw his cutesy sister with the squeaky voice play with it in her hands. Patchy was different than most girls and Mitch didn't like to fish unlike most boys. It was his turn to get the big meal for the day and every time a meal is had, there is always a tale to tell.
By Lauryn Greene5 years ago in Humans
When life and death imitate art
As I have grown older I realize that a lot of what we consider to be "art" has been imitating real life, only I did not know it. There is much that I thought was made up for television shows and movies, that I now know was based on real life events. I am about to share something that recently took place which I must say is a situation where my life imitated art. I have nothing else to compare it to except what I saw while watching a film. My husband suffered a massive stroke last October and each time he showed signs of recovery it seemed something would set him back. Doctors in 2 hospitals gave up on him many times but he always pulled through.
By Cheryl E Preston5 years ago in Humans
The Art of Letting Go
Lucy had trouble letting things go. Not in the sense that she held grudges but actual things. It was a fact that Lucy’s home was a museum of memorabilia from her life; worthless but tangible objects that were priceless to her, each infused with special memories. Lucy held on to them, year after year, unwilling to unwind herself from the security that each memory offered her.
By Tammy Baxter5 years ago in Humans
The Thornton Triplets
It was hard not to notice the Thornton triplets. If it wasn’t for their bright ginger, curly locks, then it was for their loud damn mouths. 19 long years have I had to deal with the noisy nigglers and it seems with age, they aren’t getting much better.
By Matthew Grantham5 years ago in Humans
Summer Cousins
There was magic in our lake. That’s what Grammy always said. But then again, Grammy had a bit of magic in her, too. Each year on the last day of summer, Grammy packed her picnic hamper and together we’d carry it down to the old dock where the reeds were thin and the ducks liked to gather. We’d sit for hours with our feet dangling in the water, just Grammy and me, because I was the oldest and (I suspected), that made me the favorite. We ate cheese sandwiches wrapped in crinkled brown paper and thick slices of Great Aunt Millie’s angel food cake, and Grammy told me stories about when she was a girl. I’d swat at the horseflies and watch the rich people’s boats sway in the breeze while I imagined a little girl version of Grammy splashing in the water and racing her older sisters across the shoreline. On these Last Days, I could tell Grammy all of my secrets, and Grammy only ever listened as she stroked my hair until the sky turned purple and one last lonely boat fluttered on the horizon.
By Jessica Conaway5 years ago in Humans
Passing Fancy 2
Passing Fancy 2 Alfred, who insisted on being called Al ever since he discovered Alfred was Batman’s butler, stood tall and straight on the beach, barefoot, the warm wet sand at the ocean's edge squishing up through his toes, his eyes shut against the sun as his face tilted toward its warmth. Sea breezes blew through his wind-tousled white hair which had somehow remained full and thick while the hair of his friends whitened and eased away with age.
By Cleve Taylor 5 years ago in Humans
Let’s Just Say - It’s Complicated
The buzzing sound of the alarm clock jolted me awake. I slowly opened my eyes, got up and walked to the window. The sun was shining, the sky flawless, the temperature cosy with a slight breeze and I thought to myself, “Wow, I’m so grateful for my life.” I could hear my two boys in the next room already wide awake and playing computer games.
By Rejoice Denhere5 years ago in Humans
Star Bodies
I spend a lot of time sprawled beneath the cover of the stars, hoping it will make me feel closer to them. I lay out in the field behind my house and press myself flat against the ground, fingers sifting through grass and dirt, searching for the earth’s pulse. Sometimes I think that if I dig my nails in hard enough for the soil to cake or if I look up with enough longing, it’ll spark something deep between my ribs. That feeling of the organs inside me coming together to fill the gaps the blood always sloshes through.
By R. S. Gonzalez5 years ago in Humans
Blacktop therapy
Blacktop therapy her dad used to call it, highway driving. Johnson gets in the car and makes for the Albany Highway. Armadale. North Bannister. Passes Italian mansions on the hill behind a fug of black foliage and toilet brush pines. Less than 80 kilometres from the city and Radio National is going staccato on her already.
By Jane Cornes-Maclean5 years ago in Humans
The Memory in Merlot
I was early, as usual. It's a habit of mine, probably devolved to avoid disappointing people, then again, I don't necessarily aim to impress anyone, so I should throw that one out the window. The awkwardness began to creep in on me, my body temperature rose slightly, and it felt like all the eyes in the restaurant were on me. "I got Stood up" is the thought that replays in my mind over and over. Why did I even agree to this date, especially a blind date? As the overwhelming awkwardness of sitting alone starts to take over, here walks in a stunning woman. She seems to be in her mid-twenties, maybe a few inches over 5 feet tall, and has the most picture-perfect red hair I have ever seen. It is long, full, wavy, and close to orange, but my eyes were trying to convince my brain it was red. Right away, I knew she had a unique quality that I have never seen before, which has me excited but also nervous. She sat down, and my anxiety began to climb as I realized I should have pulled the chair out for her. I feel like I already failed the first test. I stuck out my hand to shake hers as I said, "you look great" "Oh, thank you!" She responds, "I'm Amy, by the way," Benny, I say. The next few minutes are filled with meaningless small talk; she doesn't like the city, her dog loves walks, and she's moving to Miami if the weather doesn't get better. The waiter came by and asked what we wanted to have to drink. Amy responded, "a glass of merlot, please." And you, sir, asked the waiter. In the middle of asking for just a glass of water, Amy interrupts and says, "make that two glasses of merlot." She smiles at me, unaware that I am not very fond of alcohol, but I gave her the most genuine smile I could so I didn't seem rude. As the night went on, we talked a lot and had a great dinner. I learned where Amy went to school and how she is now a chiropractor, along with how she and her mom are practically best friends. "Are you not going to drink your wine?" Amy asked. I don't like to drink, but I also don't want to seem rude, or like I am some sort of a recovering alcoholic, so I play dumb and say, "oh my goodness, I totally blanked out and forgot it was here," Amy laughed it off and so did I as I took my first sip of the Merlot. "It's not bad, hey?" she asked. "No, it is excellent!" I responded. We both ended up having a few more glasses of Merlot and decided to order dessert. "So, are you close with your family?" Amy asks. We had been talking about her life the whole night, and I was quite pleased that she had not asked many questions until now. "Um, not so much. It was mainly just my mother and me while I was growing up. "My dad was out of the picture early on, so no, not really." As Amy asked if I am still in touch with my mother, I began to zone out. I focused on her hand. She was twirling her glass which made the wine dance around the bottom of the glass. I felt like I was in a trance when I blurted out, "Merlot was my mother's drink of choice; she would twirl her glass around her fingers when the wine was low just like that." Amy was caught off guard and didn't reply as I remained focused on her glass. Unlike my date, my mother didn't ever do that with her wine when making small talk. She would do that after my father got home. I don't remember much about my dad except a blurry image of him. He had a thick beard that had equal amounts of black and grey hairs in it. I know he liked to get mad though, yelling and throwing things around the kitchen, and I also know if my mom were in his way, she would get thrown around too. I remember her eyes and what fear looked like when he would throw her to the ground onto the cold tile floor. With sadness, she would look over at me, disappointed that she couldn't stop me from seeing what was happening. Once the yelling would stop, and my angry bearded father would disappear, my mom would get up and go into the cabinet for a bottle of wine. It was always a merlot that she would drink after incidents like this. She would pour herself a glass of the dark red wine and fill it nearly to the rim. She would drink, and when it was near empty, she would twirl the glass with her fingers, except it was not a smooth motion like Amy. Her hand would still be shaking, and the cuts on her hand would drip blood that was a much brighter red than what was in her glass. I will never forget how frightened my mother was. What that did to her, and that damn shake in her hand. I looked up at Amy, and her hand was steady. She isn't traumatized; she's not in pain, she is pure and innocent, but maybe I'm not. That was my father that did those horrendous things to the woman he was supposed to love and protect. Is that inside me? Am I capable of doing that to her? "I'm sorry," I uttered to Amy after snapping out of my aimless stare. "For what?" she asked, "I have to go." "You are great and did nothing wrong, and I am sorry for this. I really am." I threw down more than enough cash for the bill and hurried out of the restaurant into the cold, windy night. I feel awful, but here I am, running away from good people. All I know is that my father was a monster, and maybe some of that monster is hiding inside of me, waiting to get out, waiting to cause damage to anything good. But I will not let that happen. If that means avoiding connections with people I want to care about, then so be it. Because my monster will stay buried, I will hammer it down with 6-inch nails and pour concrete over it, whatever it takes. My monster will not see the light of day.
By Corey Vallee5 years ago in Humans
