family

Family unites us; but it's also a challenge. All about fighting to stay together, and loving every moment of it.

Women My Father Slept With
How could so much cash leave me feeling so empty? This was the answer to my debt, my car that needed a new transmission, yet I didn't feel happy. I was holding my father's life savings in my hands, sitting on the stiff single mattress that he had likely died on. 20 grand could have bought him a lot of heroin, prostitutes, a nicer place… hell, even a new bed. Yet this lump sum of wrinkled bills had remained hidden away, untouched. No matter how it had evaded the jonesing hands of an addict with little to no impulse control, it had been intended for me—at least my name was written on the envelope. Not 'Ian' my legal name, but 'little bugger', his nickname for me. I suppose I must have been a 'little bugger' when he knew me. I was only 6 when he caught a bus out of the city and left my mother and me to fend for ourselves. I never forgave him for that—and neither did she up until her death.
By Nic Bryk5 years ago in Humans
Fly Me To The Moon
I gazed at the sunset just before the sun dipped into the horizon. The vivid pink and orange of the evening danced across the sky while crickets and frogs chirped in the creekbed nearby. Cows mooed in the distance, the soft summer breeze blew along the porch disturbing the wind chimes and making them tinkle together. I sat on my porch rocking chair drinking in the summer evening, letting the warm breeze caress my face. In the background, a radio crackled with static as it played oldies… music from my parents’ and grandparents’ childhood. The opening lines of “Fly Me to the Moon” by Frank Sinatra. Beth and my mother's favorite song.
By Nathaniel Pratt5 years ago in Humans
Aunt Kelly's Legacy
Attendance wouldn’t be recorded for the day’s lecture so I finally made the trip out to my late-great-Aunt Kelly’s place. We’d only heard about Kell’s passing a few weeks before and, to be honest, the dust had already settled on the news. She had the dream death - fast asleep, rugged up on her recliner. I couldn’t say she’d played a massive role in my life. That was, until the toaster broke at my share house. We were too broke to buy a new one. My roommates shared my distress of missing out on one of the major food groups: toast. So I called Dad to ask if any of his mates might have a spare.
By Mia Marr5 years ago in Humans
Don’t Think, Just Jump
I stand, hands sweating, back pressed against the metal rail, knuckles white with tension and fear as I contemplate what needs to be done. I am out of options. My eyes fill with liquid torment as the river rages below. I suck in a ragged breath and try to shake the anxiety. I have to do this. I just have to. I close my eyes to concentrate.
By Smarty Mom5 years ago in Humans
The unlived life
Outback Queensland, Australia *** I stand in the middle of my block of land and watch the world. Facing west, I look over a fertile plain, seasonally rich with the fruits of agricultural labour, behind which red and green craggy hills jump up to fill the horizon. Boulders, like freckles, decorate the hills with the space in between filled with tall sinewy gums, forever dancing a lover’s tango with the wind. Behind me to the east, the grassy scrub slopes down to the turquoise bay, broken only by the red gash of the access road. The road and farm land are the only signs of human inhabitancy.
By Tess5 years ago in Humans
Just Another Day
Darkness filled the early, crisp January morning. Arriving early to work, she clocked in and took her seat in preparation for the long day ahead. It was just another day.
By darby dreher5 years ago in Humans
A Mother's Wish
“That can’t be right”. She cancelled the transaction and snatched the plastic card out of the machine. Taking a deep breath, she looked around and wiped the sweat accumulating on her palms with her jeans. “Just try again, you clearly did it wrong”, she went through the motions once more. After inputting her PIN, she waited for the screen to reflect the options. She selected Balance Inquiry. After some time, the screen stared back at her with her account information.
By Jessica Hector5 years ago in Humans
Hands, Heels, Hope and A Little Black Book
Olivia warmed herself in the orangish fanfare of an Australian dawn as it pushed the night sky out from across Port Phillip Bay. Tiny waves quietly kissed the sand, pirouetted, and retreated with the outgoing tide. Olivia flipped a stray curl off her shoulders and pulled a mandala patterned beach towel tight around her shoulders. The bare backs of her thighs sunk into the cool moistness of the sand as she inhaled the serenity generously offered by calm waters of the bay. All too soon, her peace would be shattered by tribes of cabana pitching beach goers with their squealing children and hoons on jet skis racing and churning the water. But for now, the beach and the bay were hers, and hers alone.
By Char Weeks5 years ago in Humans
Just a Smudge
She pulls off her shoes and peels off her socks. The water is so calm today. No one is swimming this early in the morning. She isn’t planning on it either. Suddenly, she puts her shoes back on, forgetting the socks. Today is not the best day for this.
By Caitlyn Davis5 years ago in Humans
Words Unsaid
"Did I ever meet grandpa?" Charlie asked. Sam glanced in the rearview mirror at her daughter sitting in the backseat. "No," she said flatly.
By Grant Piper5 years ago in Humans
The Last Will and Testament of Simon Alexander Brown
Peter Gilmore was exactly 27 years, 157 days old. He knew this because he had been exactly 27 years and one day old when he heard the name Simon Brown for the first time, relayed with sober efficiency by the police officer calling to tell him that Simon Brown was dead. He knew this because he had marked the passing of each subsequent day with a small black tick in the margin of the small black notebook that had been Simon’s only possession on the day of his death. He knew this because he only had seven days left to find his inheritance.
By Lee Noack5 years ago in Humans
Be Longing
Jean Luca was a singular man. His life was that of a roamer: not aimless, but free nevertheless. He was a stout man, salt and pepper hair, a beard prickled by the elements, and a stomach rigid with a diet of salame and fontina. His skin was leather, his fingers thick and the nails lined with earth, his eyes were a deep brown. In their reflection, an eternity of snowcapped peaks hiding starkly blue lakes and spotted with green pines. Jean Luca belongs to the Alps, he spends his life caring for his cattle, tending to their every need, walking alongside them as they graze the prairies of green. Every day his alarm rings at 3. The morning greets him with a sky of constellations and herds of fleeing mountain goats. He walks to the corral, close enough to still hear the breathing of his cows throughout the night. Water, feeding, cleaning, milking. Cerise follows loyally behind, wagging his tail as he assumes his responsibility of gathering his hooved companions. The sun emerges from the depths of the valley and the cows reluctantly trundle out of their evening pens. The cacophonous ringing of their bells echoes the squeaks of the marmots, scrambling through rocks and ducking back into their underground cities. Jean Luca mechanically folds his loaf of bread and a half eaten wheel of cheese into a cloth, tucking it away into his satchel alongside some logs of salame and his opinel knife. He has wandered these mountains since he was a boy. He knows them well enough now to realize just how insignificant his presence is in all of their magnitude, how menial his existence is in this flourishing and vast ecosystem of life. Despite this internAlized realization, he walks on. Along his way he tends to the hiking paths, adjusting the signs, repainting the colored wax indicators on rocks and trees. People come from the world over to walk the trails of Valle D'Aosta and Lucano treads solemnly ahead, his work unknown, his footprints concealed by the changing flows of a nearby stream, the colossal destruction of a hail storm, or the imprints of a German tourist's crampons. Most days are the same, bringing him a few hours closer to the advent of a new season or another cattle competition.
By Océane Mauffrey5 years ago in Humans