humanity
For better or for worse, relationships reveal the core of the human condition.
A Rainy Day
On a gloomy day, I was walking as fast as I could, to try to get to my house before the rain fell. I could feel a few drops fall into my hair and suddenly a big storm started to fall, it was so strong that I had to take off my glasses, they were covered with water and I could not see. Good that I had my umbrella, I took it out of my backpack and quickly protected myself from the rain, I put my glasses back on as I walked to the bus stop to get to my house.
By Rosa Munguia5 years ago in Humans
CLIFF NOTES
One thing he never lost was the ability to play the baritone sax. His fingers felt at home on those keys and he felt connected as he hugged the oversized brass. The notes vibrated so deep, you would think the music would be depressing, but it touched your soul instead. That horn was maybe the only thing that was always stable in his life. Traumatic experiences left him without family and with very little. He never gave up though. He would not take the gift of life for granted - especially when it was robbed from his loved ones. And now Coronavirus would try to crumble his dream.
By Heather Sconza5 years ago in Humans
One Mans Trash...
Arthur wasn’t the best guy to ask if good things happened to good people – because his answer was always the same: of course not. At 25, Arthur lived between a restaurant and a clothes shop. At 25, Arthur didn’t just think, he knew that good things never happened to good people - the evidence was in the mirror. His answer, however, needed a slight adjustment after the 29th of June.
By Tom Fender5 years ago in Humans
The Whites of Their Eyes
The incessant chatter of my mind goes to never-ending lengths. Are you hard on yourself? Are you coasting through life? I thought this to myself as I lay in the bed of my downtown loft. I’m spiraling and seething with wrath that which the planet has not known. I don’t know that I detest more the 3 am chirping of a cricket trapped in my skylight or my 7 am job filled with the high shrills of suburban yoga moms. If only I could get a grip, or a hold, or into the swing of things. I want sweet sleep. I wish that I could stop trying so hard; to sleep or to be. This being has tunneled through countless adversities and iterations of humanity. People that dare not apply themselves to an ever-demanding society. My existential crisis was all-consuming until I happened upon a little black book.
By Hector Jonathan Cabrera5 years ago in Humans
Baby on Fire. Top Story - March 2021.
I wasn't supposed to be in his office. Not now—not ever. That was the command. His command. First, it started with the office, now the basement. Soon it'd be the dining room, the guest bedroom—our bedroom, even. Nothing could shock me too much anymore, but let's just stay I was starting to grow impatient.
By Lexie Robbins5 years ago in Humans
The Little Black Book of Elenor Bambridge
Our story begins six months ago. I was crying. Silent tears slid down my face like minuscule rivulets and dropped onto my collar. I felt like I had stepped into a bucket of wet cement and it had dried, encasing my feet and calves in weights I was not strong enough to lift. My chest bucked hard against my controlled efforts to breathe slowly and deeply and I pressed my fingers to my lips. Jeanette caught sight of my pink and glistening eyes and rolled her own dry beady ones skywards and stalked out of the room. I felt some gentle pressure around my arms and knew without looking that it was Milly. “I know you were attached to this one Chloe”. Then she hugged me and backed out of the room, her ballet flats gently brushing against the carpet. I remember thinking it sounded like a bird rubbing its’ feathers together. Then I looked at the poor, wasted body of Elenor Bambridge and I wondered if she had wings of her own now, somewhere. I knew that she would be covered in a white sheet soon and taken away to a cold place. I had worked at Inara Springs Aged Care Facility for four years now and death was no stranger to these halls. I had still not managed to muster the professionalism of the other nurses, who more or less had adopted a detached manner. It wasn’t that they didn’t care, it was self preservation really. I looked back at sweet Elenor and I suddenly wanted to hold her hand one last time. Without thinking, and apparently forgetting about the weights rooting me to the spot at the foot of her bed; I was suddenly at her side. I nudged the starchy bone coloured sheet and overly-bleached waffle blankets back to reveal her hand. I unfurled her fingers and I realised she was clutching something in her cool, soft hand. It was a little black book. I knew this book. Over the time we had spent together, one of our favourite things to do was crosswords. She had written down answers to questions that stumped her, so that she could remember them for the next time they popped up. The crossword magazine we used had a habit of re-using the same riddles. This book was always by her side. It was worn and made of leather. The years and use had made the cover supple and soft. This book was her only possession. Before I knew it, I had gently taken it from her hand. I knew that it would just be discarded otherwise. Without any family, there was no one to give it to. I looked down at it and couldn’t bear the thought of it being tossed away. It was a part of Elenor, it was how she found meaning in the cryptic clues of her crosswords. The idea of this felt important to me then because this meant that perhaps I could find a meaning in all of this. Maybe her book would give me answers. Elenor was what you would call a closed book herself; and now that she had left us I felt like I had been sucker punched with the fact that I would never delve past the superficial layers of that enigma.
By Rebekah Kate5 years ago in Humans
Crossroads
Since childhood we are warned not to talk to strangers. Once able to speak, and understand speech in turn, we're told about the dangers of not only the world but the people who inhabit it with us. Anyone could be a threat. Anyone could wish you harm. It can be an isolating belief, but it's one formed from centuries of repeated occurrences, recorded for us to learn from secondhand accounts rather than through first-hand experience.
By T.S. Raven5 years ago in Humans
Drink
I took a drink. Mama always hated me. She never said it, but I knew. Rather, she told me I was why my father left. He left because he was scared to raise a child. He was a coward. But so was she. I suppose it was contagious. She gave up on everything when I was eleven. But I guess I’m hypocritical. She lasted longer than I will. Cowardice is contagious.
By Samantha Perez5 years ago in Humans
The little black book
His brother just arrived from a cross-county drive from New York to Oregon. It took him 5 days. Stopping three times to rest, and as he is now telling, he stopped a dozen times here and there for a coffee and an inspirational moment where he sat down for an hour at a park bench to write down his great ideas. Now he paced the room with bursts of angry sounds. He flung his arms out in frustration, he'd never seen his brother so angry or in such a worried state. He is a millionaire. A man that has everything, yet a good and generous person. He got to where he is now because he is a genius.
By Beem Power5 years ago in Humans
Grief
Grief What do you do or say in times of loss? Death can come at any time or any age. We expect people that have had time and lived good long lives to pass on hopefully peacefully and usually people are somewhat prepared for that. When death comes unexpectedly, to a younger healthier person with no known causes, or to someone in a sudden car crash, that jostles us and we are looking for understanding and answers in times that just don’t make any sense. Faith plays a huge part for a lot of people coping with grief and loss. There are people that don’t believe in a higher power and just believe our bodies go back to the dirt and nothing more and celebrate the life that was lived and move on. Whatever your belief structure, the emotions of grief and loss hit us all differently and we each have to navigate through it in our own ways.
By L.A. Kirchheimer 5 years ago in Humans
