literature
Families and literature go hand in hand; fictional families to entertain, reflect and inspire.
The Final Gift
I stood sipping hot chamomile tea while browsing books. The book store on Main street had been around for decades and recently renovated the old home video store next door. The expansion of a café ended up being a great addition to the book store, bringing in new costumers and thus salvaging a potentially dying business.
By Shawndra Elder5 years ago in Families
One thing was clear
Aunt Aurelia wasn’t my aunt’s real name. She was christened Jane. But she’d reinvented herself in her early thirties, swapping jumpers and jeans for long skirts and belted silk jackets. Cropped hair for long curls and head scarves. Plain Jane for mystical Aurelia. Almost overnight, what was a general curiosity about the occult became a business operated from my aunt’s sitting room. Complete with onyx crystal ball.
By Lottie Grant5 years ago in Families
Daddy's Love.
Daddy’s Little Black Book As the plane descended from 30,000 feet (about the height of Mount Everest) and the clouds looked like giant balls of cotton, I watched as the land below had perfectly measured squares. Objects appeared as busy ants working to store food but the closer the plane got to the ground the more life-sized everything became. The hustle and bustle of the travelers and busyness of the city were all too familiar.
By Lela Brevard5 years ago in Families
Full Circle
His wails pierced through the Saturday morning hum of chattering nanas, modish hipsters and babbling young mums that bustled around them. Norah loved the medley of market goers since they merged the farmers and collectors markets at Bridge Street. She looked at the small boy in front of her with bouncing blonde curls and cherry red cheeks. She wondered if Finn had ever been that small. ‘He certainly was never that vocal’ she thought to herself.
By Jessica Hooper 5 years ago in Families
The Storycatcher
There was nothing much else I could do at that point. I’d already done it all, and done it badly, firing the bridges behind me the minute I’d been clear of them. So when the call came, I went. My 28 days were up, and it was all I knew to do. That or the street, and even a farm 900 miles south sounded better than the street. At least it would be warm and dry, food to eat and a roof over me. And the street would always be there waiting when I burned this bridge, too, as I already assumed I would. If the old man was too much trouble to take care of, I’d just leave. It was six months. I could do anything for six months.
By Janet Carter5 years ago in Families
