literature
Families and literature go hand in hand; fictional families to entertain, reflect and inspire.
The King
"Wasting away on a bronze thrown and an iron crown. What must I do to gain respect? Fear is the answer, destroy their wonderous hills. Put poison in their gleaming rivers. They shall suffer and come to me to seek a warm smile. A 'hello', an 'I will help you, my child'. I must be the one to demand more than land, but servants and money. To have power bestowed on me. My crown gold with shiny stars. Silky garments to show my royalties. A lovely maiden to hang on my arm while she exudes beauty. I shall wake up in a room with a warm bath drawn. A plate with freshly picked fruit will await me there. An army that breaths fury with a build of boulders from the highest mountain. A warlord who lives to kill those that defy me. When I look over my balcony, I'll be welcomed with the smiles of my people."
By Queen Jordan7 years ago in Families
Introduction: 'Aza Strange! The Accident'
Why did he just have to take the only car that we had? My name is Aza Strange and I am 16 years old, technically I actually haven't gotten my license yet being that in reality my birthday actually wasn't all that long ago. And unlike most girls my age; I just admittedly wasn't ready to take my driver's test and hopefully pass so that I could go and actually get my license on the day of, like the rest of them seem to do. But this was one of those situations where I honestly couldn't care less if it was illegal or not. Or if my dad would've had my head once he'd find out about it, if I had the chance I would've gone speeding through all the red lights in the world if I thought that I just wasn't going fast enough.
By Emelia Rosebud7 years ago in Families
These Lies That Bind
My eyes blinked open; I knew it was the middle of the night by the black blanket that covers the sky. It’s sprinkled with diamonds, they mimic stars. Disrupted sleep occurs due to these sheets for walls. Drunken giggles echo through the space between me and the horny couple in the other room.
By Cassie Perry7 years ago in Families
Calmează
The woman fell down on the bed as soon as the front door closed. The last client had been rough; he had hit her a little too hard, and now she had a small bruise on her cheek. She lit a cigarette and spat into the mold-ridden sink that occupied her bathroom. She looked at her face in the mirror. It was an old face, a face ridden with guilt and broken promises, with abuse and regret. She picked a scab on her forehead and the dead skin fell into the sink, followed by a small drop of blood. She picked up the towel resting on the toilet, examining to make sure there were no suspicious substances on it as she wet it and pressed it to her face. A flick of her finger landed a clump of ash onto the old carpet, and with that she strutted over to the kitchen with a sigh.
By Daniel Hudson7 years ago in Families
Part 1-a: Alli
Spring Break 1998 This afternoon it was a tan line, but now it was starting to look more like a sun burn. The young man sitting next to her in the sand tipped his plastic cup up and swallowed the last drops of tequila. He dropped it in the small pile of empty cups at their feet and turned to put his arm around her.
By Kathryn Brown8 years ago in Families
Honeysuckles
The sound of my boots crushing the autumn leaves sends a feeling of relief. The amusing sound of autumn reminds me of the crisp air and smiling pumpkins. Sounds of children fill the forest even though all I could see was brown and orange. I’m alone. In fact, I’m accompanied by my thoughts and hums. A tune we are all too familiar with:
By Queen Jordan8 years ago in Families
The Bayou and the Clutter, Part I
You could see the whole bayou from the rocking chair on the porch. The blue sky was tinged gold by the setting sun, the narrow waterways rippling in the soft breeze. This was the best time to sit on the porch. No sun to beat you down, and the breeze washing away the remaining heat. It was comfortably warm, and it was beautiful. It’s the only thing she missed when she left. Sitting in the rocking chair on the porch, watching the bayou pull the cover of night up to its chin.
By Charlie Sourire8 years ago in Families
The Journey to Goodbye
The sun set against the horizon, the cold should have begun to set in. Not this day. The air kept its warmth, Frank Moses watched the sun fall. Comfortably sat in his rocking chair, back and forth, he rocked. It was something of relaxation for him, utter silence tranquilized his surroundings. If not working or caring for his wife, Frank found his chair the one place to be. He could admire nature, their house sat in the center of a wide-spread field that they owned, three acres of green grass.
By Shane Laing8 years ago in Families
Silent Night
The last leaf had fallen off the last tree when she woke. The sun was showing bright that day, leaving her long, golden hair glimmering. It had been four days now. And her brother had visited her all four of those days. Her parents refused to see her, ashamed of themselves for letting this happen to her. Her brother was the reason she was there, and even he could swallow his shame and care for his little sister. Twice a day he visited her, once before breakfast, and once after dinner, neither of which she could keep in her stomach either way. Each time he brought her something. She ignored the thought he was only doing this because he felt sorry. She tried to imagine herself before the accident, before she was sent to a hospital to sit in a white bed with white sheets. She tried to imagine herself laughing with her parents and her brother, not being rolled off to some small room once a day at least to be cut open and experimented with. She looked at her teddy bear and imagined herself as that plush toy. She wouldn’t feel pain, she wouldn’t be bedridden. She would be whole again, just like she was before a silver car ran a red light and slammed into her brother’s car. Why did she have to be in that car? Where was that silver car going so fast it just had to run that red light?
By Hannah Shull8 years ago in Families
The Man in the Moon
It was the summer of my eighteenth year. Typically, I would spend my days under a large oak tree on the rolling hills of my yard, reading books under the sunny sky or watching clouds go by, picking out the fluffy cat-shaped ones that reminded me of my childhood. That young girl whose only companion was the white furball of a cat or the characters of my books. It was easy for me to connect with fictional people of other worlds, yet it was unimaginable for me to even dream of speaking to others in my own world. I didn't know anything of public schooling, as I had been homeschooled my whole life. The only people I spoke to were the maids and butlers of my homestead and the occasional stranger that asked for directions. I spoke to my father only once, when I was very young, yet I still remember each word that flowed so easily from his mouth. That was the last I saw of him. I was told he went on a business trip, but the maids have their superstitions. Some say he ran off with a girl, others say he abandoned us for the life down south. I didn't know what they meant as a child, but whether I knew or not I didn't believe them. My mother was only photographs and stories to me; I met her only once, when I first saw the light of this world. She died after I was born, and again, the staff had their theories. Theories or not, the situation didn't change, and the cold truth was that I was left to grow up alone. After my mother died, I was given to the head maid, whom I learned to call Cheryl. She took care of me and raised me as her own while my father grieved over his love. As an infant, I was oblivious to my situation. I became very attached to Cheryl and loved her as if she were my mother. But as my mother before her, she died of old age when I was five. Having lost two mothers and not speaking to my father for five years, I shut myself off from everyone else. I mourned Cheryl deeply, and cried out for my father, yet he never came. Until one sunny day, when I was basking in the sun on our Nebraskan Homestead. My father stood over me holding a box. He wore a black suit and tie, his hair combed neatly back, the smell of cologne wafting from him. He handed me the box which contained a white kitten the size of a softball. I held the kitten gently in my arms and looked up at my father, who knelt down to me, and spoke the words that I had waited so desperately for. I still remember that day like it was yesterday. Twelve years later, his words play in my head like a symphony, the only words he ever spoke to me that I hold so dear in my heart. The words that, despite the superstition, gave me hope that my father will return one day and hold his child as gently as she held that little white kitten.
By Hannah Shull8 years ago in Families
