family

Pear Shaped
“He cut her tree down out of spite.” declared Phoebe. Even as the words came out of her mouth, she could imagine her father dismissing her accusation as teenage drama. The way he lately dismissed so much of what she had to say.
By Michelle Mead 4 years ago in Fiction
Upon the Hill
“Do you know you’re just like this here, pear tree?” My grandmother spoke out loud. What an odd question, I thought. A question many years later that I often pondered about. During the time, I did not even realize the lesson that she was trying to instill into me, but now I fully understand. “You see this tree here, all alone by itself, with no signs of growth?” She waved me over.
By Victoria M. Johnson4 years ago in Fiction
Just One More Green Light
CW: abusive relationship Her hand flicked up to brush her hair behind her ears and dread washed over me. The sweat started when she shifted in the passenger seat and my knuckles whitened on the wheel. She angled herself so that her eyes bored into the side of my head.
By Abby Jacobsen4 years ago in Fiction
Mom, There's A Nomad In Our Yard
The van appeared across the street from our driveway in the morning of my sixteenth birthday. I walked outside to pick pears from the tree in our yard. Three were in my hands when I noticed the van. Pale blue, with sheets covering the window, this was what I noticed from where I stood in the front yard. Seeing it gave me pause, given how many characters appeared on this street during the summers, to swim in the river just beyond our house. Most didn’t cause issues, but there were a select few who might ask for a lighter or a cigarette. One even asked for my number and if I was single. I was thirteen when this happened. Thankfully my mother had been in the front yard gardening when this happened and could intervene. Mom is a soft spoken woman but if you come after her child, run.
By Chloe Medeiros4 years ago in Fiction
The Broken Branch
It's a beautiful evening to sit here on the balcony reading my favourite book of short stories and think about nothing. The ash tree in front is providing just the right amount of shade to keep me comfortable. Soon the setting sun will pass over the tree, making it much too hot to stay out here, so I'll have to move inside. But I'll stay here as long as I can, thinking about nothing but my book and the sound of cicadas buzzing in the trees. As the sun disappears into the horizon, they'll soon quiet down their electric hum and be replaced by the chirping orchestra of crickets that reside across the creek. Where do cicadas go at night anyway, I wonder? Do they sleep in the trees? But they eat trees, right? I guess it wouldn't be the first time I saw some guy spend an evening slurping down sap and flexing for the ladies, only to end the night passed out in his own food. The thought makes me giggle.
By Cathy holmes4 years ago in Fiction
The Secret Place
I hadn’t seen the rusted gate behind the old warehouse in ten years. Ivy had begun to claim it for its own, wild and wiry. The path was overgrown as well with weeds that snagged my jeans as I brushed by them on my way to the secret place. It was cold and my footsteps crunched loudly on hard-packed earth in the silent morning. I didn’t want to meet this way but I had no choice. My brother was going to keep calling until I gave him the audience he wanted and I didn’t have the energy to keep pretending he didn’t exist. When the warehouse shut down fifteen years ago I thought the town would survive it. I thought our family would survive it. I was wrong.
By Bianca Grant4 years ago in Fiction
The Day the World Ended
“One day, you’ll be all each other has,” Johnny coughed into the phone and on the other end Aine waited for the hacking to subside.
By Cassidy Barker4 years ago in Fiction
The Pond in the Woods
The sound of sharpened metal scraping against ice pierced the frozen air. Everything was perfectly still in the frigid morning, as if frozen in place. The only thing that moved were the two figures that glided easily over the uneven ice of the frozen pond.
By Abigail R Long4 years ago in Fiction
A Mother
“Congratulations Mam, you have a beautiful baby boy” The weary-eyed nurse smiled as she placed the baby into the hands of his mother. “Thank you” The mother smiled. She stared at her baby, though he was not fully cleaned yet, she held him closely within her arms for a brief moment, which for her felt as though the world had stopped. A tear rolled down her cheeks, and she began whispering softly into her baby’s ear. He miraculously stopped crying for a few seconds as if recognizing and listening to her voice. “Even if I have to shift the universe or alter faith itself, I’ll make sure no harm comes to you. I promise.” The baby’s eyebrows relaxed for a split second, quick enough for only his mother to notice, but then his lips began to quiver, and he burst into tears. A nurse gently grabbed him, pulling him away from his mother, in order to get him fully cleaned in time to be given back.
By Tolu Oyeniyi4 years ago in Fiction
The Fall. Top Story - August 2021.
Our grandpa wiped a light dusting of snow from the top of the frozen lake with his gloved hands, then gazed toward the ice, nearly pressing his face against its surface. “T’ets,” he said looking at us.
By Sara Rose4 years ago in Fiction
Winter Warmth
Fitting everything needed for the week into those brown paper grocery bags was an art form. You had to neatly organize all the food into stacks or else it would bulge out of the sides like an overweight church lady still in the tight clothes she got in her twenties. Then you had to buy things with the weight of them in mind. There was one time, before she knew better, when Sophia had foolishly brought home an eight-pack of sodas. It was when her high school savings started to run dry, and she had to cut back on her subway usage. She struggled the whole way home, and her bag ripped halfway there, spilling cheap ramen packets and wonder bread and pre-chopped vegetables all over the pavement.
By Chris Medina4 years ago in Fiction
The Seventh Autumn
I grew up in a small and charming fishing village called Saint Louvrez. A few kilometres away from the sparkling blue ponds stemming from the ocean île de rien, with just a poorly constructed pack of bamboo acting as the bridge. Saint Louvrez is sentimental, akin to the warm nature of a loving mother. It is littered with wooden houses and stonewalled bungalows, most of which are on the verge of collapse. The debris from those who have succumbed to age, provided the agile kids with tools to build miniature houses. We are the north on the country maps, and the wind on this side is merciless in all seasons. It whistles through the dimly lit houses in the mornings and rustles the leaves into a sweet lullaby at night. Even though polished oak doors weren’t a thing, the white cotton curtains used as interior alternatives made our games of hide and seek way too facile. But we still played anyway. We were young, happy and fearless.
By Damilola4 years ago in Fiction