family
It Starts In The Attic
"Misty! get down here! your dad need your back for a footrest!" misty's mom says. "Im coming!" misty responds. You may be wondering.. who is misty? why do her dad need her as a footrest? is she like a servant? a foster child? No. Misty is a 9 year old girl with a heart as pure as gold. she plays with her dollys and can't sleep without her favorite stuffed toy that she named mrs cuddles. she is just like any other 9 year old girl, well minus the part with her parents. her parents may not look like bad people in front of an audiance, but behind closed doors nobody will ever know whats going on.
By crativekiki5 years ago in Fiction
Roadkill
My father was a conundrum of a man. A living, walking oxymoron. He was a good ol’ country boy, but never once in his life did he ever drink a beer. He was an academic, an intellectual – but enjoyed what Jeff Foxworthy would call “a glorious lack of sophistication.” He was a redneck. World-traveled and exquisitely well-read, Dad was, but he operated the world around him on the premise that if a thing could not be fixed with duct tape, baling wire, or JB Weld, it was dadgum well broke. He could (and often did) debate fine points of theology while scaling a mess of fish with his pocket knife, and in the next moment be picking his teeth with the same knife. He was a pastor the first 17 years of my life, and wore a suit most of the time; thereafter he was a residential construction contractor and only exchanged his jeans and t-shirts for suits on Sundays for church.
By Dawn Harper5 years ago in Fiction
A Gift From Above
“Daddy?” A snivelling voice chimed from behind the bedroom door. With a bit of scuffling the door clicked open, light spilling in from the hallway to illuminate a fragile, and shaky little frame. Delila patted her tears with her onesie sleeve she had bundled up over her nimble fingers; her doe-eyes heavy with sleep, welling up with tears. Her button nose seeping, and her puffy rose cheeks stained salty from her dolorous and repetitive weeping. Close to her chest she clutched her PoPo: a tatted hippo plushie with frayed ears from relentless sucking.
By Louis Murphy5 years ago in Fiction
Surface Level
When I came home and opened the front door, the smell of old diapers and microwaved zucchini mush instantly made me gag. I pressed a finger to my nostrils, kicking a rubber ducky out of my way with an angry squeak before taking my high heels off and poking my head in the living room arch.
By Elsa Fleurel5 years ago in Fiction
The Next Step
Silence is usually something rare, something to be treasured. But today, in Barghest’s cabin, it was deafening. He sat at his table, his brow furrowed as he stared at the package sitting in front of him. It sat atop its paper wrapping, the opening at the top staring at him like a black, lifeless eye. He calmly stroked his beard, stuck in an ouroboros of thoughts on what to do about it. He shook his head, trying to break himself from the trance. A pot of coffee had been brewing at his stove, and as he waited by it, his eyes wandered to a framed picture hanging on the wall above his hearth. Though the frame was clouded, he had looked at the photo enough to remember everyone in it. His eyes focused on a young boy, smiling with all his teeth and his arms open wide. Standing beside him was a much younger version of himself, his smile and pose more muted and dignified. The old man chuckled, pouring himself a cup of coffee as he fondly remembered that time. His gaze then shifted down to the double-barreled shotgun mounted to the stone wall. He sighed, moving towards it. He ran his calloused fingers over its engravings, a series of etched silver chains wrapped around the blackened steel of the barrels, giving it the appearance of being shackled. He stared at it, empathizing with the feeling. He paced his home, looking at the box on his table occasionally, a small part of him hoping it would disappear upon another glance. It never did, instead it just sat there, reminding him of what needed to be done, and who needed to do it.
By Caleb Arentz5 years ago in Fiction
Bold, Brilliant, Yellow.
The battered suitcase sat on the living room floor. It wasn’t overflowing, not yet anyway. It wasn’t latched either, and his eyes were drawn to a sleeve peeking out. It was yellow, the color of the first flower he’d ever bought her, a marigold for a summer corsage.
By Spencer Reaves5 years ago in Fiction
Jadd's Pear Tree
Just outside Eṣfahān, Iran - 2004 to 2006 grandfather جـد Jadd Khina Mirzaie sat back against the 40-foot tree, her eyes closed, humming her favourite song. Droplets of sweat provoked by the midday sun were eagerly absorbed by her black hijab. This was the blueprint for most of Khina’s life. She waited all year until the towering tree began to bear the fruit it was intended to.
By Emily Koopman5 years ago in Fiction
Dear John
It was April 13th, 2015. It was John Philips's birthday but he didn’t feel much like celebrating. Three years had gone by since his wife had passed away and now his daughter, Eve, is in a fight for her life. She needs surgery, a bone marrow transplant and he was the perfect match. Of course there wasn’t any hesitation. Looking after your children, taking care of your own flesh and blood is a parental responsibility and losing Eve, after losing her mother, would have thrown John into a whirlwind of depression and self-destruction. He knew it because that is what happened three years ago.
By Kevin Miller 5 years ago in Fiction
