family
Family unites us; but it's also a challenge. All about fighting to stay together, and loving every moment of it.
Ten Thousand, Nine Hundred & Fifty Apologies.
She sat by the window, staring at the white, crispy snowflakes as they landed on the Alpine hedges that lined the perimeter of the lawn. For every flake that fell, her thoughts ran wild. They ran back to the consciousnesses of the raw feelings she endured. Our lady of Mercy mental and behavioral center is where she finds comfort every few months for the accumulated apprehended trauma she can barely get a grip on.
By Jea Santos-Strong5 years ago in Humans
Lonely in Chicago
Amanda She never considered the practicality of what she was doing and in fact, practicality was never really the point. Her coworkers thought she was being characteristically kind by using some of her breaks at the diner to rummage through an old, black, leather notebook some customer left behind in what appeared to be a highly unlikely attempt to track down the owner. Normally, forgotten objects like this book would be tossed into the lost and found box under the register and later tossed out altogether if never claimed. But Amanda was intrigued by this notebook the moment she picked it up. It was an old but clearly expensive and well-made leather-bound notebook that someone used as an address book. She only realized it was an address book because she flipped to the back half. The first half was filled with faded characters she did not recognize. Likely Arabic a co-worker suggested. Amanda was intrigued. Who still used address books? Did the book have different owners, or just one who learned or otherwise began using English at some point? What Arabic speaking country was the owner or owners from? Was it a tourist or one of Chicago’s many immigrants? Whatever the case, Amanda intuitively knew that if someone was walking around with this book during the lunch hour, it was for a reason. The book was clearly of value and irreplaceable. She committed to herself to find the owner. First, she had to identify the origin country. This was difficult as people generally do not include the country when writing an address. Its understood. But they often include cities. She eventually worked out that the owner was Moroccan, with lots of friends or family Fes and Chefchaouen.
By Georgette offit5 years ago in Humans
King Condor
It started with the Goose. Everyone knew the Goose, even if you only knew of her in passing. My siblings and I didn't personally know her that well. Though I visited more than a little and less than a lot, I was younger and she was an older woman with a lot of fowl. But the stories provided my prologue. Aunt Goose - my great aunt, the partially self-proclaimed, partially recognized family matriarch - lived by her own rules. The family called her Goose because they joked that she quacked too much and was foul-mouthed. She spoke loudly, laughed loudly, argued loudly, loved loudly, handled business LOUDLY. That point was evident- and the fact her story was reminiscent of the nursery rhyme Mother Goose. Many believed that she had so many children that she didn't know what to do. She birthed twenty children, with thirteen living until adulthood. Maybe she didn't know at first. The loss of a child is hard to bear for any mother and sometimes she seemed to go elsewhere. Maybe nowhere. But maybe it inspired her to be the best mom she could be for the rest of her children and for me. And that she did.
By Charles Fitzpatrick5 years ago in Humans
Little Black Book of Happy Quotes
It was the first time she left the house since standing over her Grandmother’s casket. The sleepless nights and dreary days added up, but the amount of time seemed to allude Melanie. As she stepped into the sun, she realized she hadn’t left the house since the funeral. She took a long but jagged breath, trying to let the crisp morning air fill her lungs. She woke up thinking “I’ll just go get a cup of coffee.” But she knew leaving the house would amount to more than just a boost of caffeine; Grammie wouldn’t have wanted to see her like this.
By Britney Gladhill5 years ago in Humans
A Loan
I was always partial to being left alone with my own thoughts. It seemed like simple math, less people meant less worries and less distractions. But on the long train ride to a relatively posh part of Wales, it felt different. It felt uncomfortable, and not just because I had elected to wear my hoodie to save on luggage space. I might as well have been on the express train to a cinema so I could experience the world’s first 4D showing of ‘The Anxiety-ville Horror’. On the pain train, the only people I had for company were the random dudes further down the carriage, a packed lunch, a Nintendo DS, a mysterious black notebook (I think my aunt said it was ‘mole skin’?) and my previously discarded coat. And the heat.
By Dave Hodge5 years ago in Humans
Pay it forward
“…You’re fired.” Was all that I could focus on. I knew the company was downsizing, and they were getting rid of what they considered to be dead weight and a twenty-four-year-old Black woman who was 4 months pregnant would no doubt be considered dead weight if they would have to cover the costs of my maternity leave in a few months.
By Danielle T.5 years ago in Humans
My Bird
“A million dreams are black and white. It makes my brain black and blue. It plagues me.” It’s an old quote. Not literal of course. I personally dream in color, and the human brain is normally a greyish white. I did see a brain in that condition once and it deeply scarred me. That, however, is a completely rambling and currently unrelated topic.
By Cassandra Bogausch5 years ago in Humans
Cipher
The metronomic click of my turning signal didn’t seem to register in my dulled senses. It was only when I looked at the time and realized that I had been sitting in the car for 10 minutes did the sound re-enter into my consciousness. I don’t want to be here. If it weren’t for my mother telling me that my grandfather would have wanted me to be here I wouldn’t have. I would have felt closer to his memory at his small fishing hut near the river, where we would spend the afternoon when I was just a child. He used to call me “Chipmunk” on account of my red hair, prominent front teeth, and round face that I had as a child. He would tell me stories and answer all of my childish questions with more consideration than they deserved. He would often confide in me things that I didn’t realize the importance of until I grew older.
By Fellow Traveller 5 years ago in Humans
A Single Thought
“Just forget you!” she shouted as she stomped out the front door, slamming it behind her and bolting down the steps to the street. As she took her normal long strides, a bit more forcefully than usual, she realized that it was not only dark but also starting to rain.
By Michelle Brickner Bugayong5 years ago in Humans
Studying pyralid moths
That Summer, the time they smashed the bus shelter, and glass crunched under us like fresh hail, our shoes kicking the cruel glitter from school to the Co-op’s aerosol slang, I sat down to think about the meaning of it all. Really think. In that way only seven year olds can.
By Nicola Godlieb5 years ago in Humans
Grandmother’s Treasures
A Soldier's Riddle My grandmother passed away on my 20th birthday. She was a sweet lady who loved and cared for me after my mom, a single parent, had been killed in a car wreck ten years earlier. I was too grieved to cry or show any emotion at the funeral. We had no other family in the area, but people from our neighborhood church came by with food, condolences, and offers of help for the next several weeks. It had been over six months and I dreaded going through my grandmother’s things. I may have never tackled that insurmountable job, except that her house and property were being sold at auction the following month. I had tried everything to save it, but without her income added to mine to pay the mortgage every month, there wasn’t enough money to pay both the bills and the mortgage. It made me sad to think her home that had been in the family for generations would soon belong to someone else—someone with no connection to my grandmother, whatsoever.
By Tari Temple5 years ago in Humans
