Gigi Gibson
Bio
Gigi Gibson is a writer and poet. She loves little rescue dogs, interior decorating, and chocolate. “To evoke an emotional response in my readers… that would be the most satisfying thing that I could accomplish with my writing.”
Stories (75/0)
The Purple Triangle
Anya sat in the dark at her little wooden kitchen table and carefully tore a page from her small Bible. She folded the page into a thin strip, rolled it up tightly into a cylinder, inserted it into a drinking straw, and cut off the excess. Tomorrow, she thought, I’ll bring this to Yuri.
By Gigi Gibson3 years ago in Fiction
The Brown Paper Bag
Once upon a time, there was a girl who dreamed of sewing. And knitting. And crocheting. But most of all, she dreamed of embroidering. That’s because one day her grandmother gave her a present. It was a gift that was especially important because her grandmother had many grandchildren. And she could have given this gift to any of the older ones. But she didn’t. She gave this twelve-year-old girl her most precious possession – a small brown paper bag with all the colors of the rainbow in it. And a wooden hoop. The girl didn’t know what to do with these beautiful things so she tucked them away on her secret shelf in her bedroom closet – the shelf with the sparkly stones that she found on a camping trip, and the beautiful necklace that her friend gave her.
By Gigi Gibson3 years ago in Families
Sunrise on Blockhouse Island
Sunrise on Blockhouse Island I tip-toed gingerly out of bed this morning, the cold floors beneath me seeming to be a very long bowling alley to get to the bathroom before I might pee on the floor just getting there. Relieved to have gotten there on time I set about my daily morning ritual of opening the blinds. The darkness surrounded me with a great disc of cloud overhead. A sparse strip of cloud-free space sat along the horizon and I anticipated a fairly colorful sunrise would soon emerge. I decided to go to the grand waters to watch. Checked the mirror to look at my hair... Gah! I turned on the tap and slopped water on my head. Still no good. I put on my hat. That’ll do. I heard a cough from Mom’s place and whispered, “Mom?”
By Gigi Gibson3 years ago in Earth
The History of My Hands
When I was a girl of about six years of age, I used to stand at my Grandmother’s side, watching her hands deftly peeling an apple in one long strip. I couldn’t wait for it to break off so that I could eat it. My little hands would push the peeling into my mouth like a chipmunk stockpiling nuts in his cheeks.
By Gigi Gibson3 years ago in Humans