family
The boy who remained a mystery
Natalia has been living with her granny for more than 20 years. Her granddad worked as a carpenter. At that time, Natalia was around 10 when one day he inquired Natalia,
Umesh DahalPublished 3 years ago in FictionSurface 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.
Elsa FleurelPublished 3 years ago in FictionSurprise!
There is something special about a brown paper-wrapped cardboard box. It is a package that holds potential. From the moment you get that parcel, it could hold anything. That box could hold a dream come true. That one small box could change your life.
S. L. KirbyPublished 3 years ago in FictionMy Grandma's Attic
When I was a little girl, I would visit my grandparents often. Going to my grandparents’ house was always an adventure for my sister and I.
Tori L LovelessPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe 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.
Caleb ArentzPublished 3 years ago in FictionBold, 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.
Spencer ReavesPublished 3 years ago in FictionJadd'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.
Emily KoopmanPublished 3 years ago in FictionDear 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.
Kevin MillerPublished 3 years ago in FictionDo Not Open Until
"It's an antique," Grover said adamantly. "No," Eleanor piped in. "It's definitely money. Lots of it!" They never agreed on anything. Except that Aunt Janine's wishes were worth honoring. I don't know if it was because of all the ghost stories we loved to tell under the covers with a flashlight to our chins, or if it was because Aunt Janine was a stout and formidable woman with sharp red fingernails that could pierce your soul, but that box remained untouched. I was too little to remember hearing my dad share explanation at the time, but my older siblings loved to take me into my parent's closet and tell me the story.
Bonnie Joy SludikoffPublished 3 years ago in FictionWithin the Sands of Time
As the blade came down upon the bull’s squat form, its short plastic life came to a swift end. First the head, then the legs were separated from the body, which was quickly discarded, lost to the bins of time. When the parts were sorted, another victim took its place. This time it was a topless gentleman who made his way to the chopping block, the synthetic substance that made up his form glinting in the morning sun. The top and bottom were removed in much the same fashion as with the bull before him, however, for this individual it was the torso and arms that remained, while the other parts made peace with the gods.
Bree BeadmanPublished 3 years ago in FictionIna's Eye
FADE IN: INT. OLD FOLKS HOME - DAY The hallways are decorated with homemade Christmas decorations. A group of elementary aged children stands in front of a patient's door and sings a Christmas Carol. JESSIE JEAN, a cute tomboy, sings loudly.
jamie preyerPublished 3 years ago in FictionMy Brother Janus is a Murderer
26 My brother Janus is a murderer. That's what the police tell me when they open the door. The one on the right has blonde hair peeking out of his cap, and a slight beer belly that protrudes out from his wrinkled jacket. He's staring straight forward, obviously bored with the whole event.
Nikita OryallPublished 3 years ago in Fiction