Anais Margolis
Stories (3/0)
The Takeover
She was given her name from the sun. Because when they captured her, they bound her hands and feet with thorn twine and forced her eyes open to gaze at the sun, their lips curled in a wicked smile as they waited for her to die. A slow agonizing death they expected, and so every city was invited—and ours commanded— to attend. My mother named her Selene. Today she is Ra, and they will see to it that she is forever branded in the memory of the world as such.
By Anais Margolis 3 years ago in Fiction
There she goes.
I press his tiny body against mine, bouncing my heels off the floor and circling the small room as I pat his back firmly, shushing him with each stroke of my hand. A simple wish on my lips; something I took for granted before his birth and even now I agonize over all the missed opportunities, the naivety of somehow thinking I could make up for lost time. Sleep, sleep, sleep. It’s the rhythmic dance of mother and newborn, and although I was warned, those warnings were cushioned with loving idioms of miracles, love at first sight, and adorable tushies. Nobody— not one mother— adequately warned me of this. And the thought sends a hard shiver down my spine— tearing their hair out wouldn’t suffice as punishment.
By Anais Margolis 3 years ago in Humans
Don’t wait for me
I take one final glance in the mirror; long wavy hair half pinned back with soft strands line my face. Onyx eyeliner borders tightly along my lashes, highlighting my russet cat eyes. And a muted rosewood rouge on my lips gives them a youthful roundness. I look — pretty, exotic even. And the thought of canceling tugs on my instincts, but I brush it away as nerves getting the best of me. The excessive questioning of every decision, from which dress I should wear —or should I go with the pantsuit? To conversation starters and which topics to avoid — ex spouses — has my stomach in knots.
By Anais Margolis 3 years ago in Humans