Gina Solomon
Bio
Life is an adventure and sometimes the adventure is figuring out who you are and why you have learned so many odd skills years before. I think it is time to share my adventures in stories my imagination has been aching to create.
Stories (31/0)
Mrs. Weston
Kelly loved her little neighbourhood with its little rows of houses that dated back to about 1930 or so. Most of the houses were run down and showing their age, but it was working people who didn’t have the funds to renovate, or seniors, like the lady who lived across from Kelly. Mrs. Weston had lived in that house since she had first gotten married. She and her husband had bought it with their savings and wedding gifts from both their families. Mr. Weston had passed some 15 years ago, before Kelly had ever moved there. Kelly made the time for having tea with Mrs. Weston whenever she could. She loved hearing about the stories of the people who had been neighbours through the years and what had changed. Mrs. Weston always brought out her fancy tea set and made cookies. Kelly felt like she was important to Mrs. Weston and truthfully she was. Mrs. Weston didn’t get many visitors and her son was divorced with a son of his own. They lived 3 towns over, so they didn’t visit often. Kelly knew Mrs. Weston was expecting them to visit soon as she had baked extra cookies and there had been a maid service over and grocery delivery had been a bigger order this week. Plus Mrs. Weston had mentioned they might come for her birthday a while back. Kelly was glad as it had been a while.
By Gina Solomon3 years ago in Fiction
The Barn
I was once a tall useful bustle of life. I was home to 3 families of mice, 4 cats, a dog, a whole herd of black angus cows and I kept the hay and feed for the winter each year. I miss those days when things would start stirring inside with the creep of the sun’s rays coming over the hill. The man from the house would open my door and whistle for the dog. The cats would wander in and out as the dog helped the man with the cows. Fresh hay on my floor after it had been swept was the best feeling each day.
By Gina Solomon3 years ago in Fiction
A hearts journey
Looking out over the land in front of her, Katrine could picture her father’s wagon coming down the path pulling his wagon. The wheels squeaking from the weight of his load. It had been four years now since he brought his last load home. She missed him. He must have gotten killed by man or beast, or perhaps he tired of the family and moved on. She had seen it happen to another family and tried to push the thought from her head. He had always been happy, She thought, he had been more than content when he was home. Her mother always smiled the brightest when he was home. She had not smiled in a long time. It was her turn to walk the path and bring home things of value to her family. Katrine climbed down from the edge of the wall her father had built around their home. She gathered her carry all with supplies. Food and water was essential for her survival so she carried it close to her body. Even with it wrapped up, creatures could smell it and follow her. She would have to be alert and careful the whole trip. She had done it once with her father and then a few times with her brother. Ando had married last month so he now had his own family to forage for. That left Katrine to fend for her and her mother.
By Gina Solomon3 years ago in Fiction
The love of silk
As I take hold of my scissors and make that first snip in the measured, scoured silk, I am shaking in anticipation. I pull the silk apart in a straight tear from the first cut and hear that musical rip. Almost like the silk is singing for joy, knowing it soon will have dye to quench it’s thirst. I place each edge of the silk along the wooden frame and attach the stretch claws into the silk, allowing the elastic to pull it tight. With each claw from one side of the frame to the other, I weave back and forth until all sides of the frame are tight with the silk. The silk shimmers as it is held tight waiting for the first drop of resist and then I begin. Line by line I draw out my pattern, and as the resist sinks into the silk it dries as a solid barrier to hold in the dye. I wait in anticipation for the resist to dry, all the while mixing my dye colours near. Making the silk quiver with envy and want. Then the moment has come, I hold my brush over the silk and let it touch the silk ever so gently. The dye races along each thread and tries to reach beyond the resist lines with no success. It flows along the edge of the resist hoping to continue but it is cut short by the defined resist pattern. Each drop of dye held in its confined place is left to dry. Then as I bring yet another brush over it the two colours mix and create another. The silk is happy to be so wet and alive. I will let it dry and then steam it over hot water to set the dye in. A simple washing by hand will remove the resist and leave crisp white lines because the dye has been set and the silk cannot move it. I will add quilt batting and fabric and sew some quilt stitches along those crisp white lines. To create depth and define that which the silk helped to design. There is a canvas waiting to be covered and put on display. A silk that is coloured, quilted and stretched over the canvas beneath will be proudly watching people pass and say it is wonderful thing. The silk is complete and though it doesn’t know the picture it holds, the audience sees it and marvels at such a blend of colour and design.
By Gina Solomon3 years ago in Lifehack
Kenya’s Story
My world is, well boring. I don’t know how else to describe it. Nothing happens here. It’s not like the old earth. My Dad would tell my brother and I stories of old earth. How it was so worn out and depleted of anything useful, that they had to start salvaging space junk just to build the ships to get us to this world. Stories of war and how there was always someone trying to control everyone. He told us of stories people made up, of aliens from other worlds coming to save the world. It never happened, but people wanted it so bad.
By Gina Solomon3 years ago in Futurism
The Coffee Mill
Fredericton New Brunswick, Canada is a friendly little town consisting of a north and south side, separated by the St John River. Both sides of the river have shops and houses and various businesses and attractions. The population is just under 60, 000 and although it sounds small we make up for it with big hearts and artistic energy.
By Gina Solomon3 years ago in Feast
The wine in the bottle
“Ava, I am so glad you made it. This little wine tasting party has really gotten to be fun and so many people you have just got to meet.” Tracy was grinning for ear to ear as she took her colleges coat and hung it up on a hook already loaded down with coats next to 2 other hooks in the same condition.
By Gina Solomon3 years ago in Humans
Cambridge Bay Nunavut, Canada
When we decided to accept a job posting in an isolated town in the far north, my first thoughts were of the cold and then of being alone for periods of time while my husband was at work. I was so wrong. We landed in June on a gravel runway. Dust everywhere and we had not seen trees from the air for the last hour of the flight. Just rock and moss, little pools of water trapped in the rocks and the open ocean.
By Gina Solomon3 years ago in Wander
Natalie’s Daughter
As we stood in line waiting to place our few items on the till, I felt relieved that the weekend was almost over. It had been a busy one and my best friend Natalie and I had been involved in another friend’s wedding. We had just collected her daughter from her father’s place where she had spent the night. We had to grab a few much needed items at the grocery store on the way home so that she could make lunch for her daughter for daycare that week. Natalie and I didn’t often get to spend a whole weekend together, but we enjoyed every moment of it. Her daughter was only 4 and it was much easier to let her father have her for the night than for us to try and keep her entertained at the wedding. He wasn’t always involved or willing to spend time with her, so when he agreed the month before to have her overnight for this weekend, we were glad. He wasn’t a bad father, he just had other priorities and wasn’t always conventional in the way he did things. He called his daughter names but with loving emotion to the way he said it. Making “Booger face” or something like it, seem affectionate and normal. The poor kid had no idea what she was really being called. She knew she was loved and when he made the time for her, she had fun at least.
By Gina Solomon3 years ago in Families