Randi O'Malley Smith
Stories (14/0)
Uncle Malcolm's Bag
“Jacob… Jacob!” Shit! I sat up and rubbed the grit from my eyes. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep while Cassia was in the pool, not with my phone still open to the e-mail I’d received from my mother. Your great uncle Mack died on Tuesday and you’re his sole beneficiary. Be ready tomorrow at 10 and please wear a tie. Sole beneficiary to what, though? My grandfather’s oldest brother, Malcolm, had been in a nursing home for the last eight years of his life. As far as I knew, he didn’t own anything except a few changes of clothes and an old alarm clock that was only right twice a day. Every year my mother would offer to replace it for his birthday or Christmas, and every year he’d tell her that since his meals were brought to him it didn’t matter if he knew what time it was. He just liked the old clock even if it was broken. It reminded him of the one he had growing up. He always insisted he didn’t care about material things, but he sure would like it if we brought him a hot fudge sundae. We usually did, too, at least up until the last few months when he was barely eating and mostly didn’t recognize us anymore. Or he did, but thought we were my great-grandmother and grandfather, as he remembered them when he was younger. My father had stopped going with us, since he didn’t look like anyone in my mother’s family and his presence seemed to upset Uncle Mack.
By Randi O'Malley Smith3 years ago in Families
I Am Woe
Night falls. It is warm for mid-May, here in my apartments, yet I feel a chill. Somewhere outside, an owl screeches. I have ever been afraid of them, their ghostly white faces in the darkness too otherworldly. It is not that they kill; I know they keep our fields and stables free of mice and other such creatures. And I have loved hawking since I was old enough, even choosing a falcon as my badge when I was crowned queen. A noblewoman does not fear those who kill if it is in her service. But the owl… it is not trained, it hunts not in the day, and its face holds too many secrets. Some also say it is an ill omen to hear its cry. I need no owl to tell me that I will die on the morrow, my husband the King has commanded it and so I shall.
By Randi O'Malley Smith3 years ago in Longevity