S.A. Paris
Bio
I am just a girl- with a husband, a stepson, a new baby, and a dog- who loves to write, who is pursuing a law degree in international relations and human rights, and who is passionate about social justice.
Stories (7/0)
Ages of Me
I can hear the chuffing effort of the train, and even though my eyes are closed, I know rain is pounding against the window. I keep my eyes shut as if I am still sleeping because it just feels so good to press my eyelids together-doors against the world. At eighty-two years old, I could use a few more barriers between myself and this rapidly changing world.
By S.A. Paris 2 years ago in Fiction
Kickball and Parfaits
My grandparents’ long, grassy yard was shrouded on three sides by trees and the fourth by their old farmhouse. The yard sloped downwards, which would seem like a flaw to potential homebuyers and land assessors, but in our eyes, it was perfect for endless games of kickball and was esteemed for the additional challenge it brought to the game. Whenever the dozen or so cousins all got together for one single day during every summer that yard became our territory and woe to the unsuspecting adult who walked in the way of flying ball or speeding runner. My parents, brother, and I lived in Texas while the rest of the family lived in Ohio, so the week out of each year we would spend with them was an event, and the family barbeque with all the aunts, uncles, cousins, babies, and scattered boyfriends or girlfriends that would take place was the highlight of the year. It was one single day, one afternoon, one evening, but in that day lay the entirety of summer.
By S.A. Paris 2 years ago in Families
What Happened
Now, before I begin, let me forewarn you that this is a story you probably will not believe. Nobody really believes the stories I tell. I suppose that’s partly because Mitch and I are both born storytellers, a trait that has gotten us into a lot of trouble over the years. We are Storytellers. Liars sounds so malicious and that’s not at all what we are about.
By S.A. Paris 3 years ago in Fiction
Evelyn's Seat
Sludging through the drifting snow, Callie’s heart was filled with apprehension and sadness. She felt her foot slip, which caused her to squeeze a little tighter the large cardboard box full of individual egg custards she carried with mittened hands. It was her grandmother’s recipe. Thanksgiving would not be the same without her grandmother’s egg custard, and if they couldn’t have the woman herself, they should at least have something that carried just a little of her essence.
By S.A. Paris 3 years ago in Fiction
Easy Answer
The proceedings were tense, fraught with danger, uncertainty, and the kind of fear that can be tasted. "How do they expect us to eat when no decision has been reached? We are still in danger of annihilation." Tarina hissed to her fellow delegate and brother, Mauritius.
By S.A. Paris 3 years ago in Fiction
