Theresa Marie Cain
Bio
I am a writer. At the heart of every creative endeavor I am a writer. Putting nomenclature to my pain, rage and shame. Cognominating (look it up-I did) every pleasure, peace and release. I am a creative. I am a writer.
Stories (6/0)
Mom, It's a Crikily!
Imanii had always been a gifted little girl. Bright and inquisitive at 2-years-old she was speaking in multiple word sentences and full of probing questions and astute observations. The wall wasn’t an erect structure of wood frame, dry wall and plaster but an artist’s canvas. Instead of paint brush and acrylic there were crayons and water colors. A bedroom was a land of make-believe where chairs & sheets were castles and her mother's clothes ball gowns. The sound of her clopping around in size 10 platforms and seeing her sashay by was even more entertaining.
By Theresa Marie Cain6 months ago in Fiction
Remembered
He felt a soft breathe of warm air against the back of his neck and a tingle shivered up his spine. Turning quickly in surprise, sparkling eyes the color of warm, amber and the brightest, most magical smile that he had not seen in a long time greeted him.
By Theresa Marie Cain6 months ago in Humans
Ooh, That Alfredo
I am an elementary educator. I made it home completely drained. Depleted to the point of sheer exhaustion, I walked in the door and kicked my shoes across the room. The torture device called my bra was taken off next. Hindered by it's restricted straps and in pain from the much needed underwire, I took it off immediately without taking off my shirt. It was flung successfully onto a door knob. The weight of gravity never felt so good as my breast went back to where nature intended them to be. I unbuttoned my pants and ran my hands along the ripples on my stomach created by a waist band just a little too tight from Marketside decadent chocolate chunk cookies and Little Debbie strawberry shortcake rolls ice cream.
By Theresa Marie Cain6 months ago in Feast
- Top Story - October 2023
Without Words
The sky above was cerulean, almost too rich to be real blue. A floating canvas, it was dotted with achromatic cumulus-dancing unicorns, fire-breathing dragons and one that looked quite similar to my Aunt Donna. The sun radiated through each empty space in the clouds creating heavenly beams of light and warmth. Blanket in hand, I made my way along the winding, stone path that led to the park. Every pebble, imbedded in unforgiving concrete felt like a massage to my sandal covered feet. The perfect spot revealed itself, soft grass canopied by a large oak tree enveloped in shades of kelly, hunter, and forest green leaves.
By Theresa Marie Cain6 months ago in Humans
Sweet Potato Soul
Sweet potato sassiness and bubbling brown sugar assail my sense of smell. Vanilla verve and hot caramelized crystals hug me deep in my soul. Ostentatious aroma of orange Ombre confections. SNIFF. Grabs the little girl in me and I'm holding hands with my Nana. I let my eyes close and feel the embrace of my adolescence overtake me. Trips to McDonald's just because I begged too long and too much. Digging through jewelry boxes brim-full with shiny baubles and gilded brilliance. She wears pink, leather bedroom slippers and a floral house robe while we sip morning coffee and eat scrambled eggs. I'm only 5 but it's our ritual. I'm excited because my Nana is making sweet potato pie today.
By Theresa Marie Cain3 years ago in Feast
