Valerie Kittell
Bio
I live in a seaside New England village and am trying to become the writer I always wanted to be. I focus on writing short stories and personal essays and I hope you enjoy my efforts. Likes and tips are very encouraging.
Stories (28/0)
The Structure Simply Doesn't Work
It’s an architectural issue. If I discovered my beautiful home rested upon rotted pilings then I would need to take some kind of immediate and drastic action to save my house. I would need to replace and restore and augment my foundation. I couldn’t simply ignore the situation and hope for the best, until the day the entire house crashes down.
By Valerie Kittell9 months ago in The Swamp
How We Shall Be Known
It was an unseasonably hot summer and the streets of the city were largely deserted in the noonday sun. Miss Alicia Elsworth was conscious of the fact that the only people out in such insufferable heat were those who had no governance over their own activities, mainly servants running errands while their employers sat at home on shaded grounds or in darkened rooms sipping cool beverages.
By Valerie Kittell9 months ago in Fiction
The Folks Save Money
My brothers and sisters and I lived our childhood as though we had been shipwrecked on a desert island and had to survive dependent only on what we found or manufactured ourselves. This, despite the reality that we lived in a completely normal plat in a smallish town and my parents both earned above average incomes.
By Valerie Kittellabout a year ago in Fiction
It's Time . . . To Escape To The Country!
What? You’ve exhausted all the available seasons of The Great British Baking Show and you are still need in need of a fix of cheery, chin-up Brits tackling new endeavors with optimism and aplomb? Then you my friend, must avail yourself straightaway to the alternate Anglophile TV-crack delivery system — Escape to the Country. You may have to search for it, but I've found it available at differing times on Netflix, Amazon Prime Britbox, and the Dabl channel, not to mention YouTube.
By Valerie Kittellabout a year ago in Wander
My Appliances Are Plotting Against Me
I may be in the minority here, but I have absolutely no desire to talk to my appliances and build relationships and rapport with them. I also don’t really want them talking to and co-coordinating with each other or reporting back stats to ACME base control about our caffeine consumption or what kind of ancestral DNA is being absorbed by a filter in the washing machine.
By Valerie Kittellabout a year ago in 01
The Hostess With The Mostest
“You’re not going to believe this,” Stelle announced, looking up from her computer at the kitchen table. Since Dan was involved in the intricacies of installing a new fan into their range hood, Stelle was addressing herself to his headless torso. She thought she detected a grunt of interest so she stood up and moved into closer proximity. “My mother is doing HostelHost!” she shouted at him.
By Valerie Kittell2 years ago in Fiction
Lumpy Mashed Potatoes
I don’t have any early cuddly memories of my mother’s cooking, because while she had innate skills that were demonstrated on mostly rare occasions, our dinner times were not Norman Rockwell gatherings of the family unit. My father came home later than my friends' fathers; their fathers seemed to turn into the driveways on our street around 5:00 pm and the families were sitting down around 5:30 to a meal the mother had prepared during the day.
By Valerie Kittell2 years ago in Families
A Nature Study In The Woods
It was early morning on the second day of their long weekend getaway. The first day hardly counted since they got in late and managed only to put away the groceries, grill a couple of burgers, and go to bed . The bed wasn’t the best, Monica reflected. Who has a double bed in this day and age? But, if the bed was any larger, there wouldn’t even be room for the one small chest that was the only other furniture in the bedroom. Hugh had described his family’s cabin as ‘rustic’ but ‘primitive’ was more apt.
By Valerie Kittell2 years ago in Fiction
Diogenes In New England
“Emily! Over here. Now.” Phil’s voice had a quiet urgency. Emily stopped picking through the basket of costume jewelry, looked up and tried to locate him in the dim afternoon light that suffused the old barn. When she couldn’t find him, she considered that instead of coming from inside the derelict structure, his voice must have come from outside and he had exited to wait by the car. She sighed and reluctantly let go of the scarab bracelet that seemed like a good buy.
By Valerie Kittell2 years ago in Fiction
The Witch Of Cumberland Ave.
When I first saw Mrs. Moore she had a colander on her head and was wearing a green plastic trash bag poncho. She was on a rickety old ladder cleaning out the gutters of her dilapidated house. I congratulated myself on my good fortune — she appeared to be engrossed in her project and her back was towards me as I was attempting to stealth-walk past her front fence without being noticed. I was premature in my celebration as it turns out.
By Valerie Kittell2 years ago in Fiction
