Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Families.
Cancerous Rage
When I was young, life was so simple. People remembered your name and walked around seamlessly, with no effort. We would laugh and cry over happy memories, jokes and current events. Our only worries were about the carnivals of tomorrow, the rainy day activities, and the “Did you see that?” talks on our family walks in the trees. Our family walks in the trees. When I was young, people around me didn’t drop like flies from this, this cancerous rage.
By Kendra J. Anthony6 years ago in Families
Lilies and Butterflies
Sometimes the ring feels heavier on its chain than others. My sister says that's when he's around. I tried to argue that I always seemed to be grieving when it feels the heaviest. She said that just proves her point. He's here because I'm suffering.
By Daciana McCromaig6 years ago in Families
Anything but, "The Notebook"
Anything But, “The Notebook.” By, Not a Fatalist It was 1946. The sun was shining and my toe felt the radiance. The passage of time was long since my feet had seen a Summer. My eyes looked dreary. But inside, I knew there was a tiny glow. Like when a campfire goes out. Everyone else is asleep and doesn’t notice. You do though, you wait and watch, and take little wagers on which ember will endure the last flame before transforming into smoke. Perhaps, I am the only one that wants to know? But this ember, it would never turn to ash. It was getting brighter. As I looked up, I thought perhaps my pupils are very tiny, and there was nothing but blue. As soon as I noticed, a cloud appeared. “You would, G-d.” And I laughed. I wouldn’t say it was a deep breath. It felt like the front of my mid-section was vertical strings and a new kind of soft thick air, product unknown, was holding them upright. But still, it was a breath. I was alive. I am still, alive.
By Ariel Baker6 years ago in Families
The Bucket List
The small notebook wasn’t much to look at. Leather-bound, black, small enough to slide in my pocket...and old. The leather was dried and cracked, the pages inside yellowed. If it weren’t for the words written inside, I would have tossed in in the trash along with the rest of the junk I was cleaning out of my grandparent’s attic.
By Jennifer Renae Allen6 years ago in Families
Tattered Legacy
I was sitting here trying to wrap my brain around my Uncle Joe passing away in the other room, here on the farm. Having a cup of coffee, calming down, while hospice finishes taking care of everything. In the last moments of his life, he handed me his tattered black book, that he carried on him everyday of his life since he was 16. This book went to Vietnam, and hundreds of other places in the world with him. He wrote thoughts, prayers, people and things he collected over his travels. As I sit and reflect on his last words to me, "This is your legacy, its torn and tattered, but is everything to me, now it's all yours".
By Cindy Sparks6 years ago in Families
Pieces of a Woman: A Heartbreaking Portrayal of Grief
My eyes are squeezed shut. I can hear the panting and crying of the woman giving birth. There are words of encouragement scattered amongst a repetition of the words “push harder” that are always followed by a long hoarse groan. I vow to myself silently that I am never going to have a child or even have sex because childbirth sounds inhumane. All of a sudden, there is a crash, and a shrill scream pierces the air. A strong cry punctuates the silence that follows, and there is a collective gasp around the room. I open my eyes to find my friend has fainted and fallen from her chair and the woman on the television screen has given birth to a baby girl. I was 11 years old when I studied the process of human reproduction. In some of the classes, me and my friends were in a constant fit of giggles, especially when learning about the male anatomy, and in others stunned into silence, our minds unable to reconcile the stories we had been told and actual biological fact.
By Eliza Wright6 years ago in Families
Big G
Big G A short story written by: Denora M. Boone Jillian Day sat in the middle of her small living room on her phone. To be only twenty-one, Jillian’s appearance looked of a woman who was tired of life instead of the normal college girl who was living her best life. There was nothing left in her to give as it was and the woman on the other end of the phone was driving the nail into her coffin. All she could do was look over at the small table that sat nearby which housed a picture of her mother, little brother Judah, and herself at the beach. It was one of the last pictures that they had had the pleasure of taking with Nairobi before she had succumbed to breast cancer two years ago. She quickly looked away before the tears that were threatening to fall could do so. She needed to be strong but at the moment she had no idea how to.
By Denora M. Boone6 years ago in Families
His Loss, Her Gain
The meals weren’t much. Enough to get by, but that’s about all there was. Dinner, lit by a nearby streetlight through the window, contained your basic needs to survive. Bills glared in hunger scratching our wallets as each passing day came up dry. Maybe this is what was meant to be. Much like how a home was designed for warmth and protection. But nothing protected us from what happened. Not even a home was a home anymore, but rather, a place once lived.
By Amey Coleman6 years ago in Families
Little Black Book
Today feels like the day that the hurricane hits me. I tell myself this everyday while eager with anticipation. Some days are sprinkled with inspiration. I make sure to document those sprinkles, so I can use them later to create the hurricane that I’m longing for. I have a little sprinkle collector that I keep with me always. That little black notebook has seen and heard things that would make your mother blush. I mean, you just never know when the hurricane will come in. I consciously tell myself that I will be receptive to whatever form that inspiration comes in, without getting in its way. I observe everything to see if that inspiration is peeking around the corner. I also have to remind myself that while I’m focusing on what’s peeking, that the inspiration could be walking right past me. Don’t fixate is what I can hear my nana say to me softly. Just be open.
By Tiffany Miles6 years ago in Families
The Little Black Notebook
Sarah walked into the old house and looked around. Dust covered everything, floral wallpaper peeling off the walls, and birds had come in through a broken window to make nests in the sconces. She wrinkled her nose at the musty smell and heaved a sigh, wondering what she was going to do with this mess of a house. The house had belonged to her grandparents and she had vague memories of visiting as a child, but had not been there in over thirty years. Nobody had lived here in decades and it was obvious by the appearance. The house had good bones but needed a lot of work to make it livable. She wandered from room to room, looking at old photos of people she did not know and the variety of knick knacks on the shelves. The Victorian style furniture had been covered in protective plastic, so it had been saved from the years of neglect.
By Terresa L Nelsen6 years ago in Families
