immediate family

Blood makes you related, loyalty makes you family.

Footlocker of Fortune
As he burst through the courthouse door, Cody jumped for joy as an immense sense of relief flooded over him. It had been 6 months since his great-uncle died and finally all the legalities were done. Cody Lightfeather is now the proud owner of his own home- his first! Which is perfect since just a month before he asked Mariah to marry him. He was sad to lose his uncle, Rod RedElk, but sometimes misfortunes can lead to good fortune. Passing on at the ripe old age of 96, his Uncle Rod had lived a good long life.
By Janet Freedland6 years ago in Families
Back Pocket
The waterproof box was buried deep behind a pair of camel colored worn-out leather boots that her father never parted with despite being unwearable, covered in salt stains with holes in the soles and toes. She opened the box to reveal old bills, faded polaroids of her father with his father, both wearing rugby striped shirts with the same longish surfer-style tousled hairdo. Her father never had hair like this during her life. It was cut short and under a baseball cap or a grey felt fedora that he had made as a replica of his grandfather’s. Underneath the ticket stub commemorating a show with a band she couldn’t imagine her father ever being a fan of, she uncovered a series of notebooks of various size, color and weight. She opened the oxblood book on top and found a sketch of a figure; a 3/4 view of a woman’s back, faceless but for a line hinting at a profile. She thought perhaps it was a study of a volunteer model in art school or from memory or most likely, her mother one morning. This particular notebook housed sketch after sketch, each image in black pen highlighting her father’s skill with simple lines, form and pleasing likenesses to each subject. The orchid drawn on the middle page of the book looked more like the beautiful purple orchid that grew in her childhood kitchen than it did in her vivid memory. The sketch of the simple lines of his fruitless invention, improving upon the toaster oven, brought a small smile to her face. The afternoon he told her how his idea would better the mundane machine was a scorching summer day in the San Fernando Valley. The memory of it as glistening and hazy as the inferior mirage on the 101 she saw earlier that day on the drive to the now uninhabited mid-century modern home. She wanted to ask him everything. That was always true. Since she first saw his face moments after she was born and looked at him like a long lost friend, she wanted to know his mind, in a way to know herself. Their minds were the same and she liked verifying it. How would the internal heat coil operate, would there be a copper element? Usually she was so in awe of him she would freeze before she could share all of her thoughts and questions with him, fearful that she would say something uninteresting and she would see disappointment or boredom in his eyes. She wouldn’t dare ever take that chance and always thought there was time enough to ask later, when she was older. Maybe, she used to think, if they went on a road trip she would feel a new closeness with him or new fearlessness and be free and open.
By SF6 years ago in Families
The Back Room
When I was growing up, I spent a lot of time at my grandma’s house. All of the decorations there were floral patterned and smelled like an old book and cigarettes. Scattered throughout the living room and hallways were pictures of my grandma with my mom, dad, and myself. It was as if nobody existed outside of us four. Her life was a simple bundle of four, but she was always alone. The house didn’t change as the years went by, and I can even now picture the layout so perfectly that I could walk it blindfolded. It’s strange how much you understand a person by the rooms they inhabit and those they ignore. Her house had a long hallway that ran away from the living room. Next to the living room was the pale-yellow kitchen with the wood cabinets that would creak when you would walk by them. Down the hallway was a series of four alternating wooden doors with hardware of gold and handles made of yellowing plastic that was meant to look like glass. The doors barely fit into their places and would scrape the carpet with a semicircle when opened. The first room on the left was the laundry room that stunk like soap and stale water, even from the outside. The two doors on the right were her bedroom and her bathroom with the green toilet, green tiles, and green sink. At the far back of the house, down the long hallway was a door that I never saw a soul go into, not even my grandma. A phantom room with no occupant and no apparent purpose.
By Dalton Frizzell6 years ago in Families
Old Movies
Ernie sat cross-legged on the tattered powder blue carpet, a VHS copy of "Some Like it Hot" in one hand, and a can of warm, flat Mr. Pibb in the other. Her dad hoarded Mr. Pibb like some folks hoard cats. Speaking of which, she noticed a glob of dried cat puke near her right ankle, and absent-mindedly began to pick at it. How long had THAT been there, she wondered?
By Margaret Anich6 years ago in Families
LUCKY
The screams coming from the second floor window are blood-curdling, accusatory, and unmistakably my mother’s. From where Eric and I are sitting on the asphalt, we hear every word as we brace ourselves for the counter-point of angry, masculine barks. Now here comes Daddy, agitated, making his way out the front door and toward us. He’s got his keys in hand and is jerking his head toward the Toyota, so we know we are in this for the long haul. The last argument had ended with a call to the police when Daddy took us out of the house and did not return until close to midnight. On these impromptu outings, we endured hours in the car as our father jabbered on about going into business. He never mentioned the fights, but we knew that the culprit was always money. More specifically, the lack of money caused by our father’s reckless spending. But it was his dreams of big business that drove our mother insane.
By Nola Browning6 years ago in Families
A Day in the Life of an Octopus
The smell of semi burnt waffles fills my nostrils. I can hear my mother loudly whisper to the girls to open a window. Just 5 more minutes is all I need as I pull the blanket over my head. Too late. The smoke detector is blaring. I rush to open the door to find Cadence frantically waving a magazine towards the ceiling to clear the air. "Hey, Mommy! We're almost done with breakfast!" she excitedly squeals as she hops down from a stool. I look over at the DIY breakfast creations and crafts that cover the kitchen counter and give the nod of approval while displaying my best-tired smile. "Let me know when you're ready and I'll freshen up while I wait," I replied. I figured why not slip back into the bed for 10 more minutes.
By Brittany Fells6 years ago in Families
Savior in the Shadows
I hold the note out from my body like it’s a rattler getting ready to strike. This decision has to be a quick one. Torch it or don’t torch it? If I torch it, Sienna will never hear her father’s last words. If I don’t torch it, she could lose the innocence that’s shrouded her life since she was six years old. Life ain’t easy, huh?
By Donna Sparks6 years ago in Families
Gone before gone
She knew suddenly that it was over. Her father was gone. Well, not gone entirely as he was in the room on the bed next to her chair. Though the four grey walls contained them, there was a certain endless emptiness lingering in the room like an infinite moan. She breathed in the hospital air, salty and pungent in her nose. It was nothing like the cool Autumn air that loitered outside just beyond the plain hospital window. The rude smell forced the obvious into the reality she had tried to deny. Her father was sleeping now, his face pallid and his hands clammy. The doctors had said there was no end to the spiral of death so slow yet certain. She looked at the time piece on her left wrist, half past eleven. She grabbed his left hand and held it in both of hers. She kissed it gently and sealed her eyes for a split second. “Time, take me back to when he knew who I was,”she begged. “Daddy, I miss you. It’s your little girl, please” she yearned, “say my name.” She opened her eyes, gently lowering his hand back down.
By Jade Robey6 years ago in Families
Returning Home
Sabbia, a town so influenced by the ocean that the sea salt carries in every breath. The pasta is salted by it, the produce enriched by it and the wine has a distinct dryness that makes you crave just one more glass. It is not the most beautiful town on the Gulf of Naples but it is an honest place where people wear their grudges on their sleeves.
By Bianca Cardaci6 years ago in Families
Bound
In between my brother and I were boxes that we set down on the floor. It was all spread out in our tiny apartment and we couldn’t figure out which we would open first. The twenty thousand dollars was a surprise enough, but we wondered what the boxes had in store for us. Was it there? Did he leave it for us to find or did he take it with him? Would be it lost forever?
By Gabriel de Leon6 years ago in Families
Celebrate Family
I was reflecting today as I often do, and while doing so I realized it has been 25 years since my grandmother, Marcella Rush, (Da'Ma, as we affectionally called her) went home to be with the Lord. Upon this realization also came the awareness of how we often take life and all it holds for granted. Almost 30 years ago when I was shot and the doctors performed a surgery that miraculously saved my life I was newly married and awaiting the birth of my first child. Preparing to celebrate a new family. When I contracted the coronavirus I had recently returned from Kentucky and Ohio where I celebrated Thanksgiving with family. So, as one who is currently recovering from the effects of the coronavirus, I can tell you that death is standing right outside the door and can take you unawares. Making the celebration of family that much more important.
By Rodney L. Sutton, Sr.6 years ago in Families
The Remaining Balance
The sun slowly sank in her rearview mirror as Frances drove her tiny sedan to the bank. She felt the sunlight envelope her, even though it first passed through a glass rear window, reflected through a glass rearview mirror, and slipped through her dark sunglasses. The strip mall to her left was baked in an orange pre-dusk glow. A late afternoon in the summer always had this look and feel. An anticipatory calm coddled the town. The day, in a final sleepy motion, stripped down and sunk into a hammock, anticipating a summer’s evening of activities. A few people milled about. But Frances was the one lonely observer to bear witness to this strange time of day.
By Nicholas Zampa6 years ago in Families