literature

Families and literature go hand in hand; fictional families to entertain, reflect and inspire.

Three Rules for Succes
The young man couldn’t remember a time when his grandfather didn't have his little black book. It was something he remembered being as much a part of him as his beard or glasses. Something he saw but never really noticed, till his third-grade teacher gave him an assignment to interview someone he admired.
By W.H. Michael6 years ago in Families
Mum
I'm not exactly sure where i was born and how i became an orphan but the information i do have is that on the 11th of September 1957 i was left to die in a garbage bin in the back of an alley, my name is Tina.
By Wendy Spencer6 years ago in Families
Sole Heir
The door swings open into the cellar smelling of cigarettes and shoe polish. Coughing instinctively in anticipation of the smoke that always flooded her lungs here, she steps inside, flips the light switch, and squints her surroundings into focus. Nothing in his workshop has changed – aside from his absence.
By Mags6 years ago in Families
Nanas Journal
After Nana’s passing, our family just wanted to go about their lives and mourn in their own ways or just resume life as normal. Nana was old and everyone expected this to happen sooner or later; well, everyone other than Julia. Julia was the only grandchild and her and Nana were close, Julia looked at her more as a mother than a grandmother. Julia spent more time at her grandmother’s house than she did at home because her parents had to work all the time. As everyone else stayed home and went about their lives, Julia decided to go spend the last three days, before Nana’s house went up for auction, in her childhood home and to start collecting all her grandmother’s belongings. As Julia pulled down the long driveway that led to Nana’s Victorian style home, memories flooded her mind, memories of her and Nana playing in the yard and racing down the driveway. Nana use to be so active before she got sick, she and Julia did everything together and all her firsts were in that beautiful Victorian home. Julia parked the car and just sat there staring at the house, remembering how Nana use to take her to, what Nana called, her secret library. It was in that library that Julia learned to love books, reading and writing them. She decided then that the library is where she would start with packing; the books were not worth much nowadays, but they were like gold to her. The library was dark and felt cold, with every wall covered in books and journals from past family members. As she started to turn the lights on and open boxes to pack up all her favorite books, she stumbled across Nana’s typewriter and in it was a note addressed to Julia.
By jessica Wilkins6 years ago in Families
The Small Black Notebook
I had just pulled into the school’s parking lot, when my cell phone buzzed. I pulled into an empty space, glanced down at its lit up face on the passenger seat, and saw the call was from my father.
By Pamela Foard6 years ago in Families
The Family Bible
My earliest memory of my grandmother was her hands worn with age, shaking as if she was constantly cold, gripping open a book that had been passed down from her mother and her mother before going back for generations, as she struggled to read through the brittle pages. She was always reading but this was her favorite book it seemed.
By Orion Ogma6 years ago in Families
The House I Grew Up
The old worn house stood alone in the middle of a dense forest not too far from town. It was the sublime picturesque painting straight out of a gothic horror novel. It was the only thing that Orion loved about the house. The memories that coursed behind the walls like blood had turned sour over the years that it was allowed to curdled like rotten milk. Orion took a sharp breath that felt like daggers piercing her chest. If ghosts did linger in the world of the living, they took the form of memories and nostalgia that held tightly to a home until it became nothing more than walls and a roof to keep you from the cold and rain. There was a tug at Orion's heart that begged for her to enter and reclaim those memories, both good and bad—but she hesitated on the border of the property, a manilla envelope in hand. The soft warmth of another's hand grasped her own, followed by a gentle voice,
By faynoia6 years ago in Families
My Father and the Old Maple Tree
Today was my turn to take big B, Robert, Bob, Bobbie, all names attributed to my father, out for the day. Ever since our mother's passing 12 years ago, his children, us siblings, take turns daily to make sure our father, who lives alone, is never lonely.
By Teresa Abraham6 years ago in Families
Grateful
The funeral had been a somber affair, months ago. Most usually are, it is true, but then again… most didn’t concern him. So the atmosphere never truly affected him, he never truly understood what it was, what it meant, what it did. He’d never felt it. Here and now, however, he understood clearly how it truly was.
By Aurumn Rinta-Hintz6 years ago in Families
The Eight
The Eight Prue found her brother, eighty-year old Joe McKenna, slumped over a burning Cohiba and a snifter of Louis XIII, still gripping the little black notebook that he carried with him everywhere—even to bed. She pried his stiffening fingers off the book, rummaged through his desk for his will—she found it, read it, and put it back. The notebook she took.
By Claire Butler6 years ago in Families
Table 7
On an early Saturday morning, just after sunrise at a Diner in the middle of nowhere, Sonny sat staring out the window over the green pasture. The small silver number 7 on his table caught the morning sunlight and reflected onto his crisp white buttoned up shirt. As he adjusted the salt n pepper shakers and ran his finger along the edge of the cold glossy marble table, thoughts of his mother came to mind.
By Shahnee Hunter6 years ago in Families
Better Late Than Never
“To my son— I bet you weren’t expecting to hear from me. ‘Better late than never’, as they say.” When that small black notebook arrived in my bundle of mail, taped shut with my name and address hastily scribbled onto an index card and plastered to the cover, I didn't know what to think. My father and I had a tentative relationship, at best, so when my mind registered that the handwriting was his, I expected the worst. I left the notebook on my breakfast counter, in plain sight to remind me that it was there, but still sealed because I wasn't sure it was worth the potential mental anguish to open it. I even considered throwing it in the trash. Burning it. Returning it.
By Cillian Martin6 years ago in Families