literature
Families and literature go hand in hand; fictional families to entertain, reflect and inspire.
THE MASK
Once upon a time in the small town of Normal, Illinois, lived a girl named Ndim. She was American, but her father was from an African country called Cameroon. That is why her name did not sound America. Her mother was American. When Ndim was three years old, her parents told her stories about witchcraft and sorcerers in African countries. She was scared about these stories because she did not like witchcraft or sorcerers.
By Sandra Bongjoh6 years ago in Families
Lost and Found
My grandmother, (my mimi) had been like a mother to me, always taking in my sister and I, when my mentally ill mother was hospitalized. Now my nine year old mind couldn't accept that she had supposedly died of a sudden heart attack. Surely they were lying. "Surely this was just a bad dream", I thought. As the reality sank in that she was really gone, memories flooded my young mind, of all the good times we'd spent together. I began to contemplate the new uncertainties in my life, I felt abandoned by the only person who loved and cherished me. My mother was emotionally unavailable and self absorbed. My father had left before I could remember, and grandpa (my pipi) died before mimi, when I was three. "Where will I go when mom gets sick again? Who will I play card games with me, teach me calligraphy, and listen to how my day went?," I thought, already feeling the loneliness setting in, as I didn't have many friends in our secluded area.
By Michelle Buckaloo6 years ago in Families
The Darkened Room
Everything in Geode’s body told him to run, but his body wouldn’t comply. He’d only meant to consider, not to touch. What a disaster he’d wrought by not keeping his hands to himself. Aunt Petra, who’d raised him from the age of three, always told him that looking never involved hands, and that he wouldn’t get into trouble if he never touched things that weren’t his. But they were so interesting that it couldn’t be helped. And thus began his troubles.
By Steve Savage6 years ago in Families
Crossing Old Sandy
From the time we were old enough to catch crawdads in the nearby creek without getting pinched, my cousins and I were allowed to roam the farmlands nestled between the foothills of the Ozark mountains and the Arkansas River. We’d step out the door of Granny and Pa’s cozy rock-sided house accompanied by an eager pack of farm dogs, work our way through the barn, walk in one door and out the other at each of my aunts’ and uncles’ and great-grandparents homes who all lived “over yonder” or “down yonder” and then set off along the washboard dirt road that my family’s been settled along since the early 1800’s. Up the hill was Granny’s old schoolhouse, still furnished with broken pews and desks, a disheveled time capsule begging our imaginative spirits for dramatic recreations of academic life in the “olden days.”
By April Grist Rhodes6 years ago in Families
SHE WAS A NIGHT OWL
The box she laid in was pretty. She liked pretty things. It came with all the latest features. Silver brushed with light blue finish, light blue velvet interior, in a French Fold design. She was a Francophile, she taught herself French, she loved everything French. She had planned to travel there one day, to Paris. To see the Eiffel Tower, to twirl underneath this wrought-iron lattice was a constant image in her mind. She would buy pain Poilâne in the Latin Quarter on Rue du Cherche-Midi, a bottle of wine at La Cave, cheese at Laurent Dubois, then lay down her blanket on Pont Neuf and spend the day enjoying the splendor of the banks of the Seine.
By Rosemary West 6 years ago in Families
