family

Working Stiff
On Monday, I died. Terrible, the way it creeps up on you. If I’d known, I mightn’t have bothered refilling the car. Thank goodness I followed my dear mother's advice, (godresther,) and wore clean knickers.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
The Story of An Hour
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death. It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message. She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her. There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul. She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which someone was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves. There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window. She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams. She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought. There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air. Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under the breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body. She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome. There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination. And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being! "Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering. Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door." "Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window. Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long. She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom. Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife. When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills. The Story of An Hour was featured as The Short Story of the Day on Wed, Feb 08, 2023 Earlier, I pointed out that this story was first published in 1894 as The Dream of an Hour before being republished in 1895 as The Story of an Hour. Having read the story, why do you suppose Kate Chopin chose to change that one word? Given societal norms and expecations about women and marriage in 1895, do you see how simply changing a single word in the title may have been an answer to the controversy and criticism that the story received at that time? The Story of an Hour is one of the stories featured in our collection of Short Stories for High School I and Short Short Stories to read when you have five minutes to indulge yourself reading a great story.
By Dip2 years ago in Fiction
Daddy
Daddy is mad again. He got mad last night when he came home and I made them both sad, and I think he’s still mad at me now ‘cause he’s not here and all of the other Daddies- well, Mommies mostly- have come already because they’re happy like Tabbitha and don’t let each other spill cups all over the place and on Daddy’s new shirt. Mommy said it would come out, but that’s what she said about the tomato sauce, and it is all orange down my front now and I remember when it was red, and before that it was white.
By Anna Cunningham2 years ago in Fiction
The Lament of Tristan & Gretchen (AKA, "I'm Gonna Tell Him")
I hated my wife. Her fire had gone out. Kids being little, sapping her energy... Normal, right? Mothers are tired, that's a well-known fact. But the kids got older, and... so did Gretchen.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
The Rich Man's Clothes. Top Story - September 2024.
An emperor who had no clothes was once gifted with a rich man's attire. Wearing them seemed like a breeze in the air covering his soul. His steps quickened and the marvellous seemed possible. Even his daydreams seemed remarkable but there was nowhere to put them so he stuffed his hands in his pockets. With no touch to his senses, the world became cloudy - no gift giving his new point of view. Through the mind of an apple, his thoughts grew...if only I can. The apple became a new world he could almost taste. Then he realized that the apple and the clothes were not his own, nor the windswept thoughts between the threads. So he made bare his mortality and walked naked in the sunlight.
By Canuck Scriber Lisa Lachapelle2 years ago in Fiction
The sick Goat
In a small Nigerian village, an old woman named Tolu lived with a goat she loved so much, and she called it Goatie. She cared for the goat so much that it became like a child.
By Adi Adison2 years ago in Fiction
Little Red Leaf. Content Warning.
All the leaves are brown, and the skies are grey. Autumn is here and you're away. I look at the richness of the world around me, the pageantry of royal colour in the golds and the reds and the oranges that adorn the trees in their final flourish and it makes me sad that you can't see it.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
Drifting Beyond
The sea was calm, a blanket of glass reflecting the crescent moon above, and the Elysium drifted lazily under the night sky. The wind had died hours ago, leaving only the quiet sound of lapping waves against the hull of the old sailboat. The two passengers aboard had been silent for much longer.
By Shwet Prabha Baiswar2 years ago in Fiction
My mother's tears. Content Warning.
Why did I think uncertainty would be fun? For 20 months, I complied about having a good job and cushioning my sibling's expenses as the last born of the family, not knowing I wouldn't be in that position forever. I had sometimes wondered how it feels to be taken care of. A few days ago, the organisation I was working for announced that they would be letting people go due to lack of funding to support their work and staff, and unfortunately, or should I say wish granted, I made the cut. Lots of thoughts came to mind; I mean, why would they keep me? I did the bare minimum; I got too comfortable having the job that I forgot to save to have a backup plan. I blamed myself for making it to the list of the people they would let go. My karma has finally arrived, giving me a beautiful chair of uncertainty. After hearing the news, I informed my sibling that I no longer worked with the organisation that honestly puts bread on the table. I couldn’t care less how they felt or took it; my main worry was how my mother would react when I broke the news to her.
By Adebusayo Esther Obasa2 years ago in Fiction
The Timekeeper’s Dilemma
a distant future, time no longer ticked away in minutes and hours. Instead, it was measured in moments—moments of emotion, captured and preserved by an elite group known as the Timekeepers. Every person had their own Timekeeper, a silent guardian who would collect their most joyful memories, preserving them for eternity so they could relive those precious moments whenever they wished.hed.
By Muhammad Waheed Asghar2 years ago in Fiction
Artifical Emotion
**CONTENT WARNING AT THE END IF YOU NEED IT** I hear them. One says, Can’t somebody shut it up? # The atmosphere was palpable, as if the lengthening shadows had substance, or the mould above the cooker had overwhelmed the cramped kitchen.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
The Wedding That Almost Wasn't
It was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives. Eloho and Tega were finally getting married after years of dating. The preparations had been meticulous, with every little detail carefully planned out. Eloho had found the perfect white lace dress, while Tega was set to wear a sleek, tailored suit. Their families had come together, and the small Warri church was filled with the joyful chatter of their loved ones, eagerly awaiting the couple's arrival.
By Emmanuel Ojenike2 years ago in Fiction