family
A Sea of Marigold
A sea of yellows and oranges sway in the breeze as I follow the only path cutting through it, the rhythmic crunching of gravel under my measured steps a staccato counterpoint to the soft whisper of the marigold bulbs rustling together. I can clearly hear the sound of children playing in the distance, their shouts and laughter washing over me bittersweet as I approach a woman in a paisley sundress seated upon a wooden bench along the path.
By Brian Gracey3 years ago in Fiction
Flowers in the Journey of life
As I have gotten older I often reflect back on my parents and the kind of people they were. My dad, I think was a thistle, tall, handsome, and prickly. He was raised on a farm surrounded by relatives and people he had known since birth; families that had been through hard times together. Seventeen families had moved all of their livestock and house hold goods from the cotton land of East Alabama when the boll weevil destroyed their cotton, their major source of income to the East side of the Alabama Delta. When my mother met him he was a trapper of furs. In others words, he was just having fun and just making enough money for his own needs. He was still living at home. His idea of a date was gigging frogs and then cooking them to eat. We are talking about big swamp frogs here not everyday garden frogs.
By Patricia Taylor3 years ago in Fiction
Some unholy war
1. My father smokes so much I used to think that he’d burn down the sky someday. How many times have I watched him doing so? A glow of orange tints like a fading star, a thin stretch of white confines between the roughness and thickness of his two fingers. The dusty, grainy scent of smoke
By Minh Hoang3 years ago in Fiction
You're My Marigold
The day was awful. It had been raining for five days already with no end in sight. The day’s weather promised another cold, dreary, wet day. It was the perfect day to stay in bed, holed up under a fuzzy, extra soft, warm blanket with hot chocolate and Netflix on autorun.
By Michelle McBride3 years ago in Fiction
Festival of Remembrance
Harlan left through the eastern gate and walked into the plains and fields beyond. Behind him loomed the ancient walls of Astora, standing sentinel over mankind’s largest stronghold. As Harlan walked away, the din of the city slowly faded, its excited, anticipatory sounds falling behind. It was the twenty-first of Artum, which made today the Festival of Remembrance.
By Travis Pittman3 years ago in Fiction
A Slow Song on the Wireless
You must understand I was only a child then, and I did not truly grasp the nature of that day. There was a tense stillness throughout the house, that I remember. Of course, I don’t think any child grasped the gravity of the situation at the time. It’s one thing to be told your father is leaving to fight in a war, and another thing entirely to understand what that means. Everyone understood war in some way or another at that time – everyone except for the children. Though in truth, I’m not sure my father truly understood either. He seemed enraptured by the sense of glory and duty, with the horrors all too readily swept under the carpet. Perhaps that was for his own sanity.
By William Brown3 years ago in Fiction
Peach Daisies
He used to give me peach daisies. I told him I hated flowers, but he'd pick one for me every Monday on our walk home from school, stow it in my palm and run ahead before I could give it back. It would end up on the ground, the petals smashed by bike tracks and roller blades of the next-door neighbors. When we stood on the porch of our brick farmhouse, he’d look at my empty hand in disappointment.
By Sam Eliza Green3 years ago in Fiction