family
Black-Eyed Susan
Scrub, scrub, scrub. Scrub and scrub again. Ansell Rubber Co. Pty. Ltd “Marigold gloves” are great, but this rug’ll never be clean. It ain’t been since Missy were born. I never could get them stains out. Always a constant reminder of the pain and ignominy of her birth. Samson never got it, of course. He was off with his buddies, tossing horseshoes or whatever it was he got up to when she was born. And when he got home, drunk, as usual, he never even looked at her. Just patted me on the head like I was some barnyard animal to be petted and congratulated for a job well done. I’d calved my foal, and so now, I was simply required to nurture his spawn -my own daughter, let us not forget, until she was old enough to fly the coop and further his cursed bloodline through whatever means necessary. His ma may have been a whore, but in my mind, there was no way that Missy would be following in her footsteps. Poor Missy – she never deserved what she was dealt. Ironic really, I think, as I scrub away at this blood-stained rug. The last real gift he ever gave me was that pot of marigolds which are currently straining towards any light which this godforsaken kitchen may offer, and here I am, garbed in yellow Marigold gloves and a blood-flecked apron, attempting to eradicate any signs of his crimes.
By Bryan Hallett3 years ago in Fiction
The Campaign of Rot
When I think back to the year when we moved into the house where we found the skeletons, my only memory is the flowers. To call the backyard wild when we took possession would be too flattering. Wild makes it sound like there was a natural jungle full of potential, when in reality there was just decay and neglect. Someone had tried to turn this backyard into something beautiful, and maybe for a few years they'd succeeded, but now the bench they'd built was broken down the middle, and the fire-pit they'd dug had collapsed in on itself, and a heap of garbage was piled up in the corner. When you saw the gazebo, you couldn't ignore that maybe this could have been an idyllic little slice of paradise once, but those days were gone. The gazebo always smelled foul, and my mother strictly instructed us not to play there.
By Littlewit Philips3 years ago in Fiction
The Shark
Yes, mermaids were real. So were mermen, but that fact didn't seem to be as satisfying. Jacob had come to that assumption rather young. That people just did not care about mermen. He’d seen paintings of his sisters, even heard the stories about them, but never any about himself, or his brothers.
By Juliet Napier3 years ago in Fiction
Dia de Los Muertos . Top Story - July 2021.
NOTE: This story is based on true events dramatized to convey my crisis of identity. *** Purple, amber, and white flowers adorned the table like a garden club meeting. I cannot name them but know the colors. The sun faded over the horizon, and the shifting hues radiated its prisms onto the walls of my daughter's living room. I escaped the throng of people inside to find my thoughts in the backyard.
By J. S. Wade3 years ago in Fiction
Morgan's Story
A calmness came to Morgan as she continued to sink down into the dark depths of the Gulf of Mexico. She kept her eyes open, brave and daring. The sun’s light began to fade as her lungs needed no air the further she slowly sank. A sole Blacktip shark crept its way in perfect view. Morgan halted her desent and reached out. In her mind it whispered, Carcharhinus limbatus. Suddenly, beneath Morgan’s feet, from the dark below, a black orb moved and faded into nothing. Had Morgan the ability to stop and measure the almost human sized black orb, she would have taken caution at the giant shark it was attached to. The air in Morgan’s lungs, she needed to breathe. Her eyes darted then shifted up. She was too far down to make it to the water’s surface. She calmly excepted her fate and allowed her body to calmly rest. She took a deep breath in.
By Anthony Diaz3 years ago in Fiction
Mary Gold
In a neighborhood of nice houses, Mary Archer’s home was the “nicest.” The gabled structure had a large lemonade porch, complete with two rocking chairs. The shingles were scalloped and the building was painted a pleasant pale yellow. A paver driveway led to a tastefully hidden garage toward the rear of the property. A brick walkway brought visitors to the white stairs leading to the porch. Pretty azalea bushes fronted the porch and a lovely willow tree shaded the property with gently swaying branches. The single most striking feature of the home, however, were the stunning beds of marigolds that lined the entire walkway. The bright yellow of the blooms beautifully complimented the rest of the house’s features, making the home look like something you would see on the cover of a magazine.
By Antonella Di Minni3 years ago in Fiction
Pressed Flowers
Five years in, Kelsey was still astonished at the dryness of Texas soil come August. You could soak it with a hose twice in a ten-hour span and you’d still wake to find it parched or even cracking the next morning. Still, she and the garden did their dance every new day: drench the soil, prune the flowers, pluck the tomatoes from their sprawling vines. Every few days she had the grim privilege of crushing a parasitic worm between her bare fingers, just to shake things up.
By Steven A Jones3 years ago in Fiction
Danette and Her Love for Picture Books
Danette was having a very bad day. Awful, in fact. Nothing seemed to be going her way. She was so glum that she decided: enough is enough! She needed to get up off her bum. And make something! So she first put on her thinking cap that had magical powers. It transported her back in time to when she was a kid. She saw her younger self gushing over picture books. She thought: I know! I’ll make a picture book! Danette was a natural born storyteller.
By Danette Byatt3 years ago in Fiction
Going Away With The Fairies
I’m standing, kicking at the soil, waiting for my Grandpa to appear. We knocked on the window a couple of minutes ago to let them know we were here and now we’re waiting at the garden fence around the side of the building. We struck lucky today; sometimes they’ll only let us see him through the window.
By Elissa Dawson3 years ago in Fiction