family

Licking Sight
Might be a dream The day I met with that friend Of mine Feet over the sand I was walking on the seashore All alone That was a wondrous day
By Francis L5 years ago in Fiction
To Do List
A man is sitting on his recliner reading a newspaper with empty cup siting next to him, blues jazz is heard faintly and softly being played, a dog lays right by the mans feet. Upstairs a hair dryer is heard, as well as a feminine voice humming to the tune of the blues jazz. Suddenly there is a loud whistling heard from the kitchen.
By StrangerSloan5 years ago in Fiction
Best home
"Did you walk back, father?" asked Charlotte. "Yes, I walked home," said old Mr. Neave, and he sank into one of the immense drawing-room chairs. "But why didn't you take a cab?" said Ethel. "There are hundred of cabs about at that time." "My dear Ethel," cried Marion, "if father prefers to tire himself out, I really don't see what business of ours it is to interfere." "Children, children?" coaxed Charlotte. But Marion wouldn't be stopped. "No, mother, you spoil father, and it's not right. You ought to be stricter with him. He's very naughty." She laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair in a mirror. Strange! When she was a little girl she had such a soft, hesitating voice; she had even stuttered, and now, whatever she said--even if it was only "Jam, please, father"--it rang out as though she were on the stage. "Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?" asked Charlotte, beginning to rock again. "I'm not sure," said Old Mr. Neave. "I'm not sure. I didn't see him after four o'clock." "He said--" began Charlotte. But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of some paper or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair. "There, you see," she cried. "That's what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with touches of silver. Don't you agree?" "Give it to me, love," said Charlotte. She fumbled for her tortoise-shell spectacles and put them on, gave the page a little dab with her plump small fingers, and pursed up her lips. "Very sweet!" she crooned vaguely; she looked at Ethel over her spectacles. "But I shouldn't have the train." "Not the train!" wailed Ethel tragically. "But the train's the whole point." "Here, mother, let me decide." Marion snatched the paper playfully from Charlotte. "I agree with mother," she cried triumphantly. "The train overweights it." Old Mr. Neave, forgotten, sank into the broad lap of his chair, and, dozing, heard them as though he dreamed. There was no doubt about it, he was tired out; he had lost his hold. Even Charlotte and the girls were too much for him to-night. They were too...too...But all his drowsing brain could think of was--too rich for him. And somewhere at the back of everything he was watching a little withered ancient man climbing up endless flights of stairs. Who was he? "I shan't dress to-night," he muttered. "What do you say, father?" "Eh, what, what?" Old Mr. Neave woke with a start and stared across at them. "I shan't dress to-night," he repeated. "But, father, we've got Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and Mrs. Teddie Walker." "It will look so very out of the picture." "Don't you feel well, dear?" "You needn't make any effort. What is Charles for?" "But if you're really not up to it," Charlotte wavered. "Very well! Very well!" Old Mr. Neave got up and went to join that little old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing-room... There young Charles was waiting for him. Carefully, as though everything depended on it, he was tucking a towel round the hot-water can. Young Charles had been a favourite of his ever since as a little red-faced boy he had come into the house to look after the fires. Old Mr. Neave lowered himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched out his legs, and made his little evening joke, "Dress him up, Charles!" And Charles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the pin out of his tie. H'm, h'm! Well, well! It was pleasant by the open window, very pleasant-- a fine mild evening. They were cutting the grass on the tennis court below; he heard the soft churr of the mower. Soon the girls would begin their tennis parties again. And at the thought he seemed to hear Marion's voice ring out, "Good for you, partner...Oh, played, partner...Oh, very nice indeed." Then Charlotte calling from the veranda, "Where is Harold?" And Ethel, "He's certainly not here, mother." And Charlotte's vague, "He said--" Old Mr. Neave sighed, got up, and putting one hand under his beard, he took the comb from young Charles, and carefully combed the white beard over. Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and seals, and spectacle case. "That will do, my lad." The door shut, he sank back, he was alone... And now that little ancient fellow was climbing down endless flights that led to a glittering, gay dining-room. What legs he had! They were like a spider's--thin, withered. "You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family." But if that were true, why didn't Charlotte or the girls stop him? Why was he all alone, climbing up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it was no good expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the little old spider, and then, to his horror, old Mr. Neave saw him slip past the dining-room and make for the porch, the dark drive, the carriage gates, the office. Stop him, stop him, somebody! Old Mr. Neave started up. It was dark in his dressing-room; the window shone pale. How long had he been asleep? He listened, and through the big, airy, darkened house there floated far-away voices, far-away sounds. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, he had been asleep for a long time. He'd been forgotten. What had all this to do with him--this house and Charlotte, the girls and Harold--what did he know about them? They were strangers to him. Life had passed him by. Charlotte was not his wife. His wife! ...A dark porch, half hidden by a passion-vine, that drooped sorrowful, mournful, as though it understood. Small, warm arms were round his neck. A face, little and pale, lifted to his, and a voice breathed, "Goodbye, my treasure." My treasure! "Good-bye, my treasure!" Which of them had spoken? Why had they said good-bye? There had been some terrible mistake. She was his wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been a dream. Then the door opened, and young Charles, standing in the light, put his hands by his side and shouted like a young soldier, "Dinner is on the table, sir!" "I'm coming, I'm coming," said old Mr. Neave.
By Ram5 years ago in Fiction
Lilly's Greatest Adventure
It is a clear, dark, night, on the outskirts of London, the stars are shining in the sky, the air is warm, and in the distance as we approach a Childs bedroom window we see the glowing of her lamp, as she is being told a bedtime story by her grandpa.
By Cyanide Stitch5 years ago in Fiction
A Wonder of Modern Mother Technology
One day many years ago , I was crossing the creek near our home by way of an old log. It had been placed there by a storm long before my time. The kids in my neighborhood had been crossing it for as long as it had been there. So its branches had been broken off, leaving a smooth bark less surface.
By Ronald Lee5 years ago in Fiction
Home town and healing hearts
Julia’s car eased over the hill on the outback highway. She could see the chimney stack on the horizon, the sun setting behind it. Tears came to her eyes, the sun stinging them, and memories that she had pushed aside for years came tumbling into her mind as she headed home to the mining town of Mount Isa in north west Queensland.
By Nadia Cowperthwaite5 years ago in Fiction
Old life
The year my grandfather passed away I was 7. Ten years later, at 7am, I was helping my mother clean out the attic of my grandparents house; a month ago my grandmother left us as well.
By Natasha Marie Lynn5 years ago in Fiction
polaroids.
i. She looked like any other tourist, but at least she was slightly better dressed. Her dark brown shirt was tucked into bleached shorts, and a small bag with little fridges attached to her hip swayed when she moved. She'd pushed her sunglasses up into her hair.
By A Baptiste5 years ago in Fiction
Sing
Aimlessly hopeful, pacing through the dirt and mush. Trying to find any source of food or shelter. It had been a week since I became lost in the jungle. A camping trip gone terribly wrong. My friends had all disappeared too. I was fending for myself.
By Sascha Smith-Allum5 years ago in Fiction
Preparing for Winter
Preparing for Winter ~ By Lora-Lee Reed Day One: Winter was only a week away and this abandoned barn had much to be done in order to be ready. Being the eldest and feeling responsible, Bernette felt she had to make sure it was livable for everyone herself. She set out by making a list of what needed to be done.
By Lora-Lee Reed5 years ago in Fiction
Loneliest Teddy
I remember the good days. Of long hugs, snuggles, tea parties. Oh the tea parties. Even with everyone gathered, she always gave me the seat of honor. Oh. The good days.
By Shell Harrell5 years ago in Fiction
CERBERUS leWalaad
WE HAD JUST FINISHED A ROUND of pool. The holiday was wearing down and the pups, second litter of FOCCE', were rampant with mischief. She'd been returned to minimize the havoc instigated by her, a street bitch with all the mannerisms to support the title. She was a ruddy red brown pit bull standing height at 23 inches, a lower case mastiff being babysat for the year her owner was out of town. Lucky for her our bull mastiff was coming of age and found her to be most aromatic in addition to ever inspiring with her fence chasing antics. She could never be mistaken for proper. FOCCE' ran the fence all day if left outside. Ran along the fence barking and pouncing at the neighbor dogs. The other side of a four foot fence presented two papered German Sheppards with low crouched pace and perked ears, one pitch black and the other standard brown with black patching. The odd lot in that yard was a small commander of the two larger dogs. He was what resembled a Griffon... mottled grey and black sized to fit a man's boot box if he'd ever be in need of a casket. The latter idea wrought by the attitude of unwilling yard mates in their disinterest at being commanded by something so small and bossy. The Griffon nipped at their heels, bit the length of their tails and yapped his own opinion as to three response to the noisy neighbor in our yard. FOCCE' loved the confusion it all brought about. In less than eight months she was sagging low in her belly with a soon to be household addition put by BLU the bull mastiff Cane Corso gifted to our household one year prior. BLU was more laid back than FOCCE'; laid back and appreciated for being so. FOCCE: was street wise and it showed. She seemed to show him the ropes of mating egging him on at every opportunity until she had him caught and until she was showing a swaggered belly as her cast inside grew. Within a few months we had puppies. Ten grey and white reproductions of BLU, his first litter. He would be the origin of our kennel. A start of the old world extension of the molossus, a now extinct mastiff-type dog. Ours, a Cane Corso breed with origins in Italy traceable to ancient Roman molossus. BLU was calm until agitated. The first litter grew and were dispersed among family and friends for the most. The second litter was started almost unbelievably within weeks, almost as if by insemination. It brought ten healthy pups with owners ready and waiting. The following year brought BONITA and BINTA both impregnated within weeks of the other whelping a total fourteen pups of which only seven survived. Bonita lost most of her litter which sprung forth in the early morning hours supervised by her unwilling caretaker for his mother. Bonita was a bossy 2nd litter female owned by a family member who rarely stepped into our home but left her son and her dog in house. Her son resented the task of caring for the pregnant pooch. When whelping began pups were strewn across the entire basement area including beneath two shelves of tools and hardware. By the time anyone else was notified of the birthing event most puppies were already out; the last causing a shock syndrome which developed from the stress of birthing and the trauma of walking, climbing on in and around variant furnishings of the tool bench and woodworking equipment. There was blood and tissue torn and spilled on saw blades, screwdrivers and boxes of nails and fixtures. The whelping bitch was not calmed enough to stay on the prepared pad in an old pool which would have controlled any pups strong enough to move around after being born. Instead, puppies were collected from among those rough elements on and underneath workbench item and shelves. The basement was scoured under bright overhead lights and flashlights to find a total count of seven pups born and one potentially trapped in the vulva with Bonita straining to breath through pushing it and the umbilical free from herself. She died trying to free that last issue, her caregiver arguing that he, "...did not want to watch the damn dog anyway!" His mother's dog died from the resentment and disinterest. The pups died one after another from exposure and then from lack of nourishment. There was no mother to suckle from. After the last death count and disposal by burial in the far back end of the yard space, the son left, staying out of the house for a week or more. Before he could return and within days of Bonita's episode, BINTA began her whelping stage lucky to be under a bit more watchful eye and care for her outcome. Her puppies survived. They survived despite her weakened disposition near the end of the birth of a sixth pup. She was given an herbal convulsant, herbs chosen and blended at home on partial advise from a veterans clinic. No offices open or scheduled to open due to holiday weekend. The herbs were readily available in our kitchen except for one ingredient accessed from a local Natural Foods Store... FOOD FANTASIES held there in ample supply. The convulsant was to help with pushing the afterbirth. When she seemed overly lethargic after a seventh pup and placenta rushed from her body, she was given herbal antibiotic tucked between her teeth and lip; and simulated IV in form of Pedialyte by eyedropper. Where she had been on the verge of death, the herbals and sterile waters revived her to where she could eat and drink on her own. She performed her own life actions including loving the pups. After weeks of reviving BINTA and supplementing milk for the puppies with MOTHERS MILK, a substitute for lactating dogs that can not provide enough milk for new pups. In six months there were dogs everywhere running the fence, climbing atop dog house and dog run and crawling out of dog pens. Dogs running across the top of a yard parked vehicle and springing from the teeter totter black wire trailer in the back yard. The year before found us lucky enough to have erected a six foot fence so that only the sounds emitted from the action in our yard could be reacted to by the three dogs next door. They were no longer of concern. No longer the fear for unexpected intrusion by walk over on that four foot divider. They could not attend what they could not see. In six months the third litter of pups were being fended out... but slowly. Their lengthened familiarization with the home front and their learned skill at climbing brought indoor fiascoes surely unknown to other dog owners. The pool table was one major curiosity due to human interaction thereon. We could be seen leaning over what looked like the food scrap table, the place where if conniving, patient and willy enough, any one of them could pick up a scrap of bacon, steak or roasted beef. They could find sliced apple with peanut butter... their favorite. The table was the place to go even if searching it "in person" had to be tasked. The dining table once... but the pool table often, was where what seemed to be a dog version of KING OF THE HILL played out. CERBERUS and BINTA Boy took turns manning the table with the first leap victor nudging away any second tier challenger. CERBERUS was the all time winner for his knack with the leap, a one try effort. It was as if he could simply step up and be on top like the tallest of hurdle jumpers in a field event at the Olympics.
By CarmenJimersonCross5 years ago in Fiction