family
Cigarette Freeze
“Why are you smoking? You don’t smoke,” I say to myself. You don’t smoke. Your father smokes. You don’t smoke, I repeat, looking into my pristine mirror that I cleaned meticulously for ten minutes. No streaks, just smoke. “I don’t smoke,” I say, and I blow the Marlboro’s burning taste out from my chapped lips. I just came from a funeral. And my mom gave me his cigarettes. My father’s last pack. My father always said he’d quit. He said he’d always stop. Half a pack a day. Just a few a day. “You don’t even smoke!” I whisper, the tendrils of gray whispering sweet suffering and tender hearted memories. He quit drinking, but he still smoked.
By Melissa Ingoldsby5 years ago in Fiction
Learning to Love
Callie unbuckled the car seat straps and lifted one-year old Jack from the car seat. She debated about getting the stroller out of the trunk and decided instead to carry him to the playground. The sun was shining and there was a light breeze ruffling the leaves on the oaks surrounding the park. Around the smaller trees were beds of marigolds, freshly planted. She was pleased to see it wasn’t too crowded, but it was a Tuesday, her normal day off work. Jack babbled happily and clapped his hands, his latest trick, as they approached the swing set. She plopped him in the baby swing and gave him some gentle pushes. He squealed for more, and she pushed him harder. He had no fear; he hadn’t learned that yet and she hoped he never would, but knew it wasn’t likely.
By Shelly Slade5 years ago in Fiction
A Slice of German Chocolate Birthday Cake
It’s funny. Growing up, my grandmother was one of the most important people in my entire little world. Well, both my grandparents were, but my grandmother, most of all, was integral to shaping me into the person I was to become.
By C. H. Crow5 years ago in Fiction
Little Black Girl
Standing here I can hear them yelling. I told you! I told you that she wouldn't last one second! You see I was the only little black girl in my town. No one looked like me, not even my own mother. My Black father was long gone before my birth, and my mom is as white as the unseasoned chicken breast we ate most nights for dinner. People will say they are nice to us because they have a smile on their face when they address us as Lauren and her Black girl. The kids call me Lacionna although my actual name is just Laci. My teachers give me less work because they said I won't succeed. My mother calls me her Mocha Hope although she called my dreams crazy. My home, my school, the grocery stores, the churches and the parks and there was no one around like me. People didn't understand why I was different. There were wispers about how I became this way. Those were things I learned to block out later in life. I knew who I was and why. I also knew plenty of people on TV that looked like me. I couldn't understand why others couldn't see it.
By Akeva Clarke5 years ago in Fiction
Going up
Theirs was a hate-hate relationship, but there were payoffs. For Casey, it was money. Paltry, but enough to get her closer to where she needed to be. For Ryan, it was social mobility. With her in his life, he got to experience the city like he never would on his own. When they stepped out together, they owned the Upper East side. Nobody remarked on the age gap – she was 17 years his senior – yet privately it was the thing that put them most at loggerheads. They barely had a thing in common. Casey was a singer, a dancer, fully alive to the Manhattan offering, an Australian abroad, brimming with dreams. Ryan was single minded, quarrelsome, self-absorbed, contrary. A New York native, not quite three years old.
By Megan Anderson5 years ago in Fiction
