family
Amigo
"Why're you asking me? You were supposed to be watching him while I was here with the girls." Lesley kept giving me that evil glare she does whenever I'd screw up real bad. We were searching for our son, Leonel, who had somehow run off into the streets. This was only the first day of Día de los Muertos, and here in this city, it gets pretty crowded—making the hunt even more stressful. I started feeling embarrassed from the number of looks we were getting as we were unintentionally shouting in some people's faces. It made no sense why Leon would just run away like that; he doesn't usually commit that kind of behavior.
By Kalina Xiong5 years ago in Fiction
Marigold
June 14, 2012, Kolkata, India Sutopa just got back from the nursing home. Her face was overburdened with reactions - crestfallen, etiolated, petrified, qualmish, and stupefied. It was 1 p. m. She thought of informing her husband, who was at work, but she hesitated. Over the last few weeks, she was feeling torpid and looking wan. As advised by many she went to visit the doctor. Dr. Nag was reputed and it took three weeks to get the appointment. Even though the doctor was good at his craft, he directed her to carry out several tests from blood to Colonoscopy. Today her MRI test report was to be delivered and she went to the nursing home to collect it. Sutapa was a devoted homemaker. Even with such weakness, she performed all her duties, obedient to habit. The last few days have been hectic for her because of the medical tests. That could not hinder her dedication though she could not stick to her routine with the kind of precision she has been categorically associated with.
By abhidipta mallik5 years ago in Fiction
Earl the Monster!
Earl the Monster By Timothy Michael Ricke The spring of 59’ was a dry and dusty affair, in Elmhurst, Il; a suburb west of Chicago. Our home sat on an acre with a tall oak tree at the back of the lot with Farmer Stalman’s farm bordering our property. Today our lot is a Keebler Cookie Factory. I can tell you this…… there were no elves in the Oaktree back in our day.
By Timothy M Ricke5 years ago in Fiction
The Last Skate
I wasn't born with the perfect figure or the best coordination, but my dream was to be an amazing figure skater someday. So, my parents knowing what the cost and requirements chose to invest in having a property with a pond, so I could skate on it during the winter months.
By Barbara Hart5 years ago in Fiction
All The Pretty Flowers
Tears in his eyes, he replaced the vase upon the windowsill with a shaky hand. The once beautiful blooms had withered to shadows of their former glory- the pink roses were tattered, sad things. Much like his daughter, lying broken and pale in the hospital bed. Whoever had done this needed to pay, he thought to himself, careful not to crush the fragile glass vase before it left his fist. His daughter, sweet, charming, and full of life, lay like a worn-out doll that had been thrown away after a child has played long and hard with it. Her pale blonde hair was stuck to her forehead with sweat from the fever of infection and the blue cast under her eyes told of little real sleep in days upon days. Even now, dozing as she was, she twitched and whimpered with troubled fever dreams.
By Amanda Bonesteel5 years ago in Fiction
Petals of Marigold
I walk the same route to work everyday. I can’t take any surprises, turn any new corners, or see any new sights, because the one thing I hate the most is flashbacks. MAN, do I hate flashbacks; when the mind takes you back based on a certain smell, location, or even feeling. For a lonely woman, flashbacks give you another reason to cry, because once you leave your imaginary world, you are yet again, alone. Today, however, the soft gentle breeze put my mind at ease only for a moment in time, as I see yellow petals beside my feet. Why did those yellow pedals have to land there? Now, my thoughts become like a train going full speed and my mind flashes to life, in elementary:
By Shannon Manning5 years ago in Fiction
Remember the Marigold
“Do you want to talk about it?" The boy broke the soul-searching eye contact he had been maintaining with the grass. He glanced to the side towards the voice, eyes reddened and nose wet. He could see the age in the face of the man. In every wrinkle there seemed some hidden glint of wisdom. That’s why he’d come to him, but his tongue felt heavy, as if coated in steel.
By Blake Arnold5 years ago in Fiction
Learning To Love Marigolds
I always hated marigolds. They were a perennial favorite of my mother’s, and she planted them in the flower beds of our little home every year, without fail. It was a small rectangular bed, carved out of the yard, next to the worn gravel driveway, and edged with railroad ties. Yellow and orange, and sometimes trimmed with red. I think they made her happy, the bright colors. A beacon of hope in an otherwise humdrum existence. But as for me, I hated them. I wanted the pretty reds, and purples, and pinks of other flowers like lilies, irises, or even begonias. Or sweet smelling roses. Basically, anything that my grandmother, my father’s mother, grew. Yellow and orange were, after all, basic and ugly colors. And marigolds smelled bad.
By C. H. Crow5 years ago in Fiction
