family
Mari
Depression was a word not spoken aloud in my home, but it was a well-known and welcome visitor. When my wife died a few months ago, I thought Depression had become a permanent resident. On our daily walks, my wife and I used to find joy in the rustle of leaves and the sound of children playing, but now they all are just blatant reminders that she is gone. I still walked through the park every day, though. Some traditions die hard I suppose.
By Emily Brandt5 years ago in Fiction
A Mari Gold by Any Other Name...
I hate my name! God, I hate my name! What were my “flower child” hippie parents thinking? I get it. It was the Sixties. Lots of kids were blessed or cursed, with names best suited for nature. I even have a friend named Rainbow! But my name is more like a lame pun, than a traditional name. There was even un-bridled snickering when my name was sweetly whispered over a baptismal fountain in church during my Christening. Is nothing sacred?
By DeEtta Miller5 years ago in Fiction
A First Best Friend
The first flakes of snow danced through the cold autumn air as Cadence twirled through the streets in her Elsa costume, convinced she'd summoned them herself. It didn't bother her that most of her sparkly blue and silver dress was covered by her bright pink parka, or that her earmuffs didn't go with the long braid at her side, or that the tacky plastic pumpkin only held a fraction of the amount of candy a pillowcase could.
By Lindsay Rae5 years ago in Fiction
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 Hallett5 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 Philips5 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 Napier5 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. Wade5 years ago in Fiction
