Past Caring by Alexandra Fox
When I was eleven, she was plump and Yardley powdered; when I was twelve she had sour hanging creases full of dying crud; a year later, I betrayed her.
She lived in a ground-floor flat in a different suburb, and twice a week we’d visit her while my mother did the shopping. She liked my sister Rosemary best, her eldest grandchild, with her glasses and her quiet listening placidity. We learned to wind wool into precise balls from the skeins stretched across her calloused hands as we counted in various languages...
Form and Function by Laura Anne Gilman
The villa has fourteen layers. We counted them that first day: one step up to the main hall, two steps down to the master suite, three steps down to the kitchen, one flight of stairs to the second floor, step down to each bedroom, up a half-landing to the sitting room; endless crazy-quilt planning, no two rooms on the same plane. It gave us a sense of isolation that was badly needed, some days...
A Room of His Own by Annette Gendler
My husband's room is at the back of our apartment next to the kitchen. How
many times have I walked by and wanted to haul out his clutter and hurl it
into the trash? Sometimes I kicked a box out of my way en route to his desk
or threw a stack of papers on the bed because I couldn't find the latest PTA
notice. But I controlled the impulse to clean up. If he wanted to spend the
better part of his days in clutter, so be it...
Inquiring Minds by Annetta Ribken
I see the scene over and over again in my mind, but I make up a different ending.
I can do that. It's allowed...
Down the Aisle by Carol D. O'Dell
“Are you sure you feel like going into the store today?” I ask Mother.
She fans herself with an envelope that has her grocery and Kmart list scrawled on the back.
“I'm sure I want to pick out my own cold cream.” She keeps fanning. “Turn on the air conditioner...”
The Vigil by Dawn Goldsmith
Starlings attacked. The adult robins defended their nest. Pecking and
diving, trying to divert the intruders from their home, the parents spread
their beaks wide and did their best to look fearsome and intimidating. But
the starlings, predators adept at getting what they want, persisted...
Lightning by Kayla Williams
The day my mother was struck by lightning, I was eight and
half years old. We were all standing, my mother, my
stepfather and I, on a viewing point at the Grand Canyon,
marveling at the three types of weather around us. My
mother, uncannily acute to shifts, warned us that though we
saw a rainbow in the middle, a sunset on the left, and only
a hint of storm clouds rolling in on the right, the storm
would win out...
Trinh's Terrible Fishball Dinner by Konnie W. Andrews
It's 6 a.m. and the morning sounds of Saigon have already invaded my
apartment. As I enter the kitchen, I smell fish, a tangible reminder of last
night. Maybe some strong coffee will erase the memory of Trinh's fishball
dinner.
