She's got the black plastic of a cutting knife handle gripped in her palm. Beige-painted fingernails glisten under the scrutinizing lights of our glazed kitchen; a classy and neutral color, like herself. She's grinning in concentration, a thin upward-curving line shaping her lips. I'm sitting at our dining room table, watching her in silence. The scene before me is a blur, and I'm not sure whether it's because things are going by too fast or because my glasses aren't on. The overhead chandelier becomes a dazed oval, and my mother’s hair looks brittle and brassy underneath the dim lighting. I keep a mental note to remind her to re-color it. She isn't saying anything, or at least, I don’t think she is. Her back is turned, revealing the clasp …show more content…
Heat blazed throughout the air, and we both put our hair up to avoid sweating through our cotton shirts. I quartered tomatoes, shucked corn, cooked chicken, all for the first time. I talked about yesterday, what I learned in Philosophy, my English essay, the upcoming Physics homework. She spoke about her demos, her responses, other lawyer terms I didn’t understand. We ate at the table; three bowls of vegetables, chicken, and pasta for me, my mom, and my dad. My mother called her mother about it, and I texted my brother. The second meal was prepared next Tuesday. We dragged the aluminum foil bag out of the fridge. I asked her how her work was going, and she said she didn’t want to talk about work, so I didn’t. We made potato gnocchi, proudly scooping up spoonfuls and plating them. My father, in the end, said it tasted horrible. The third meal sat in our fridge, uncooked, untouched. A second package came the following Friday, and another aluminum foil bag was shoved into the fridge, joining the first. My mother suggested we give the old one to my brother. He accepted it gladly, made rice noodles and chicken and sent us …show more content…
The fan blows behind and lifts my black hair like wisps, caressing the skin of my jaw. Shutters cover the window, weaving patterned slits of moonlight along the bedspread. I consider turning the lights on; decide against it. I stand haphazardly, listening to the crickets sing-song beneath the windowsill outside. Vertigo. I wobble, quiver back and forth, palming in front of me to avoid blindly walking into a wall. My footsteps are quiet and mousy as I tip-toe across the wooden floorboards of the hallway. My father’s voice resounds from the room down the corridor, loud and booming like a firework. His voice is no longer something I react to anymore. It’s terribly raucous and thunders through the house, but after hearing it so many times, it seems as though I’m immune. It's my mother’s voice which surprises me. My mother and father quip. They fight they’re from different worlds, like a Montague and a Capulet, like foes or enemies. This time, however, my mother is whimpering. The fragile voice is like rusting iron, I think. The unoiled squeak of an abandoned swingset, fingernails on a chalkboard, spine-tingling, nerve-wracking. My mother is
My mother stiffens, her back arching. Blood surges from a wound in her abdomen, dyeing her shirt crimson. A patch of blood spreads over her shoulder. I blink, again, and I see her smile as she sweeps my hair trimmings into a pile. She falls, first to her knees, her hands limp at her sides, and then to the pavement, slumped to the side like a rag doll.
He describes his frustration and irritability with his mother, and how he used intimidation tactics towards her. He recollects an incident where his mother wanted him to call the bank, but the conversation turns repugnant; Lee vividly remembers her horrified expression, “her face blanched, and her neck suddenly became rigid, as if I were throttling her. She nearly struck me right then, but instead she bit her lip and ran upstairs” (89). The dialogue Lee includes gives the narrative a tone of condescension and intimidation.
You might be wondering exactly how this meal time gathering came into being. The truth is it happened because my parents are amazing people. The type of people who you can’t always appreciate growing up, but as soon as you become a parent yourself, you get it, suddenly their awesomeness shines through.
For the first ten years of my life, I had a very normal childhood. I went to a private catholic school in a small town called Westwego. We were about twenty five minutes south of New Orleans. During the summers, friends and family would come over to our house and we would all swim and boil seafood. The summer of 2005 was no different; I was looking forward to entering 5th grade. Fast forward to one week before school is about to start when Hurricane Katrina formed in the Atlantic Ocean. Hurricanes were no strangers to us as we have been through several throughout the years. However, a few days later the storm is upgraded to a Category 3 and is predicted to hit New Orleans dead on. My parents felt it was time for us to leave and we traveled
Elizabeth is sitting in the living room on the couch in her pajamas. The lights are dim and low and papers are scattered around her. The home is silent except for her fingers tapping away at the keyboard and the occasional shuffling of paper work. A notification sound comes from the computer. Elizabeth leans in and stares at the screen with her eyebrows crumpled as she reads. She leans back and her face becomes blank as she stares off into the distance. She closes the laptop, stands up and goes into the bedroom. As she approaches the bedroom door she reaches up to the top of the doorframe, grabs and object and puts it into the pocket of her pajama pants. Elizabeth enters the bedroom, climbs onto the bed, brings her knees to her chest, wraps
“Do you think Brandon will let me ride Buck, Mom?” I asked. It was not the first time I had asked. I hardly slept the night before out of excitement for this day. “I am sure that you can ask him. He has always been good about giving you a ride on his horse. I think that today won’t be any different, sweetheart.” My mom patiently answered. “But now I really need you to clean up your room before we go, remember the longer it takes the later we will leave.” It took no further urging, I raced to my room and began to pick up the toy horses that were scattered along the floor where I had been playing with them. I also straightened my books into a pile by my nightstand, Western Rider and Western Horseman magazines that I had subscribed to
The bright white screen fills the room as I hold the remote up to the TV. I flick continuously through the channels, hoping something will take my fancy. I pause on a breaking news story. The voice of a woman fills the air as she explains. ‘A runaway escapee and murderer last seen heading towards the South end of Australia has disappeared. Anyone in the areas of’, I reach for the off button as the mumbles of voices drown out as the TV turns off. I put the remote down and shut my eyes. The dark patterns and swirls fill the darkness as I fill my mind with the endless possibilities from some of the deepest parts of my mind. I replay the series of my day over and over in my head. Replacing the mistakes in the day and presenting myself with what
I decide to call out sick and go to a thrift store in Madison in hope of finding a couple pair of pants for work and to get my mind off my mom’s situation. I don’t have much luck on either count. After ten minutes, I leave the thrift store unable to stop thinking about my mom. I make my way back to my car in the parking lot groping for the car keys in my jeans pocket.
“Have you seen my watch?” “Huh?” “Have you seen my watch? I can’t find it.” “Sorry, I haven’t. It doesn’t matter now. We’ve got to go.”
When I arrive home, I go into the kitchen and grab a snack. No one was home so I decided to go to sleep. I lay in my bed and try to focus on sleeping. I lay for two, four hours, sleep evades me. I groggily find my way into the bathroom and grab a dixie cup and melatonin to aid me in sleep. I don't remember much about how I got to bed when I wake up, or much about my dream. But I do remember seeing Isac dead in my dream, and the light from my necklace shining through the room. I know something isn’t right, and while I can’t place exactly what it is, I know it’s bad.
It had been around 42 days. I had no way to know when the sun was rising or setting; I only had my sense of time. They came in every day and gave me a small loaf of bread, some sort of meat, and only enough water to wash down my food. It was not enough to give me strength only enough to keep me alive. I was not sure where I was or even how I got there. The only thing I knew was that I wished I could go back home to my loving family.
"What to do," said the Sea God wearily. Poseidon sat on his throne with a bored expression on his face. " What to do!" he said again, "I know!" he exclaimed, "I can create a new sea animal!" he said with an excited expression on his face. Poseidon looked down at his pet whale and asked him, "What do you think I should make Rudy!" he asked,
“Oh, you are successfully at this time, and these taste good but if you want to cook at next time, can you tell me
As I approached the door, the loud sound of tears from behind the door grew onto me. I tried to reach for the door, but hesitance and uncertainty began to run through my body. For a moment, I stopped and took a deep breath that echoed into the dark, silent hall to prepare myself for what may lay behind the door. I waited. I slowly turned the knob and the door was now free. There lay my mother with her eyes slammed shut and the innocent, pure smirk that had always rested across her face before she passed away. A year later, I heard my name being screeched through the walls of my bedroom. My heart sank a million miles into my stomach, and I tried to pretend I didn’t hear my name being called. A few seconds later, my name was being squealed again
Some of my earliest memories with my family take place around a dinner table. Back then, I sat in a booster seat, because the table towered over me like a skyscraper. One night, as I picked through my vegetables in hopes of identifying anything unworthy of eating, I couldn’t help but get distracted by my parents’ voices as they discussed adult things. For me, dinnertime was the part of the day that I spent scrutinizing every piece of food on my plate. For my parents, however, it was so much more; every night, they would sift through the details of their days, discussing and debating every topic in the world. I watched as they listened to each other intently, accepted each other’s ideas, and grew closer together. I desperately tried to understand their