It means intuitively knowing that she loves me, even though she can only say a garbled "biwoovew" when I prompt her. It means deciphering her slurred mispronunciations which requires a lot of context clues. It means knowing the difference between defiance tantrums and cries for help. It means lying awake deciding whether or not to … Continue reading What Being a Mother Means to Me
Journal Entry Series: How too much downtime has me crashing. I recently went to my very first counseling sessions. Somehow, I'd always thought that other people needed counseling more and so I shouldn't "clog" things up by making an appointment for my mundane problems/worries/etc. What finally sent me to the counselor's office wasn't even some … Continue reading Why I Decided to Go to Counseling
I’m positively bursting with information. I’m full to the brim with it. I feel like spilling over. I turn towards a stranger. I open my mouth, then close it. This is classified information. Or rather, information only I care about. The girl next to me doesn’t care. The boy doesn’t give a damn. People couldn’t … Continue reading Not So Classified
"Why can't you just take the two seconds to put the toilet seat down?" "Why do you care?" "I put it down every time. It's a sign of respect for me and my sanity." Later: A Post-It note on the--vertical--lid, reading, "I respect you, but I'm lazy."
Who was it that said the best lover is the man that can thrill you by kissing your forehead? Marilyn Monroe? His fingers caressed my palm, somewhere no one had cared to touch me, and I was thrilled, in the pit of my stomach, my heart squeezing with desire-induced pangs, my skin alive and itching to be … Continue reading Itching
A short story published in The Elixir’s 2015-16 edition by our guest writer Becca:
Albert by Rebecca Jarrett
The old man sat at the bar, nursing a whisky.
“Take it easy there, Albert. It’s only just half four; you should pace yourself.”
Albert smiled wryly at the grimacing barkeep. “I’m 81 years old and I fought in a war. I’ve served out Queen and this country. I think it’s well within my rights to have a drink or two.”
That barkeep shrugged, then turned back around to finish wiping down the glasses with a musty cloth.
The young man finishes his pint and pushes it toward the barkeep. “Cheers,” he calls over his shoulder- though he doesn’t bother to look back as he walks to the other end of the reception hall.
He is in his uniform, today. She likes a man in uniform, and he knows it. He uses it to his advantage.
“Hello, Matilda. What’s a young lass like yourself doing at…
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The room was brightly lit, an effect created by the combination of the left hand side lamp— still on —and the sun beaming through the right hand side window, ruffled curtains thrown wide. On the left: large black socks strewn across the floor in the aisle beside the bed; on the nightstand, an open half-empty … Continue reading Marriage
My short story published in The Elixir’s 2015-16 edition:
Good Things Will Grow by Katelyn Rochford-Price
“Mommy, if I plant this in the garden, will it grow?” you ask, holding up an apple seed- the remains of your lunch.
“I don’t know,” I reply, “let’s go find out.”
We trudge out to the backyard, using your colorful plastic shovel to dig a patch of soft earth. You reverently place the seed in its shallow bed and begin to sprinkle dirt over it. Soon the deed is done.
“When will it become a tree?”
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