6-minute Stories

– Truth is, she’s sitting here beside me right now.. I was looking at the mismatched attire of poverty and fatigue.

– You’re not gonna get any last words from this one, Honey.” At the words “lusty yell” Doc opens his eyes.

– Will I be a good grandmother? “How could you do that to 6?” I thrust hand to heart.

– We did not want such a choice. Who would? Our circles of love and life together were put to rest.

– The medical words rain down, soaking me to the core. The tides are turning, I can tell.

Personal Stories about courage and regret, danger and desire, …about choosing Personal Story Publishing Project, Vol. 10, spring 2024

– My son and I straddled the Prime Meridian. Before I knew it, nearly 20 years passed.

— Wait! Don’t tell me. Mother and I had never spoken about death until Dad had passed.

– I crossed the threshold, feeling summoned. The souls of those Irish who perished here seeped from the shadows.

– the scene pierced my heart with chilling sadness. A burst of laughter and the joyful cries of children caught my attention.

"Goodbye, Horace." The moment I had long feared was upon me in an instant.

– Say my name and I will live forever. I had in my life at the time five men who were in their 90s.

– a self-wallowing sense of indecision. It began a small world realization that all our lives connect.

– a deep longing for waving grasses and quiet, open spaces That life lesson mother taught me about “mouth breathing,” is a skill I still use today.

– “Sounds like your mother’s kin.” We learn where we came from, what we want to leave behind.

– “New York City, here we come!” “What’s that smell?” Ruthie asked.

– We all rolled the dice that we could play this game for just a few months. I had been living my best life, dancing in the moonlight, drinking homemade Grappa.

– They simply said, “Your brother is dead.” I felt as guilty upon remembering this story as I had at the time.

– Endings and beginnings are never far apart. With the confidence of those who don’t know a lot, Ben was sure he’d soon be back home.

– What if they lost our trunks? Our classmates call us “Chip and Dale,” like the Disney chipmunk pals.

– “Maybe, but I’m not Chilly anymore.” Having a place of his own let Larry get clean and sober, off and on.

- buried treasures

– hungry, poorly educated, gaunt, and tough as sinew. I should have remained blissfully ignorant of the generations who begat me.

– an unambiguous ambassador disaster. Why do they have that rule about closed-toe shoes?

– They stared at me in shock. “Oh, no! Not that kind of a barbeque.”

– I slipped the knife into my pocket out of habit. He was wasting our precious time and ruining our day.

– her greatest fear—inherited dementia. Time and clocks eluded her.

– The doctor handed me the baton disguised as a pamphlet. Roles that blurred and reversed now merged.

“My Dad Was Santa Claus” and “The Long Short Walk.”

– To hell with “Creative Genius.” Yes, somehow my desk would “get cleaned.”

– How much will you take for that? We still have pictures of us posing on horses, all cowboy-like.

– I feasted on the details of their plumage. This was a private paradise of ponds, water fountains, turtles, parrots, and goldfish.

– The closer I got to 60, the more restless I felt. Cars and trucks thunder past, just a few feet to our left.

Happy 100th Birthday, Horace. My neighbor, Horace Barrett of Winston-Salem, turns 100 on December 7, Pearl Harbor Day.

– You should never ride alone. I hear frogs croaking as they wake from winter’s hibernation.

– The pain was excruciating. I closed my eyes. I listened. I breathed. I tried to stay calm.

The Pilgrims were two years too late to be first. Americans chose an origin story for Thanksgiving involving eating over praying.

– Am I not allowed this grief? I succumbed to the ugly, snotty, head-pounding crying, choking on my breath.

– Let’s change the subject. We are not the only ones experiencing the creeping water.

– We take for granted that time is on our side. Whereas Marta was quiet, Sal was boisterous—a bull-in-the-china-shop variety.

– They promised that my father had not been forgotten. …a lifetime not knowing what had happened to my father

– making the groom wait on his bride. My heart skipped as we witnessed this astronomical marvel.

— I am melancholy over the trees. I take comfort in the women before me who have the scars, the dreams, “the smell.”

– the glory-whoop I let out when I cross over the river. I’ve passed from creek to shore once again.

– “Hot damn, I think that did the trick.” With a trembling lip, I nodded my understanding.

– Hannah was going out. I sank deeper into warring currents of fear, hope, doubt, pride, and trust.

— Wait! Don’t tell me. Mother and I had never spoken about death until Dad had passed.

– the last time I saw her alive, truly alive. I was with her, holding her hand, stroking her hair.

– an undercurrent of wildness. Years became decades with the uniform of respectability worn only with effort.

– a self-wallowing sense of indecision. It began a small world realization that all our lives connect.

– our lives in a war zone. I sing for joy all the way home.

– her bangs drawn, a failed curtain over throbbing black eyes. Where he became another person and slammed me to the floor before I escaped, slept in a hotel, and returned to roses and remorse.

– the scene pierced my heart with chilling sadness. A burst of laughter and the joyful cries of children caught my attention.

– Faint music drifted through the rows of vendors. Our stories entwined like dancing angels, each part fulfilling the whole.

– We gave each other time. Might this be my life if my mother had lived?

– Fireworks rain over the bay. The crowd roars. Mays and Aaron grace the field and screen, heroes I shared with my father and now with my son.

– more painful than any punch—and more gutting than guilt. Loving her meant showing up.

– Having breasts woke me up to my body. Most of what I’d gleaned so far about sex came from Ovid.

– “Call her Amah. Grandmother.” The hat carries stories, mother to daughter, many generations.

Personal Stories about time, timing, and inevitability. Personal Story Publishing Project, Vol. 9, fall 2023

– like a soaring hawk. His invitation was unexpected. I danced within.

– I had also lost that “other me.” “Fakeness” was my life’s ever-present hallmark.

– “And you’re sassy, too!” Swallowed words gathered in my throat to spit his direction.

— The hawk had never seen such a wild creature! They were safe at home, protected by a little girl ready to defend their Alamo.

– What we never considered was aerodynamics. With any break in the traffic, we dashed into the roadway and picked up the pieces.

– “I out-foxed those fellers.” She did what she needed to survive.

– The bride is no longer naïve. His favorite victim was the one who loved him most.

– My life had ricocheted in unpredictable directions. We built a family, a life where happiness found me.

– “Read the poem again and call me back.” What surprised me was how many good poets were out there.

– I don’t think the judge knew quite what to do with me. I had the keys to the ’55 Pontiac. Life was good.

– How could we have been so stupid? We revised our travel plans to reflect our new reality.

– We had lost our paddles. We had no idea about the force of the river’s current.

– an angel of compassion. Grief never becomes an easy companion.

– Mom’s busy hands. Her hands knew how to do all that and much more.

– spirited curiosity and spunk. “What’s the Queen of England’s whole name?”

– “I don’t want you to get lost.” I held Momma’s hand the day I took her to the nursing home.

– much more kind and clever. There is much to lose over time, but so much more to gain.

– Ten women. Six minutes at a time. Conversation began. Connections were made.

– She was a hugger. Prissy had a baby; the kitten had a mother.

– frozen in time—hope, optimism, joy. That 17-year-old boy was lost to World War II.

– a prayer, a gathering, a blessing. I had found a special one. I couldn’t wait to share it.

– A toddler’s missing. Can you help? “Any sign of Connor?” We shake our heads.

– What a Wonderful World. What was the purpose behind losing my voice?

This story is offered for the 79th anniversary of D-Day, June 6, 1944. It is the experience that day of my next-door neighbor as he wrote it years later. He is now 99-1/2 and he turns 100 on Dec. 7, Pearl Harbor Day. He two years ago that he had been awarded a fourth Purple Heart to accompany his Bronze Star. This story is offered in honor and memory of all World War II veterans with special appreciation for your service, Horace. Thank you, and thank you, veterans, all.

– Once you’re in, you have to apply to get out. The road is wide open now.

– Falling Tree pose anyone? I hope good karma makes me a volcanologist next time.

May you and yours be blessed in your remembrances of loved ones this Memorial Day.

– resolved with a cup of tea. I sipped my sweet hot tea and eavesdropped on my mother.

– You changed my life. I was the walking wounded. She could barely manage a civil word.

– like a soaring hawk. His invitation was unexpected. I danced within.

– how long are you going to be unhappy? After high school, his life unraveled before our eyes.

– No family is left to fact-check the story. Her husband promised to tell me what she never could.

– from a grateful mother’s heart. A panic greater than any I’d ever experienced gripped me.

– our upward toil over roots, sharp rocks, deadfall, and slippery moss. We also ventured there with the certainty of our convictions and a single fact to prove.

— This became my strategy—and my problem. “Be afraid but do it anyway.”

– I have made it to here. I discovered many ways to escape the truth.

– I was mortified. I was 9 years old. As I walked to school, I imagined the giggles, the whispers, the taunts.

– I had also lost that “other me.” “Fakeness” was my life’s ever-present hallmark.

– a repetitious exercise of accusations and denials. Trouble reared its ugly head again—with a vengeance.