where the writers are

father | father

zeny-may-recidoro's picture
Mar.26.2014
Dried leaves make scratching sounds as they amble down the tin roofs and streets. The curtains in my room rise and fall with the wind and it almost seems as if the entire house is breathing. I turn to my side, the back of my knees sweaty, a small crumpled purple scarf snaked around my left arm,...
orna-b-raz's picture
Mar.14.2014
My uncle, my mother's youngest brother, lived with his family in a kibbutz. As a child I loved spending the holidays there, and announced to my parents that I planned to move to the kibbutz and go to high school there. They did not dismiss the idea a priori, but as I grew older I realized that my...
steven-belanger's picture
Mar.05.2014
 Photo: Cover of the book, from imagesbn.com (bn.com; Barnes and Noble)   My friend Sheryl Sorrentino has crafted a sort of unique novel in a style that she calls "real fiction."  In an Afterword, she describes "real fiction" as "...provocative, culturally-inclusive stories that...
sherrie-theriault's picture
Jan.11.2014
January 11   LONELINESS EATS MY LUNCH   There are days loneliness eats my lunch and I can’t fight back.  How can I stand it?  How can it still be this bad?  I pull out the old chestnuts:  If I’m not happy with what I have, how could I be happier with more?   ...
dale-estey's picture
Dec.13.2013
    My father, Bombardier Byron C Estey, Service # G4094, Unit: 90th Anti-Tank Battery, volunteered for the army brief days after World War Two was declared. He was an old fellah of 31. He stayed in until the end of the war. My father did not talk too often about the war, nor did he...
orna-b-raz's picture
Dec.02.2013
My daughters learnt an important lesson about money at a very early age. It all started with a project: a dollhouse made out of wooden bookcase, which they built together with their father. They had labored on it for weeks, and then when the dollhouse was finally done it was time to furnish it. My...
tom-lucas's picture
Oct.28.2013
Gethesmane Cemetary is a small, forgotten field near Detroit’s City Airport. Broken and fallen tombstones fight for space amongst a chokehold of weeds and overgrown grass. Dirt and mold conceal the names etched on the stones. No one is buried here anymore. Few come to visit those that were.  ...
steven-belanger's picture
Oct.01.2013
Photo: The book's cover, from goodreads.com   Eh.   That's really all I was going to write.  After months of anticipation, after all that time reading its 528 pages (well, okay, that took me just a few days), even after being the tome that drove me to the bookstore to write the...
arlene-goldbard's picture
Sep.16.2013
It happens so often, doesn’t it? Something burrows its way to the surface of your awareness in the little world of face-to-face, and then you see the same dynamic writing itself across the globe. For instance, I spent Yom Kippur in services with dear friends, grateful for the opportunity to...
scott-c-holstad's picture
Aug.03.2013
Tuesday was the worst day of my life. My father died suddenly and unexpectedly at my house early Tuesday afternoon. I got home from a meeting to find my parents at my house. Dad was mowing my yard for me, which he’s done often and is really appreciated. However, shortly after noon, he sat down...