A Short Story : The Story Of Momma's Life

My parents had been married for thirty-four years as the time of her death. During that time, they raised three children and were the proud grandparents of six grandkids. No one had to guess where you stood with my mom – they knew. She gave love and showed compassion to anyone who allowed. Growing up, all of our friends called her “Mama T” because she mothered so many and her last name was Tatum.

My Grandma Mary was sitting there in the car, waiting for me. I quickly walked over to the car, opened up the backdoor, and put my stuff inside the car, and shut the door. I opened up the front door, got in, and shut the door. “Well hello. How was your day?” my grandma

As the noon sun faded into afternoon shadows, a gentle summer breeze rustled the white silk curtains as Mama and I sat at the dining table with the turkey platter between us. I remember the sweet smell of Honeysuckle filled the air, as I watched Mama gently trace every broken piece of the platter with her fingertip that was set in glue, now hardened and yellowed by time.

"So, wait, let me get this straight-" About 15 minutes into seclusion she CALLED, not texted, her best friend to hear what she had to say about this horrible atrocity to her 'freedom' as an adult of this family. "-you're parents payed a guy to watch the house....with you in it...doesn't that technically means he's Babysitting YOU...and not the house?"

“Mommy, I’m bored!” Haven't we all heard this phrase at one point or another, whether from our own mouths or the mouths of a sibling? The summer of my third grade year was filled with this phrase. I would follow my mom from the kitchen, to her bedroom, through the living room and down to the basement as she struggled to shake me off so she could complete her errands or clean up after my messes. For about a month, my summer persisted this way until she had enough of it.

Death. That’s what scared me the most; maybe not the death itself but the dying. Lately it seemed that’s all we knew, people getting sick and dying. I did not realize just how scary it all could be until it affected me. Momma was sick, and we all had our own ways of dealing with what we knew but never wanted to accept. At first we thought she had the flu with symptoms such as fever, headache, chills, and weakness. Then we realized it was way more than that. Momma had gotten the plague. Her lymph nodes, swollen and tender, gave their huge announcement of how sick momma was. I needed some fresh air, time away to think. As I was passing through Tokenhouse Yard, a woman let out a terrible screech, “Oh! Death, death, death!” The scream sent chills

Next thing I know I am tied up crying my eyes out. Momma woke up to we

Mom stood at the stove with a spatula in her right hand. “Hey Sweetie, how did you sleep last night?”. Mom constantly hovered over me, always concerned.

“Yeah, baby, it’s beautiful,” she says, not even looking. She’s too busy helping Daddy with a paper for work tomorrow. Sissy walks bye and I squeal again, so proud of my work. Not even a flinch. Too busy on her phone talking to her ‘little boyfriend’, as Daddy says at dinner.

“Mommy, don’t leave me!” Said by a new preschool student named Victor. Often times the first day for a new student is terrifying. They are brought into a new, unfamiliar environment and are forced to cope with a flood of new feelings. Victor has come to visit his preschool class a few times with his mother throughout the summer. This visit is unlike the others because mom is not there by his side throughout the day reassuring him everything is going to be okay. Instead Victor was told he is going to be doing big boy activities and be attending preschool with all his new friends. The first day of drop of did not go smoothly, which is to be expected. Victor clings to his mother 's side and burst into tears crying “mommy don’t leave me here”. I, Ms.Veronica approach Victor to reintroduce myself to him and start a conversation about his last visit and some of the fun activities we got to participate in. Victor has now calmed his body. I suggest to Victor we should give mom one last big hug and wave to mom out the window as she drives by to work. Victor complies; after Victor waves to his mother, he proceeds to begin to whimper. I notice he has a home toy and ask about his home toy. This seems to cheer Victor up as he begins to light up with excitement. As the day proceeds Victor becomes comfortable and is engaging in some play and conversation with some of the students. Victor tries his best to stay close to me throughout the day. As the end of the day approach I tend to my end

I have lived 14 years, and I encountered many people who majorly impacted my life. Many of which taught me some of the most important values I have today. In the short story “Thank You Ma’am”, the protagonist, a young boy, attempts to snatch an old woman named Mrs. Jones’s, purse. Consequently, he falls over and the woman picks him up and screams at him in a disciplinary sense. The woman then takes the boy to her home to get him cleaned off and to feed him. She talks to him and understands why attempted to snatch her purse, and gives him money the money he wanted for new shoes. By the end of the story, the boy promises the woman to behave himself. Mrs. Jones impacted the boy's life greatly, as she surprised him with an act of kindness after he tried stealing her purse. My greatest influence in my life is my mother as she strongly impacted me through my 14 years of existence by helping me strengthen my faith and morality, helping me to build great characteristic traits, and she sets a great example for me to become a good mother in the future.

After their father left them, their mother takes them to Granny’s house to live. Wright and his younger brother are taking a bath at Granny’s house and Granny is watching them, making sure they clean up properly. They boys threw suds at each other, having a good time, when granny calls Wright over to her. “She snatched the towel from [his] hand and began to scrub [his] ears, [his] face, [his] neck” (41). She then ordered him to bend over so she could “[scrub] his] anus” (41). As he did so, he compulsively thought he would repeat something he had heard (most likely around a saloon) without understanding the weight of his words. Without fully realizing he had even spoken out loud he said, “‘When you get through, kiss back there’” (41). His granny and his mama were horrified and they chased him around the house until he eventually was beaten by his mother. Although he could not recount exactly where he had heard of such a phrase, (it was most likely around a saloon), his Granny believed it was from the novels Ella (a school teacher boarding with them) read to him and Ella was banned from the house. Speaking before he understood the words on his lips lead him into deep trouble with his family. This incident is a good example of the power of words. Those few word had a sick, heavy impact and meaning and ought to have been more carefully handled. Words are like weapons, and as such they must be carefully treated as if they are a double edged sword. Furthermore, his

Hello Mom, This was probably handed to you as an excuse for getting up so late, I think it would work marvelously as such, but thats a moot point under the circumstances. This was written between 4:30-6 in the morning, and is a completely unexaggerated account of my dream, I usually have two step removed from having the dream and reciting it, this is what only one step looks like, so hopefully it paints a better picture of what the inside of my head looks like than my garbled groggy morning talk ever could. It’s fading away quickly, but for now I have a photographic like memory of it. I will write it like a short story.

My mother had mentioned to me that her family‘s story is longer than a book, however, it is so hard for me to ask the details of what had happened to her because all the stories in her life strike a chord in her heart. For example, almost all of my father’s friends in Hong Kong were the people who escaped from communist China. Their stories were soul stirring. Many of them left their families in China. Their vicissitudes of life contained joy, sorrows, partings and reunions. My father was considered very lucky because he survived. Many of them capsized in the rough sea; some of them simply spent all of their energy and died on the way to their dream; some of them were caught by the militias or the soldiers; some of them were extradited back to China by the British government. Their families left in China suffered numerous humiliations. However, more than thirty years having passed, their stories were dim without a voice in history. Either their stories were too bitter to bring up, or they did not want to be named as a traitor to their country. During Mao’s era, and even for a while after, anyone who escaped to Hong Kong was considered a traitor and turned over to the enemy. Escaping to Hong Kong was a very sensitive topic. Therefore, we would hear these stories all the time, but we hardly ever see anything written down about what they had been through. I have lived in the United States for more than thirty years, vivid memories of my childhood still

  “Excuse me, has Dave Berry been admitted here?” I ask with hopeful eyes. “Yes, he is kept in room 231 but please wait until the doctor his checkup” the nurse answers. We all hurry towards the room and wait. A picture of a beach was sprawled on each wall, each depicting beautiful scenery: rolling waves on white idyllic sand. Across from me was a tiny black wooden coffee table holding health magazines. Underneath it was a dull grey carpet that covered the whole room. A television hung in one corner displaying the terrifying news. I was too anxious to read any of the magazines or watch TV, so I just tapped my foot impatiently. I stared down at my hands, twisting and knotting them as if doing so would hold back the turmoil inside me. Despair roamed the room, expelled on the worriers like me and those doing their best to bite down on the pain that brought them here. The double blue doors finally open and the