Who’s excited for the release of our very first Mum Life Stories anthology? I know I am. If all goes well it could be released as early as January, but there is a lot of work to do till then.
I’ve began the process of compiling all the wonderful stories into a masterful book that not only reads inspiration but looks it as well. I’ve been creating the cover art and want to get your opinion, since many of you either have stories in the anthology or are looking forward to reading them all.
Please take a look at the following 3 covers and let me know what you think of them and which one you’d like to see as the cover for our first anthology.
Cover Art #1
This cover is based on the Mum Life Stories website, the photo is the same photo that is on our front page and of course the title and slogan are the same. Just quietly, I think this one is my favourite.
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I love the colours of this one. I’ve removed the slogan ‘Every Life Story Begins With A Mum’ but of course can include it or remove it from any of the covers.
Let me know in the comments section below if you have any thoughts on any of these covers, i.e. would you like to see the slogan on there, or not? Should I include the number of stories? Should I include my name as the editor or compiler, etc? It would be nice to have my name there but not at all necessary as I do not want to take anything away from all the very talented writers who’s stories made this anthology possible. The book will be available through Amazon and all writers names will be in the description as well as in the book of course.
Thanks
Thank you for reading this blog. If you’d like to submit a story for consideration of publication, please visit our submissions page.
Sign up HERE, or fill in the form below if you’d like to receive a notification when the anthology is due to be released. You will also be added to our email list and receive all the latest news, stories and promos (including giveaways and competitions) as well as a FREE Ebook exclusive to our email subscribers.
Alternatively, go to our COMPETITIONS page for info on the latest competitions!
Get your FREE Ebook
The pace and intensity of our lives, both at work and at home, leave many of us feeling like a person riding a frantically galloping horse. Our day-to-day incessant busyness — too much to do and not enough time.
With this ebook you will learn to approach your days in another way, reducing stress and getting results through prioritizing, leveraging and focus!
Thank you to everyone who entered our 6th and final round of the Micro Fiction Writing Competition. As always, the entries this month were all outstanding. Picking just 3 winners was a an agonising task to say the least. I’d love to make everyone a winner but alas, it wouldn’t be a competition then, would it? Congratulations once again to all our shortlisted stories this month. If you missed the previous post containing the shortlist, you can find it HERE or just see the list below.
I must say I’m very excited about this particular Mum Life Success Story. I’ve had the pleasure of featuring some truly beautiful, amazing and inspiring Mums through these Mum Life Success Stories and each one of them has had a unique and special story to tell, but never have I featured someone as well-known and accomplished as Nancy Stohlman.
I have to admit that when I received an email from her publicity manager, about promoting her new book Going Short: An Invitation to Flash Fiction I didn’t actually know who she was. That is due more to my lack of time to read and search out great authors (because I’m busy with work, family and this blog) than it is about Nancy’s reputation. Once I googled her name, and announced the upcoming interview on twitter etc, I realised that Nancy was fastly becoming a household name.
After just a little research I discovered that Nancy was not only a talented performer, writer and professor, but that she was juggling it all with motherhood and so naturally, I had to request an interview for the next ‘Mum Life Success Story’ feature. Nancy happily obliged and answered all my probing questions about life, success and family and how she navigates it all. I was truly inspired and knew without a doubt that all of you would be inspired too. If by some off-chance you don’t know who Nancy Stolman is, let’s start with a bit of backstory direct from her publicity manager.
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When she is not writing flash fiction she straps on stilettos and becomes the lead singer of the lounge metal jazz trio Kinky Mink. She lives in Denver Colorado and dreams of one day becoming a pirate.
Going Short: An Invitation to Flash Fiction
Going Short: An Invitation to Flash Fictionis Nancy’s latest contribution to the world of literature. Writer and Teacher Kathy Fish describes it as “The definitive, and appropriately concise book on the flash fiction form”. I have read some of the book myself and I can say Kathy is right, If you’re a writer (as many of my readers are) or want to start writing,Going Short: An Invitation to Flash Fiction is a resource you want to have on your bookshelf.
With Nancy being the seasoned writer that she is and needing no help from me to tell her story, I decided to publish this feature in interview format rather than the story form I usually employ. First I asked Nancy to tell us a little bit about her family.
Tell us a little about your family?
I have two kids—Maiya is 22 and just got her first apartment; Felix is 15 and just got his learner’s permit (yikes!). My partner Nick and I have been together almost a dozen years. We’re all creatives: Nick is a classical pianist and Maiya is a visual artist, so I’m proud to have passed down a family value of artistry. My own parents were also creative; I remember musical jam sessions, a lot of clowning in my household growing up.
When did your love for writing begin?
I remember I was 10 years old on the bleachers at a soccer game when I announced I was going to become an author. I was a voracious reader, of course. I grew up on military bases overseas, so books were my constant friends through all the moving and the various cultural and language barriers. After my author announcement my mother let me use her electric typewriter and I wrote a musical: Superman, The Musical (ala Christopher Reeve). I felt so important as I sat there clicking the keys, feeding in the paper. I don’t know what happened to the musical, but I still feel the magic when I sit down to write.
What inspired you to write your upcoming publication ‘Going Short’?
I was inspired to write Going Short about 10 years ago, when students and fellow writers kept asking me to recommend flash fiction craft books. I didn’t know what to recommend—there were almost no craft books aimed at this growing genre (nor by women). So I decided to take it on myself. I thought it would be easy, something I could write in a year or two. Ha. It took me almost 8 years! But I’m extremely proud of the result—I hope this book becomes a friend to the writers and readers who fall in love with flash fiction.
Are there any major obstacles you’ve had to overcome to get where you are now?
Oh yes. Self doubt. Fear. Creative deserts. Jealousy. Self-sabotage. It’s not easy to go for your dreams. There’s so much risk. Every step you think you might be crazy. Every step you expose yourself to…all of it. Not everyone is rooting for you, so you have to cheer yourself on no matter what. It’s not always easy. It takes courage and bravery, not just one time but every time. Over and over. So my challenge is to reach deeper and keep finding that courage. It’s either that or give up—which keeps me motivated on the hard days.
Are there any funny, intense, or inspiring stories you can tell us about your experiences in writing and/or publishing?
For years I fantasized of spending “three weeks on an island all by myself just writing.” Sounds magical, right? Then, last year, I decided to do it. I was already in Italy co-hosting a flash fiction retreat (so amazing), and when it was over I found a super remote island in the Adriatic, rented a renovated wine cellar for $150 a week, and went on my own sabbatical. And I wrote every day. Every blissful day. I mean, I woke up, I wrote, I walked to get coffee, I wrote. I ate gelato, I walked to the empty beach. I wrote. It was magical, and I discovered what I call Holy Boredom. And because of it, I finished this book.
What would you say is your biggest challenge with balancing family life with your career? How do you find balance (if you do)?
Funny, but I think this question is part of the challenge—if I were a man I would likely never be asked this question. Because I’m a woman, there’s an expectation (even from myself) that I can and will do it all: be a loving mother, chef, teacher, partner, friend, housekeeper, nurture all my relationships…oh, AND write books, teach on campus, run retreats, and attempt to dream my own inspiration into being. And, because all women are amazing, we do it. All of it. But I like to envision a world where men are asked this question, too.
The short answer of how I balance it all? I fail. I succeed. Then I fail. I do my best. And sometimes I schedule a weekend to myself and that’s important, too.
How does your experience as a Mother help with your writing and vice versa?
Once I had kids I knew the luxury of waiting for the muse, was over. If I really wanted to be a writer, I had to begin now—there was a little person watching me. So I wrote during nap time and in the evenings after bedtimes. I mean, I wrote entire books during nap times, during pre-school. Later I wrote on trains and buses while commuting to campus. I learned to seize THIS moment, imperfect but available, because the perfect moment is just an illusion. So in a very real way my children forced me to get serious and make it happen.
And writing makes me a better mother, too, because I’m honoring that creative part of myself. I’m more present for my family when I’m present for myself. Put on your own oxygen mask before you help others.
What advice can you give to other women (mothers in particular) wanting to chase their dreams of becoming a professional writer?
Just begin. The perfect time, the perfect location, the perfect idea—you could be waiting forever. The real day-to-day of writing is messy—there is nothing idealized about it. And yet, allowing yourself to be creative is amazingly, imperfectly perfect. On a good day, it’s still just as magical to me as that first time at my mom’s electric typewriter.
Plus, the very best thing you can do for your children is to show them what it looks like to not give up on yourself. They will be watching and learning from your actions far more than from your words.
More Mum Life Success Stories…
If you’d like to read more Mum Life Success Stories, simply click on one of the titles below.
Thanks
Thank you for reading this blog, if you’d like to submit a story for consideration to be published, please visit our submissions page.
If you’d like to keep up to date with all the latest stories, news, promos (including writing competitions and giveaways) plus receive a FREE Ebook, sign up to our mailing list HERE or fill in the form below.
I’d like to thank Jennifer Blanke of the US for her micro story submission ‘The Beauty of Hands’. A touching true story about the symbiotic relationship between hands and the life we lead.
Jennifer Blanke has a BS in Elementary Education and is a mother, teacher, and writer in St. Louis, Missouri. She is currently working on her Master of Fine Arts in Writing degree at Lindenwood University and is an editorial assistant for The Lindenwood Review.
This will be her first published piece, so it’s an honour to have it on my little blog!
This page contains affiliate links which may earn me a small commission (at no extra cost to you) if you click through and make a purchase. Affiliate links are how I keep this blog running, thank you!
My dying grandmother’s delicate hands lay in mine, her fingers curled in the fetal position, like a chipmunk nestled snugly, taking cover from the frigid night.
I’ve never liked my hands. They’re not elegant, or feminine, or what any girl would wish her hands to be. Palming a basketball wasn’t that amazing when it didn’t transfer to the agile footwork needed to keep me off the bench. I’ve squeezed my big-boned hand through a bracelet, only to panic when I couldn’t remove it. As I comforted my grandmother in her final hours, I glanced down at my large, clunky, masculine hands holding her dainty ones. Visible veins tiring of pumping blood showed through her gossamer skin. My eyes traced the vessels that had carried ninety-six years of life and I was transported to the davenport in the front room of the two-story on Locust Avenue.
We sat side-by-side at the metal tray tables eating snacks from little bowls, each with a deck of cards in hand, playing solitaire. We worked crosswords and word searches for hours while watching a marathon of game shows. Puzzles were next and I smiled as her hand passed me the final piece to complete the beautiful countryside landscape. Her hands gave.
Descending the cellar stairs together to get cans from storage, she’d walk ahead of me, her hand smothering mine to the railing, while saying, Now, Jenny, hold on. As if I could let go under her grip. She’d reach for the dusty pull string of the single bulb and leave a gray streak as her fingers gently brushed her black trousers. As the light cast a ghostly glow on the dirt floor, I’d run up the stairs, leaving her to defend herself against the shadow monsters. Her hands protected.
When Morris the cat appeared on her back porch, she filled the Cool Whip container with water and the Country Crock with kibble every morning and night. When he brought friends, her hands coaxed them closer with food in one palm and stroked soft fur with the other. She made a blanket bed for Morris and the females. I think she was hoping for a litter so she would always have a feline friend. Her hands cared.
When her epileptic son passed away long before his time and hers, the hands that spent a lifetime preparing food, folding clothes, cleaning house, and providing companionship, knew not what to do. Every moment of every day was spent taking care of his needs. Her family was her life and she would have to find something to fill her days. Her hands loved.
When Alzheimer’s consumed my granddad’s body and she could no longer take care of him, her hands signed the forms admitting him into the assisted care facility. She visited daily, bringing him the paper and his favorite candy. She remained by his side until he passed even after he forgot the voices of his children, the faces of his grandkids, and her name. Her hands grieved.
The static hum of the fluorescent lights and the scent of antiseptic and death assailed my senses pulling me away from the flow of memories. The wrinkled hands that I held mirrored an entire lifetime. Her gracious hands saw the best and the worst and they were ready to finally rest. I blinked away the stream of tears and saw my hands reflected in hers. They looked so lovely in her light. My gentle hands stroked my tiny newborn’s brow as she nursed. They carried my strong-willed toddler to the time-out chair. My hands stirred cumin into my family’s favorite chili. They held my love’s hands, tucked safely in his strength. I saw my own devoted hands paying the bills, handing over the car keys, comforting my disappointed daughter, and welcoming my oldest home after a difficult first year of college.
Giving, protecting, caring, loving, grieving. It was then that I saw: my hands were just like hers.
Thank you for reading this blog, if you’d like to submit a story for consideration to be published, please visit our submissions page.
If you’d like to keep up to date with all the latest stories, news, promos (including writing competitions and giveaways) plus receive a FREE Ebook, sign up to our mailing list here or fill in the form below.
I’d like to thank Julia Vanstory of the US for her short story submission ‘The Picture Frame’, a thought-provoking tale about ignorance versus insight and the often underestimated emotional maturity of a child.
Julie tell us “I work to capture small town, Southern culture and stories in my writing. When not chained to my computer, I am usually found in the dance studio. I live in Southern Mississippi with my daughter and husband.”
This page may contain affiliate links that my earn me a small commission (at no extra cost to you) if you click through and make a purchase. Affiliate links are how I keep this blog running, thank you.
“C’mon, we’re gonna be late.” I rush around my living room, checking my purse for my keys, sunglasses, and lipstick. My six-year-old daughter picks up a picture frame, leaving an outline of dust on the cherry-stained bookshelf.
“Can I bring this?”
Ava strokes her dad’s face in the frame.
“That was our first family photo.” It was our last one, too, but I don’t add that.
Ava looks up at me and tilts her head to one side.
“I know that. That’s why I want to take it.” She looks back at the photo. “You look so happy,” she whispers.
I take the picture from her and study it for the first time in years. It’s from the day we were discharged from the hospital. I was wearing a nursing tank, and my hair was slightly greasy because I didn’t wash it the whole time we were in the hospital. Dakota looked like he’d just walked off the golf course — tucked-in Polo shirt, khakis, and a white visor. We both gazed down at Ava nestled into my arms, wrapped in layers of white lace.
“Did you know you came out all slimy?”
“Ew,” she shouts, but her mouth is opened wide in a grin.
That moment when Ava was born and the doctor lifted up her perfect pink body, I felt a desperate need to feel her next to me. Before the doctor even finished asking if I wanted to do skin-to-skin, I nodded and reached out for her. I feel that way now.
“I love you so much, butter bean.”
She throws her arms wide, and I squat down to her level to wrap her up in a hug. I nuzzle her head and kiss her.
“I miss him.”
I pull her little body into my chest and rub her head. I hate that she misses him. I hate that she hurts. I hate it even more because he doesn’t deserve it.
While I was up with a colicky baby night after night, he locked himself in his home office or snuck down to the bar. The lack of sleep drove me crazy. Thoughts of running away weaved in and out between diaper changes and late night feeds. But then he left first. Ava had only been three months old. For six years, I’ve wished, I’ve hoped, I’ve dreamed of Dakota changing his mind, of redeeming himself. Instead, Ava is stuck with this deadbeat father forever. Dakota will never get to see all her quirks, her little smiles, her spontaneous kisses — but it’s his fault. It’s his fault that he missed all these little moments in the past, and now it’s his fault he’s dead.
I check my phone for the time. Dread clutches my stomach. “We gotta go.”
I grab her plastic pink princess heels and sit cross-legged beside her. She crawls into my lap and props one leg up on mine. I slip her shoe on and suppress the urge to chunk the picture across the room.
He didn’t hide the cocaine from me at first, though I had always opted for greener remedies. Back then it didn’t bother me because everyone uses in college. At least, that’s what I told myself.
The older he got, the better he became at hiding the drugs. No one besides me knew he had a problem until he was found face-down on his desk at work last week. The sun peeking over the horizon behind him, the foam at the mouth, the eyes rolled back.
Ava pulls my hand and leads me to the door. With her other hand, she holds the silver picture frame against her chest. She skips halfway to the car and stops to pick a dandelion. She blows, and the seeds float away in a small breeze.
When I first found out about Dakota, relief washed through me. Then shame when I realized Ava would never know her father. Then, I thought of my in-laws. They lost a child, and the idea of losing Ava ripped through me as if someone sat on my chest while stabbing me over and over in the gut.
*
As we pull up to the cemetery, a small group of aunts and uncles gather around Dakota’s parents. The sun has risen just enough to peek over the trees, but it hadn’t warmed up the chilly morning. Kathy wears a black lace dress with a high collar and long sleeves paired with her set of pearls, pantyhose, and sensible shoes with a chunky heel to keep from sinking into the grass — the quintessential mourner’s outfit. It certainly put my widow’s attire to shame — dark jeggings and a black T-shirt. I had put less than 10 seconds of thought into it.
When Kathy said she’d handle the funeral arrangements, I agreed without any hesitation. Although we were legally still married, I knew I wouldn’t have made the right decisions. There probably wouldn’t have been a funeral at all. If it had been up to me, I would have had him cremated, and his ashes thrown in a dumpster.
“Oh, Claire, thank you for coming.” Kathy envelopes me in a warm hug that smells of cinnamon and lavender. Her paper thin and wrinkled skin presses against my cheek. The nerves wash away. Kathy’s touch is just as comforting as my own mother’s.
“Nana, Nana, Nana,” Ava hops from one foot to the other. The picture frame waves back and forth, and I wait for it to hit Kathy’s leg.
“Good morning, sweet baby.” Kathy sweeps Ava into her arms. “You’re the most beautiful little girl. You remind me so much of your daddy.”
Ava giggles and holds her shoulders up mid-shrug like she does when she’s uncomfortable.
“What’s this?” Kathy touches the frame, but Ava jerks it away and shakes her head. She reaches for me, and I wrap her up and hold her tight as if my arms can protect her from the ugliness, from the attention, from the pressure.
“Now, that everyone’s here,” Kathy opens her arms as if welcoming a special guest to one of her fundraising galas. “I thought we’d open with a prayer.”
Kathy nods her head at her husband, and Davis draws a crumpled piece of paper from his inside jacket. Sweat is beading along his hairline despite the cool weather. He clears his throat, and everyone bows their head.
“Jesus, please be with my friends hearing this prayer. You know every wound, every joy, every fear, every dream. Heal old wounds.” Davis had probably found the first prayer he came across on Google. He jostles his weight from one foot to the other, and his free hand jingles the change in his pocket. “Give us eyes to see where new life springs in our hearts. Rejuvenate when we’re weak. We need you, Jesus. Amen.”
After the prayer, everyone looks up and avoids making eye contact. I was thankful when Kathy decided on a private service, but right now I question that. It would have been much easier to fade into anonymity with a crowd of people around. Kathy speaks up and takes over the service. I realize quickly everyone has prepared a short story to remember Dakota by. I get nervous as they cycle around, and it edges closer to me. I hear stories of bicycle mishaps and summertime pranks. Stories of an innocent 10, 11, 12-year-old boy. But no one dares to go older.
When Dakota’s aunt begins speaking beside me, I notice Kathy’s shoulders tense and her eyes shift between me and her sister. Is there a way for me to get out of this? When Rebecca finishes, Kathy starts shaking her head slowly. I breathe in and glance down at Ava. I hug her a little closer.
“Uh, yea. Maybe, something, I could- um.” I clear my throat and begin again. “Most of y’all know Dakota and I met in college.”
Kathy’s shoulders relax, and her gentle smile returns.
“What you may not know is how it happened. It was about three weeks into our first semester, and it had rained non-stop for days. I had put off and put off going to the grocery store, so I had quite the haul when I finally gave in.” It was a story I had perfected when we first got engaged. I told it to strangers at the supermarket as I flashed the two-carat princess-cut diamond. I told it to our priest during premarital counseling and at every wedding shower thrown. Any of the women here had heard it half a dozen times, but it is the only thing I can grasp, the only articulate thing I can say. “Because of the torrential downpour, I refused to take more than one trip. I zipped up my raincoat, pulled on the hood and loaded myself down with bags of popcorn, Mint Milanos, a gallon of milk and Slim Fast shakes. I made it to about halfway across the road between the parking lot and the dorm before one of the bags split open and spilled across the pavement.
“I started spewing a string of-” I look at Ava, “adult language. I didn’t even notice Dakota at first. White T-shirt drenched and barefoot, he came barreling toward me and scooping up the snacks from the ground.”
“‘Don’t just stand there,’ he yelled. He yanked the box of Diet Coke from my hand and sloshed through the muddy grass before I’d even found something to say.
“Once we were inside, he asked for my room number. Up the three flights of stairs, he teased me incessantly, but that’s when I knew I’d marry him some day. Obviously, we had our differences, but I know I wouldn’t be who I am today without him.” I kiss Ava’s head and smooth out her hair with my hand.
“Dakota was so sweet,” Rebecca chirps. “You were so perfect together.”
A smile had crept up with the memory of that day, but it drops away now.
“Oh, no.” I shake my head and bat away the suggestion with my hand. “We were not.”
“No, no. Remember when he proposed?” Kathy chimes in. “Red roses all over and my grandmother’s wedding china. It looked so beautiful.”
“He certainly had a way with the grand gestures.” I pinch the tender part of my wrist to try to disperse some of the tension and anxiety. I want to shout what I really think about Dakota at the top of my lungs, but Ava’s here. Ava. So sweet. So innocent. For probably the hundredth time in the course of her short life, I wonder how she got saddled with us for parents.
“We all know how kind Dakota could be when he wanted.” Kathy catches my eyes as if she can hear my thoughts.
The blood pulses in my ears. I try to swallow to say something. A tiny voice creeps up next to me.
“Daddy wasn’t a nice person.”
Everyone’s eyes lock onto Ava, but she’s staring down at the picture in her hand. I want to whisk her away, but I’m too stunned to move. She’s too young to know that you don’t speak ill of the dead.
“What have you been saying to her?” Kathy’s voice crackles through the cold air.
“I never- I wouldn’t.”
I look around the gathering. No one is saying anything. Everyone is staring at Kathy, Ava, or me. Everyone except Davis. He’s looking at his shoes, and his hands are stuffed in his pockets.
“She’s six, Kathy, not stupid,” he whispers. “It’s obvious he hasn’t been around.”
“Don’t you dare.” Her voice shakes and rises. “He was troubled.
“Yes.” He looks up. “But he should have stepped up. Don’t go after Claire for his mistake.”
I hope he understands the wordless relief I’m trying to communicate. He nods at me. I kneel beside Ava. “I’m so sorry, baby girl.”
“Mama, you don’t have to,” she whispers back. “I didn’t even know him.”
My throat closes, and my heart breaks for her. I reach for Ava’s hand.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Kathy. I graze my hand on Davis’ forearm as I pass in gratitude, in solidarity.
“Take care of her,” he says. “She’s all we have left.”
I buckle Ava into her booster seat, and she lets me, even though she can do it herself. I look at her, really look at her, at her green eyes, her blonde hair. She does look just like Dakota.
“You know,” I say, “he wasn’t all bad. He gave me you.”
Ava drops the picture on the seat and reaches her arms out to give me a hug. Her tiny lips bunch tightly into my cheek.
Thank you for reading this blog, if you’d like to submit a story for consideration to be published, please visit our submissions page.
If you’d like to keep up to date with all the latest stories, news, promos (including writing competitions and giveaways) plus receive a FREE Ebook, sign up to our mailing list here or fill in the form below.
Get your FREE Ebook
The pace and intensity of our lives, both at work and at home, leave many of us feeling like a person riding a frantically galloping horse. Our day-to-day incessant busyness — too much to do and not enough time.
With this ebook you will learn to approach your days in another way, reducing stress and getting results through prioritizing, leveraging and focus!
Thank you to everyone who entered our 5th round of the Micro Fiction Writing Competition. The entries this month were all outstanding, so picking just 10 for the short-list was a challenge to say the least, and picking just 3 winners was a little agonising. I’d love to make everyone a winner but alas, it wouldn’t be a competition then, would it? Congratulations once again to all our shortlisted stories this month. If you missed the previous post containing the shortlist, you can find it HERE or just see the list below. As a quick reminder however, here are our 10 shortlisted stories for round 5 of our micro-fiction writing competition.
Born on The Wrong Side of the BedSheet – LAURA BESLEY, Great Britain
Grey-Grey-Ma’s Toes – MFC FEELEY, United States
How to Become a Great Grandmother by the Time You are 50 in 10 Easy Steps – MICHELLE CHRISTOPHOROU, Great Britain
Joint Effort – TZE CHUA, Singapore
Sweetheart Divinity – MYNA CHANG, United States
The Landscape of Hands – DETTRA ROSE, Australia
The Long and Short of It – BETT WILLET, United States
The Skeleton on Top of the Wardrobe – ALISON HILBOURNE, Great Britain
The Visit – LAURA TAPPER, Great Britain
You May Decide to Ride Elephants – NICOLA DAVISON, United Kingdom
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And here they are, our 3 winners. Congratulations to you all, you should be very proud! 1ST PLACE ($50 prize, printed copy of anthology + a digital copy) ‘Grey-Grey-Ma’s Toes’ by MFC Feeley, United States. What we liked: This was such an enjoyable, engaging narrative, with a good sense of place and realism. The joy and innocence of the relationship between granddaughter and grandmother was beautifully captured and an attractive main character (a logical and honest child) is always welcome in a story. Bio: MFC Feeley lives in Tuxedo, NY. She wrote a series of ten stories inspired by the Bill of Rights for Ghost Parachute and has published in Best Microfictions 2020, SmokeLong, Jellyfish Review, Brevity Blog, Liar’s League, and others. She has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize, was an Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Quarterfinalist, and has judged for Mash Stories and Scholastic. You can find more of her writing at MFC Feeley/Facebook and on Twitter MFC Feeley @FeeleyMfc Author’s Statement: Because I never knew mine, grandmothers always seem magical to me; I watched my friends’ grandmothers closely. I started this story with the image of a maroon vinyl rose on an old lady’s foot. My first drafts received polite rejections, but I maintained affection for the piece. Weeks later, I noticed a lot of fragrances, so I drummed up the aromas and the theme of Bonnie’s jealousy for her older sister—a theme I’ve used before, although I only have brothers! I realized that the grandmother should be older, a Grey-grey-ma, because even though she can barely walk, her toes keeps dancing. That is magical. I am thrilled that Grey-grey-ma’s Toes has found a home at Mum Life Stories. Thank you.
Grey-Grey-Ma’s Toes
The pew smelled of polyurethane and Lemon Pledge. Grey-grey-ma, smelled of Ben Gay and lavender. Bonnie knelt. Grey-grey-ma got to stay sitting because of her back. Bonnie’s sister, Constance sat behind the altar, off to the side, with the choir. Bonnie could see her by leaning over to the right. Light from the long tapered candles played on her hair. Bonnie waved her steepled fingers discreetly. Mom hissed. Constance didn’t look up, but Bonnie felt her smirk. Constance devoted so much time to curling her hair she’d missed pancakes and maple syrup only to twirl the kitchen in a stench whirlwind of hairspray, and ask if it looked natural. Because Bonnie, a logical and honest child, observed that only a congregation of stupid heads could mistake Constance’s curls for natural after watching Constance grow up as a straight-head for her whole entire life. Bonnie now sat wedged between Grey-grey-ma and Mom, instead of in her usual spot at the end of the pew, where Grey-grey-ma could sneak Bonnie candy under the auspices of giving Mom a little break. It was time to stand, but Bonnie got to stay seated and hold the book while Grey-grey-ma found the page and then they bent their heads together as if Bonnie could read already, because Grey-grey-ma knew that was how it happened: one day—boom! —Bonnie would a reader. Already, Bonnie had most of the words memorized. Besides, she and Grey-grey-ma were the only ones who prayed with feeling; everyone else acted like they were reading a grocery list and surely that was more offensive to God than waving. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?” whispered Grey-grey-ma, breaking the rule about no talking, except Grey-grey-ma was old, which made it OK, and she was deaf, which made her whisper really loud, which made it funny. Grey-grey-ma clapped the prayer book shut and Bonnie tucked it behind the rail in front of them. Bonnie slid her butt all the way back in the wooden bench; drone-drone-drone went the preacher; Bonnie distracted herself by swinging her feet like she was dancing on air. It didn’t make one single noise. Still, Mom squinted a warning. Then Grey-grey-ma danced her shoes in the air too. Grey-grey-ma’s shoes had vinyl roses on the toes. Connie watched them. She’d wear them around the living room when they went home and maybe even get them as a present. Meanwhile, Constance’s hair was already falling straight.
‘The Landscape of Hands’ by Dettra Rose, Australia What we liked: A story about stories that is wonderfully descriptive with thrilling turns of phrase. It’s warm, nostalgic and invites us into the story, leaving us wanting to know more. Bio: Dettra Rose writes flash fiction, creative non-fiction and tiny poems. She wrote her first flash fiction in 2018 and won the Australian Writers’ Centre inaugural Furious Fiction competition. Since then she has developed a serious addiction to flash. Dettra’s pieces have won and been shortlisted/longlisted in a number of esteemed competitions, including: Bath Flash Fiction Award, Reflex Fiction Flash Competition, Retreat West’s Micro Fiction and TSS Publishing Flash 400. Dettra is also working on her first novel. A born-and-bred Londoner she now lives in Australia and calls both places home. Dettra lives with her non-verbal partner, a handsome cat and a bossy dog. Say hello at Dettrarose.com or on twitter @dettrarose or Facebook @Dettra Rose Author Statement: My story was inspired by the theme of great-grandmother. I wanted to convey her with wisdom and insight and one foot in the old ways. I liked the juxtaposition of her not being able to read words, but able to read people. I wanted something intimate and personal, passed on through the maternal line. As I wrote, I played with the great-grandmother reading tea leaves or cards, but chose hands because of touch and connection. I raced to write ‘The Landscape of Hands’ just hours before the deadline. Pressure like that usually crushes my storytelling but this time, happily, it didn’t. I’ve always loved words. I’m fascinated by how they can connect or disconnect us. Themes I enjoy exploring include: Communication and its breakdown, Love – what burns it out and refuels it and, Endings and beginnings. My stories often have hope in them. Redemption is important to me. I like the small tender moments that are ordinary yet extraordinary. Inspiration comes in many different ways, often through listening to people. I write to connect. I write because if I don’t, I get cranky! Like most authors, I’m juggling my life to make time to write but don’t always succeed. Four years ago, my partner had a major stroke. He was youngish, fit and healthy. He lost all his language, both written and spoken. He’s become almost independent again, but still has very little vocabulary. It’s given me an even deeper appreciation of words.
Mum’s hand was around mine as great-grandmother Kettie opened the front door. Her skin had blotches like coffee stains. Her eyes were blue as denim. Her boxy flat was cluttered with dark furniture. On the table, orange roses with wide-open faces. She made tea in a dented silver pot and I sat on Mum’s lap. They gave me an old doll to play with; she had human hair and a puffy white dress. We drank Russian Caravan tea and Kettie took Mum’s tight hand and unfolded it like a precious letter. She couldn’t read stories on a page, just in people’s palms. They talked about my father in whispers, but I understood. They hush-hushed about me. I understood that, too. Kettie looked at my hands. Pressed my thumbs and fingertips. Her touch made me goosebumpy. Then we shelled fresh peas and shared them with magpies. That’s my only memory of meeting great-grandmother, Kettie. I saw her again in sepia photos. She was swimming in a giant coat huddled into her father on a train platform. Two suitcases on the ground, too small to carry their lives in. They shouted refugee. I studied her hands in old pictures. Often, they were close. Holding each other like lovers. I wanted to touch them. Turn them. When Mum plucked mine from my sides and showed me my heartline, union lines, travel line, fate line – the stars, crosses and rings – I felt kettie in my skin. We studied our palms many times, as some do night skies. I only met Kettie once, but I know her in the stories I can tell you about your palms. Your fingertips and wrists. In the spaces between your ring and index fingers. In the landscape and constellations of your lines. My great-grandmother said hands are stories rarely told properly. My grandmother and mother learned those stories. Now like precious heirlooms, they’ve become mine.
3RD PLACE ($20 prize + digital copy of anthology) ‘Born on the Wrong Side of the Bedsheet‘ by Laura Besley, Great Britain What we liked: A well-balanced, satisfying story that is relatable and inspirational. The great-grandmother’s personality is so skilfully revealed through small, relatable details: an ‘ironed teatowel’, measured dish liquid, etc. The ‘you are good enough’ moral sits nicely with our purpose at MLS, to see women confident in their identity.
Bio: Laura Besley is a full-time mum to two young boys and squeezes her writing time into the bookends of her day. She has recently been listed by TSS Publishing as one of the top 50 British and Irish Flash Fiction writers with her story ‘On Repeat’ (Reflex Fiction). Having lived in Holland, Germany and Hong Kong, she now lives in landlocked central England and misses the sea. Her flash fiction collection, The Almost Mothers, was published in March 2020.
She tweets @laurabesley Author’s statement: My inspiration for ‘Born on the Wrong Side of the Bed Sheet’ came from a friend who used this phrase about her own great-grandmother last summer. When the theme of great-grandmother came up, I knew immediately that I would use that phrase for my title. Having a title before writing the story is very rare for me. As I was drafting it, I thought about the relationship that the two women might have and how it might be bridged in a single conversation. You’re never able to predict whether a story will do well in a competition, but I secretly had high hopes for this one, just because I loved it so much, and am thrilled that it’s won third place!
Laura’s debut flash fiction collection, The Almost Mothers, out now! Order here
‘Eliza, come,’ my great-grandmother says. ‘You can dry.’ Despite her age, she still insists on doing her own washing up.
I look at my mother, then my grandmother, pleading at them with my eyes to do or say something, knowing they won’t. Everyone is scared of “Big Grandma” (not that she knows we call her that). We’ve been sipping coffee and eating chocolate cake in honour of her 90th birthday while making stop-start conversations in the dark sitting room.
‘Here,’ she hands me an ironed tea towel and starts running the water, using a teaspoon to measure the washing up liquid. She looks out into her garden and starts washing the Royal Albert violet-patterned teacups.
I reach for one and she says, ‘No, leave them for a few minutes otherwise the tea towel will get too wet.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘Tell me, Eliza, does this baby of yours have a father?’
I knew it. I knew this was coming all afternoon. Even my maxi dress can’t hide my expanding stomach. ‘That’s usually how it goes.’
‘Don’t get smart with me, young lady.’
‘Sorry.’ And I am, for so many things, nothing I can tell her though.
‘Does he know?’
I nod. ‘He’s not interested. Said he’s too young to be a father.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Same age as me. 21,’ I add, in case she’s forgotten.
‘You can start drying now,’ she says.
‘Did I ever tell you that I was born on the wrong side of the bedsheet?’
I stop and look at her. She’s still washing, looking out the window.
‘No,’ I say.
‘That’s what it was called in those days. My mother was a servant in a big house and was forced out once her condition became known to the Housekeeper.’
‘Did she go back home?’ I ask.
‘Goodness, no. She wouldn’t have been welcome. No, she took a room above a pub and worked there as a cleaner and barmaid.’
‘And you?’
‘I grew up in a room above a pub. Never knew any different. One day, though, I was playing out the front and a man got out of a car – remember how rare it was for someone to have an automobile in those days – and asked my name. “Emmeline,” I said. He handed me a gold coin and said, “You’re as beautiful as your mother. Always be good, Emmeline, and don’t let anyone tell you you’re not good enough.”’ My great-grandmother sighs. ‘I didn’t tell anyone at the time, it felt exciting to have a secret. However, later, when I told my mother, she suspected it was my father, but still wouldn’t reveal his name.’
‘Did you ever see him again?’ I ask, looking down at an almost-dry teacup.
‘No.’ She snaps the washing up gloves off and turns to face me. ‘Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you or your baby isn’t good enough. Promise me.’
If you missed out on placing in this round, never fear, there is another round beginning within the next couple of weeks. The theme this time will be ‘Foster Mother’. As the last official round, I am anticipating lots of entries and no need for extending deadlines…here’s hoping!
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