We don’t see fathers often and when one arrived, with his newspaper, I felt as though our circle was complete.
Writing by Sallie Bingham
A collection of some of Sallie's original plays, poetry and short stories.
The full text of my one-man show, Couvade, first performed at the Actors Theatre of Louisville in Kentucky in 1983.
Chaco has been on my mind for years. I started a play about Willa Cather’s trip to the southwest, based on a fragment from a biography; since I was not being literal, I spelled her name with one ‘l’. The play is unfinished. — Sallie May 27, 2003 A full-length play, no intermissions, 90 minutes.
They stood under the porch light and she held out her hands. He took them and slipped his fingers inside her gloves. Her palms were soft and lined.
Once when I was seven, I saw my mother on her hands and knees in a bed of snowdrops. Not beside it. In it.
They were old, they had entered those years when nothing ever happens except falls, illness, approaching disability, and neither of them had planned on that when they married, when the children were born, and then the grandchildren.
Best New Ending Wins a Signed Copy of Mending: New and Selected Stories!
I’m opening this up to you, my readers-write your own ending to the following short story and submit it via the contact form on my website. I’ll pick my favorite and the winner will also be published on my website. Entries are due on November 18. Good luck! Sallie
It was the baby’s first snow. He was six months old that winter, a lovely baby, the apple of his young parents’ eyes. They would have other children, with other spouses, but he would always be the first. In the old farmhouse that backs the scene, which belonged to his father’s family, there is a
She was the kind of woman who said now you can have everything and then took it back.
LITTLE CANDLESTICK (For My Mother) In scarcity, what bliss, brought by the voice that commanded it, unmothering mother, brave to give lessons instead of love: this little silver candlestick, bent, bruised, all that’s left of the modest, old, possibly French desk set: paper knife, blotter edges, chased with a few deep lines. I couldn’t believe