Once when I was seven, I saw my mother on her hands and knees in a bed of snowdrops. Not beside it. In it.
Writing by Sallie Bingham
A collection of some of Sallie's original plays, poetry and short stories.
Old
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.
The Day
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
Girl and Baby in Snow
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
That Kind of Woman
She was the kind of woman who said now you can have everything and then took it back.
Little Candlestick
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,
Rough Air
CAST: GARY, a young man; HOWARD, a middle-aged man; SARAH, a middle-aged woman. PLACE: Three seats in a row on an airplane.
The Cuckoo, He’s a Pretty Bird, He Sings As He Flies
Once when I was seven, I saw my mother on her hands and knees in a bed of snowdrops. Not beside it. In it. The snowdrops were in the backyard
Desert Bighorn
By the river mechanically rushing its brown waters from the great turbines, he stands carefully on polished rocks, surveys the waves with a dark pensiveness that bears no relation to
Cast on Water
The North Atlantic
was not my country.
Its wild waves crashed
unregarding of the small girl
at their edge, who knew only
the soft brown Ohio hurrying