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.
Short Stories by Sallie Bingham
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.
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 of the house we grew up in, on the Upper East Side, in New York. That neighborhood, just south of the 96th Street divide, was
At the edge of the grassy terrace, in the shade of a big umbrella, the painter stands at his easel, tipping his brush into little pools of color. At the table under the umbrella, the writer sighs, opening her notebook. All the other people who are staying in the rented house—Americans, middle-aged, connected to the