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Short Stories

Most of my life I've been writing. When I was little I wrote poetry constantly. I studied Journalism in College and harnessed the art of writing fact as a career. I dabbled in play writing. But it wasn't until I began university classes in English that I really launched my love for short stories, both fiction and non-fiction. Writing is my vocation. It has brought me to this place of blogging. This is where I hold my memories. It's my pen and paper.

The Metaphorical Box

By Angela Pickering | April 3, 2017

When someone says the word ‘box’, what visual stirs up inside you? Do you see a plain old cardboard box? Do you see a pink box with decorations and sparkles? Maybe you see a striped box with glorious gifts inside. The word ‘box’ has all kinds of connotations in my life. Let’s talk about the…

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Kitchen of Wonders

By Angela Pickering | January 28, 2013

Grandma died on a Friday. Grandpa died just two years earlier on a Friday. The house felt empty, utterly alone. Everything stood still, frozen in time. Her kitchen, that only a week before was a bustle with baking, now stood lifeless. My trip back to Grandma’s kitchen was wrought with emotion. Such sadness plagued me…

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Box of Gold

By Angela Pickering | November 29, 2012

“Nana, why is that old lady so grumpy?” Amelia’s granddaughter crawls up onto her lap. They sit together in the lounge of the nursing home. “Well my darling, sometimes we all have bad days, don’t you agree?” “You don’t ever get grumpy, Nana.” “Well now, I wouldn’t say I never get grumpy, but I have…

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Deja Vu

By Angela Pickering | November 29, 2012

He’s watching me, waiting for that perfect moment, but those perfect moments don’t exist. I peek at him again from over the top of the funnies section. My mother sits innocently across from me, eating her toast. I know something is on his mind and I wish he would just spill it. My dad clears his…

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The Greater Life

By Angela Pickering | November 29, 2012

It wasn’t the sun so much as the humidity that made her uncomfortable. Little droplets of fresh sweat formed above her brow but she didn’t bother to wipe them away.  She sipped her homemade strawberry concoction out of the plastic, neon-orange cup her daughter loved. She had splashed some vodka in the blender just to…

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A Momma’s Choice

By Angela Pickering | November 29, 2012

His sad, mocha-brown eyes say it all. Don’t leave me here, Momma! He will never forgive me. It won’t matter that he ‘s only eleven months old; he will remember everything. When he turns sixteen, all the hurtful feelings of desertion will crawl back into his heart. He will lash out at me when I…

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A Bird’s Eye View

By Angela Pickering | November 28, 2012

Forgive the cliché, but a little birdy once told me that if I stopped to smell the roses once in awhile, I would recognize significance in the most random events. So one day it happened that I was out for a stroll, when the wild cries of a Killdeer caught my attention. Set the scene…

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