Showing posts sorted by date for query by Barb DeMoney. Sort by relevance Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by date for query by Barb DeMoney. Sort by relevance Show all posts
The Taste of Olives
I watched Mom from across the room, my stomach in knots. Memories of her criticizing my college major and my tiny apartment with its cold concrete floors remained.
She hovered near the appetizers at my brother's birthday party. I walked over and froze. Mom popped an olive into her mouth and smiled.
"Mom?"
She looked up. "Yes, Stacy?"
"You just… ate an olive."
She scarfed down another. "Delicious, aren't they?"
I shook my head. Her hatred of olives had been seared into my childhood.
“Mom, you hate olives.”
Her hand stopped midair. “Do I?” she asked, voice shaky.
Silence thickened.
Her bottom lip quivered.
I stood beside her, twisting my napkin. "Mom, are you okay?"
Child-like fright washed over her, the same look I'd worn years ago. "I don't know," she whispered.
I stepped forward to comfort her, then bristled remembering every criticism she'd delivered.
“It’s okay. We’ll figure this out together.” Her look of confusion melted into relief. She squeezed my hand, something she hadn’t done in years.
Over the next two weeks I worried more. She misplaced her phone several times, called my brother our late father's name, and repeated the same story twice in one dinner.
At the clinic, the neurologist confirmed my growing dread: early-stage dementia.
Tears slid down my cheeks.
Stunned and afraid, I informed my siblings, and we made a plan.
I taped a whiteboard to her kitchen wall. I wrote everyone’s names, and started assigning pieces of her life—doctor’s appointments to my brother, groceries to my sister, daily check-ins and bills to me—because caring for her had become too much for only one of us.
My brother sighed when I asked him to take over her doctor appointments.
“I can’t always leave work,” he said.
"Neither can I," I snapped. "But somebody has to. If you schedule them, we can rotate taking her.”
My sister stared at the ground before finally agreeing to get her groceries.
Outside, the neighbor's dog began to bark, filling the awkward silence.
Even after delegating tasks, my phone still rang first when something went wrong. How was I the one left carrying the load?
The following week, Mom stood in the kitchen, staring at her pill organizer.
"Tuesday?"
“It’s Thursday,” I said gently, pointing to the oversized calendar.
She frowned, "Good thing you're here to babysit me."
At Sunday dinner, my brother scheduled her upcoming appointments onto her phone, while my sister promised to go grocery shopping for her.
Mom looked at us. “I don’t know what I’d do without you all.”
I shifted uncomfortably. Gratitude hadn't been Mom's strong suit.
She reached for another olive. “Can you believe I spent years hating these?”
“You spent years making the rest of us hate them too,” I said.
My siblings chuckled, but Mom didn't laugh. She kept staring at the small, dark fruit in her hand.
I remembered the woman who'd found fault with all my choices.
As Mom turned the olive between her fingers, searching for a memory that wasn't there, I realized I'd give anything to argue with that woman one more time.
Barb DeMoney is a writer whose work spans romance, horror, comedy, thriller, and mystery. Her stories have appeared in Micromance Magazine, Flash Phantoms, Lunch Ticket, Rat Bag Lit, and Sudden Flash among others. When not writing, Barb enjoys hiking, yoga, reading, concerts, and spending time with her family and dogs.
Signs Are All Around
by Barb DeMoney
I see signs you sense me around more lately. Ambling through my presence you shiver and look for my oversized flannel, the one you can’t stand - yet wear all the time. Your eyes widen and dart about, as if knowing you're being watched.
I wish I could tell you it's me. Make you feel better, less alone, but you never hear my delicate whispers in your ear. As you stare off into space making a turkey sandwich, I try getting your attention.
The lights flicker; you hesitate. I'm here. I need you to listen. Instead, you continue to spread mayonnaise, while a silent tear slides down your cheek.
Sitting down, you sigh and drop your head into your hands. You reach for our framed picture. Peace washes over me seeing our wedding photo. Taken last year, yet it seems a lifetime ago.
I know you blame yourself for the accident, but you weren't responsible for my death. You couldn’t have reacted any quicker.
My spirit aches as I suffer your pain as my own.
You push the plate aside; the cold sandwich remains uneaten, and you stand up. You stride towards the bathroom. I have an idea, perhaps I can leave you a message on the mirror? I've never tried that before.
Moving into the bathroom, I feel the warm steam engulf me. Exiting the shower, your breath catches and eyes shimmer as you behold a lone word on the foggy glass - Forgive.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Barb DeMoney is a writer and flash fiction contestant whose work blends drama, comedy, and horror. Her stories explore themes of grief, love, and hope. Her story A Fresh Start will be published at Flash Phantoms in July. There’s Something About Gary will be published in Micromance Magazine this fall. Barb's Bluesky account: HERE
I see signs you sense me around more lately. Ambling through my presence you shiver and look for my oversized flannel, the one you can’t stand - yet wear all the time. Your eyes widen and dart about, as if knowing you're being watched.
I wish I could tell you it's me. Make you feel better, less alone, but you never hear my delicate whispers in your ear. As you stare off into space making a turkey sandwich, I try getting your attention.
The lights flicker; you hesitate. I'm here. I need you to listen. Instead, you continue to spread mayonnaise, while a silent tear slides down your cheek.
Sitting down, you sigh and drop your head into your hands. You reach for our framed picture. Peace washes over me seeing our wedding photo. Taken last year, yet it seems a lifetime ago.
I know you blame yourself for the accident, but you weren't responsible for my death. You couldn’t have reacted any quicker.
My spirit aches as I suffer your pain as my own.
You push the plate aside; the cold sandwich remains uneaten, and you stand up. You stride towards the bathroom. I have an idea, perhaps I can leave you a message on the mirror? I've never tried that before.
Moving into the bathroom, I feel the warm steam engulf me. Exiting the shower, your breath catches and eyes shimmer as you behold a lone word on the foggy glass - Forgive.
Barb DeMoney is a writer and flash fiction contestant whose work blends drama, comedy, and horror. Her stories explore themes of grief, love, and hope. Her story A Fresh Start will be published at Flash Phantoms in July. There’s Something About Gary will be published in Micromance Magazine this fall. Barb's Bluesky account: HERE
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