Every time one of my stories gets published, it’s like raising a child. You love it, you nurture it, and you submit it hoping that it finds a place for itself in the literary world. I adore this one so much. It only received a couple of rejections before finding a home and I am so glad to share it with you all.

literally stories

typewriterHer legs began to go numb as they tingled from her weight. She was on her knees again, scrubbing. Always scrubbing. The chill of the linoleum floor made goosebumps run over her thighs under her pants.

This home didn’t belong to her. She wouldn’t enjoy the benefits of her labors. Mrs. McCormick, or Mrs. Glenn, or Mrs. Whomever Ella worked for that day would come home after she left. All part of the job, you show up, clean, and leave.

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