top of page
Women Writers Vibrant Voices
BLOG
GRANDE DAME LITERARY
Dear Writers & Readers,
We are sorry to have caused upset due to being on a break and our web host narrowing the blog spacing, unbeknownst to us, which is what threw off the alignment. Most patiently understood and supported us. And we worked our best to deal with the lemons. The lemonade is that our readership has increased by 26%!
Enjoy the new and existing pieces of work by our esteemed and loyal writers.
We thrive because of the writers and readers who have put their faith in GDLJ.
Thank you, Grande Dame & Editors of GDLJ
PS The formatting issue seems to be resolved for new posts, and the existing ones are being combed through for any spacing errors.
WOMEN WRITERS. VIBRANT VOICES.
MEMOIR SHORT STORIES POEMS ESSAYS LONG FICTION
are you interested in breathing new life into a previously published story, poem, or memoir?
now you can
celebrate the writing of women authors
STAY IN THE LOOP
The Inheritance
Delisia considered herself to be the good daughter. Blond and slight, she had majored in economics before going on to get a master’s degree in architecture, her ambition driving her to apply for scholarships and marry her way into a higher income bracket. Even an early divorce had not lessened her stature in the family hierarchy as her parents reacted kindly by saying that they hadn’t really liked the husband all that much. Aline, three years younger, was certainly no black s
Sylvia Sensiper
1 hour ago
The Autumn Puzzle
Every autumn, a puzzle takes over our house—and, somehow, our lives. What starts as a small box of scattered cardboard quickly grows into a season-long obsession. It’s part hobby, part decoration, part social experiment, and part silent competition between family members who all claim to ‘just be helping.’ We have a folding table that migrates from room to room depending on the season, chasing the best light like a spoiled cat with commitment issues. Sometimes it’s in the liv
Helaine Fiedler
2 hours ago
Between Two Mirrors
The Broken Reflection The last time I saw my sister, Alice, she was being wheeled away from me at a Southern California airport. It was her 71st birthday. The attendant pushed her slowly toward the entrance, and I watched from the car as she became a tiny, frail woman clutching a beat-up canvas bag on her lap. Fear was a cold knot in my stomach, a familiar feeling that pulled me back in time to an entirely different airport almost 40 years ago. That day, my mother, angry for
Laura Dinoia
2 hours ago
The Bike is Fine
The first time I touched a dead person, I was ten years old at my grandfather’s funeral. I stared at his profile because I was not tall enough to look down at his face. I noticed that the end of his nose turned slightly downward. My Aunt Thelma set a chair next to the casket. She helped me kneel on the seat of the chair for a better view. I looked. It was Grampa for sure. As I turned to descend from the chair, Aunt Thelma said, “Carol, would you like to kiss Gramp
Marcia Calhoun Forecki
2 hours ago
My Ghost Remains
Your words chosen oh so carefully. Beautifully. “I want to know you. Tell me anything and everything.” Recklessly. “Let’s move away from here. We can start over, somewhere warmer.” You led me down the most romantic path saying, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” I smiled all the way thinking there would be flowers, diamonds, and a stroller at the end. But it only led to slaughter. Two cuts: first shallow— “I don’t feel the same,” then deep— “No, we ca
Madison Williams
2 hours ago
The New Gardener
Early morning, summer sun fills the study with peaceful yellow light. Already at my desk, reading emails, inhaling strong coffee, pondering a suitable response to the solicitor, hopefully one of the last I will ever need to write. Unravelling a life, my life; the journey through a tunnel of a thousand emotional miles is nearly complete. Finally I am beginning to see light, have a sense of a future, wonder what might be next. As if on cue my laptop emits a soft PING, it’s his
Stephanie Staton
2 hours ago
The Shore Is My Home
Where is one to go when love has departed? When breath wavers, my throat tightens, and only despair fills my lungs? My wounds burn with saltwater grief— it always comes in waves. Unlike the tide, it doesn’t recede quickly. I grit my teeth in the sting. I will remain by the water. Pacing the dock by day, sitting atop the lighthouse by night. The shore is now my home. Here I may be found, while I wait for love’s return. His voyage long, his journey hard fought. His soul w
Madison Williams
2 hours ago
Sweet Memories
It’s a cake made mostly of air, sluiced in scents of sugar, white chocolate and lemon. Cooled, melted chocolate spun first into the batter, then into cream for the frosting. Doing her part to hold the fragile tower in line is homemade curd of Meyer lemons. Baked for a friend’s birthday 40-some years ago, I’ve tried twice to recreate the cunning confection. I woke this morning thinking that I should try to make this cake again. Then I remember how my neck and back turn to fir
Lynne Schilling
2 hours ago
Making Sense of Misdiagnosis
After months that had faded along with my energy into years, after I’d gone to my family doctor complaining about my debilitating ear pain, unusual sensations in my mouth and other odd symptoms, I was worn out more than anything else. My last bit of fight went into getting my referral to an infectious disease specialist. A random conversation with a friend who mentioned post-herpetic neuralgia following shingles left me thinking that the headaches that rendered me immobile an
Ellen Balka
2 hours ago
Four Sons on the Horizon
I saw us in the sunrise this morning as my plane was taking off, flaming glow of my wild heart against the calm blue backdrop of your bold humility. I saw us in the family of six sitting in the row ahead. Glimpsing the future we dreamed, I felt like I was looking at you, me, us— four young sons, my eyes blue, your smile wide, my reservation, your responsibility. I saw us on the drive to the Cape, your spirit lingering in the changing leaves, mirroring your metamorphosis— crim
Madison Williams
2 hours ago
There Are No Good Solutions
For Mickey Two old women, friends for over four decades, have been meeting this way for years at a boutique hotel in a horse racing town in upstate New York. Immense hanging ferns draped across a front-facing, pristine porch, anchor four days of talking about their joys and sorrows, their evolving lives, in the company of their silent companion, death. She keeps a tight lip but takes up space just the same. They have a long history of speaking truthfully, however old ag
Lynne Schilling
3 hours ago
Creaturely
Memories of that school trip to Tasmania are few. I remember a triple-arched bridge spanning a river, I remember wandering from the group to stare and stare at the bridge framing the view. I remember the bleak stones of Port Arthur, the thick, sweet smell inside the Cadbury Chocolate Factory, barrels full of foil-wrapped chocolates, uniform-wrapped staff with hairnets above eyes that did not return gaze. I can’t recall a single conversation with a classmate. I remember the co
Susan Fealy
3 hours ago
WOMEN WRITERS. VIBRANT VOICES. STAY IN THE LOOP
bottom of page