beauty, love, lust, mother, sex, short fiction, women

Maternal Burden

She wore a silk jersey dress, patterned in diamonds of blue and white. Her hair was a blunt bob, cut in around the ears and the back of her neck. She had a slight overbite, which leavened her beauty, vulnerable and approachable, were it not for the fierce, bright light in her eyes. Coltish legs and a small, high bosom.

The date on the back of the photograph reads a single date.

11th November 1975.

She had gone out, nineteen years old, spending the money she worked all week to earn. Her priorities were to have a dance, a few drinks and a laugh.

Simple pleasures, strung together like christmas lights.

He held court at the bar, a tumbler of scotch in one hand, cigarette between the fingers of his left hand as he gestured for emphasis. His hair was thick and black, with long, simian sideburns, a spade jaw and a deep cleft in his chin. She stood in the doorway and their eyes met across the pub with the propulsive force of chemical reaction. He wore a paisley shirt with a wide collar, unbuttoned to the chest, showing the broad, furred expanse like a mating display.

His wink had a seismic impact upon her, a brutish authority leavened by the melodic, poignant burr of his voice. The anecdote continued and she joined her friends in their hurry for amusement.

They danced in a circle, stiff and embarrassed, fending off suitors with practiced humour but with a few drinks and some good music, they found themselves, liquid and alive. It was during Somebody To Love by Queen that he came over and introduced himself.

Billly MacDonell brought them a round of drinks. He regaled the group, ignoring her until she twisted and seethed with his wilful ignorance of her attraction. She touched his arm and he laughed it off, telling her she should not touch what she could not afford. His tone bordered on contempt but his eyes were a slow burn, offering her a test of her character and will.

She dared,

She willed. Billy slipped away from the dance floor, with her heart in his pocket. He slipped his arm around her, suffusing her in a sensation equal parts danger and comfort.

He was a good Catholic boy. She was on the pill.

I never asked the details. It was enough to know they collided, flesh, chemicals and lightning.

The family doctor confirmed it She imagined his delight, the scenario playing out a million times in her head as she rang him from the phone box, asked him to meet her at the cafe on the high street.

His face fell when she told him. She was privy to a rare sight.

Billy McNamara. Speechless.

His glib charm sought to assert itself and failed. He set his mug of tea on the table.

‘I’ll pay for ye to take care of it.’ he said.

The cold edge in his voice cut her deep. He tried to explain that it was just fun, he could not be a father but he could do the decent thing.

She looked away, eyes damp with unshed tears as her insides burned with regret.

‘So, that’s it? That’s all you have to say?’ she said.

Billy’s eyes twinkled and he went to take her hand but she snatched it away.

‘My sweet, can’t you please see the longer picture here?’ he said.

She thought about correcting him. A small riposte to the injury he had delivered. She touched her stomach for reassurance. Her act of courage had been to meet his eye, but there was more to bear, and she had a choice to make, there and then.

I have her eyes.

His chin.

Her courage.

His glib charm but it’s leavened by experience.

She chose me, despite all the doors it closed to her.

When I sat there, running my thumb over the silver blister packs of tablets, mustering the courage to just stop suffering, I remember that girl and her faith in me. I got up, wiped my eyes and flushed them down the toilet before I made a phone call.

‘Hi Mum.’

beauty, fiction, love, mother, women

Please Come Home, It’s Dark Here


The little things never go away.

They fade.

There is a relief in that, a cold, analgesic sensation that allows you to pretend that you can function.

But the universe breathes on it and it flares into life again.

Today I found one of his building block sets behind the couch. He had built a house for us we would someday live in. Sometimes it was in Florida, other times Baja or even the moon. He had built a garden for me out of green and blue bricks. There were grey, fat grubs of dust in the corners and I wiped them away with my fingers.

I wept for my baby boy.

My phone rang, but I ignored it, unable to do anything other than weep. When I got up and checked it, there was the envelope icon showing a voice mail.

I did not recognise the number.

I put it on speakerphone so I could pretend I wasn’t alone.

My son spoke.

‘Mommy. Please come home. It’s dark here. I’m cold.’

I put my hand over my mouth.

‘Baby, it’s Mommy.’ I said.

The message ended and I replayed it over and over. I could not imagine who would have done this. The cruelty of it, in how it used my grief to fuel a detached amusement at a well-executed prank.

It burned in my brain, a heated wire twisting through from one side to the other. I needed to know who had done this.


‘If it’s a prank call, go the police. You don’t need me to find out who did it.’

JJ worked in a Genius bar. In the evenings, he ran scams promising teenage girl panties to middle-aged men who gave him their credit card details. He had fitted the alarm system after Pete left, had a crush on me as large as Texas.

‘I need to know where it came from. I can’t go to the police.’

He sighed and took the number from me. I had the details in an hour.

The phone was a prepaid cell phone. The last call came in from a set of tract housing up in the hills, overspill from when the factories needed people more than machines. I put the address into my GPS. It fed the path back in a smooth, unhurried series of instructions that let my mind wander to where my grief was still raw and new.

Pete had hissed at me he would have his son whenever he wanted. Jimmy told me that all they did was sit there, whilst Pete made phone calls trying to cop or play games on his phone.

JJ had fitted the alarm system, but it did not make me feel any safer The gun had a comforting weight to it, eager to make good on its ugly, implicit promise. I used to sleep with it on the nights that the police would come to warn Pete off and I had to spend hours calming Jimmy down enough to sleep before school.

I had brought the gun with me.

The lights were out as I drove into the hills. The abandoned houses squatted like skeletal corpses with broken windows for eyes and doors kicked off their hinges. Scuffed, abandoned toys laid on the overgrown lawns, bleached from constant exposure to the sunlight. I stopped the car, slipped the gun into the pocket of my coat and got out.

My feelings had grown around the wounds, twisted and scarred into new forms. My pain, my joy could not tell one another apart anymore and I was here, with a gun but with no good reason other than to punish whoever had reached down my throat and yanked out my insides.

Someone would explain it or pay.

The house at the end. A weak light burned in the living room window. The door was ajar and from inside, I could smell something weak, sweet and warm, like the sweat of a diabetic.

‘Come in.’

The voice wavered, tight with pain and exhaustion.

My heart raced so fast that each beat rubbed up against the next. My lungs throbbed with each acid breath I took.

I held the gun and walked inside.


The air stank with a rotten sweetness that made me gag. In the living room, piles of yellowing phone books and newspapers. She sat in a high backed chair with a blanket wrapped around her. Her skin had the consistency of crepe paper doused with gasoline.

I looked at her with a mix of pity and revulsion.

‘How did you find me? How did you know?’

She got to her feet, hands gripping the arms of the chair with enough tension to force the bones and tendons into standing out against the skin. Her nails were yellowed and ragged, hung over the callused tips of her fingers. A woman who had worked with her hands and did so with pride. Now she was a ruin, living alone and reduced to insanity and amusement.

She was compressed, little more than five feet tall and when she looked up at me, her milky eyes wavered with discomfort.

‘Oh god, you can’t stay here. Please, you must go. I’m sorry.’

I gripped the gun in my hand, shaking my head as my teeth pressed together with my rage and my pain.

‘You’re sorry, you crazy fucking bitch. My son is dead, and you, what, think that’s funny?’

Tears brimmed in the corners of her eyes and she shook her head. She brought her right hand up to hold the blanket closed around her. I caught the faint whiff of dried body fluids, the dry musk of shit and urine mixed with stale sweat and another scent, thin and high like rotten vegetable matter.

She had her phone in her left hand and offered it to me.

‘No, I don’t have a choice. I was in the garden, and I found this pod in the roots of the lavender.’

She gave a wet cough and shook her head, like she was trying to dislodge something that had gotten stuck there. I looked at the phone and then back at her.

‘No, you don’t get to just be crazy. How did you know his voice? My number.’

Tears streamed down her cheeks.
‘It’s like a terminal disk, on the bombardier beetle. It knows what to set out and when you tread on it, it’s got you.’

She gagged from deep in her gut and turned her head from me. She did not see the gun in my hand, or she was too deep into her psychosis to see it.

Perhaps we were more alike than we cared to admit.

‘I’m sorry. If I don’t do what it say, it hurts me.’

I went to speak, but she raised her chin. Her throat bulged like a bubble in a glass of milk, making a crackling, wet sound like hearing someone tear a roast chicken apart with their bare hands.

The phone fell from her hand as she bucked and thrashed in the agony of some hideous birth.

I pointed the gun and fired, screaming until the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

She slumped forward as a spray of black, foul oil squirted against the wall behind her and I saw her shoulders moving. Something was forcing itself upwards from inside her, like taking off a coat a size too small.

Tentacles whipped upwards, tasting the air ahead of it before collapsing down back into the safety of the meat.

‘You should never have called.’ I said.

I had gasoline in the trunk, there were matches in the kitchen. I covered everything and lit it up when I was a safe distance.

Pete had driven him and Jimmy into the river. Knowing he had died cold and wet was something that would never go away but as I sat there, watching the house collapse and fold in on itself, I told myself that he would not be cold or dark anymore.

I whispered it to the flames, over and over.

beauty, love, mother, short fiction, women

Black Eyed Angel, Smile With Me


My mother gave me an indirect, covert education. Our lessons were conducted in the wan light of country afternoon and the velveteen absence of light in her darkroom. Her photography bore the odd angles and blurred sun dogs of the enthusiastic amateur but she worked at it with a dogged focus that lent our lives an amiable chaos.

I was a quiet child, open to instruction and taking everything in with wide bright eyes that my mother stared into and declared luminous. I was trusted with handling the negatives, the tangible reversals of the fundamental.

Bleached, pure white.

Utter, relentless black.

We captured wilderness scenes, candid and unguarded moments which were fed into the darkroom and came out as photographs in the way that pigs went into abattoirs and came out as sausages. Her missteps were as fascinating as her triumphs but the lessons she passed to me were considered elitist and prosaic, a reality I had to go into state education to realise.

It was just the two of us. When her body started to prepare itself for the second and last living thing she would host, our roles were reversed. I cared for her, lifting and changing for me until she was an insensible abstract, a twitching nerve rooted in sweat and foulness.

She held me when I was helpless and I returned the favour. The funeral service was sparse and perfunctory as per her wishes. The idea that a single ceremony could put the loss of someone you loved into any context was like holding a shell to your ear and expecting to get wet.

I stayed on in the nest of my childhood, forever outside the eggshell and missing the kiss of mother’s beak.

The house was swollen with emotional resonance for me but it had been built on a considerable amount of debt. Sentiment and sympathy held no import over the demands of my mother’s creditors so I was forced to start the process of clearing and selling the house. It was akin to being a stand in for the cancer, killing her memories rather than her flesh.

Any decision considered adult held its own agony. The ache came to me from the past, a child’s anguish fitting wrong in my woman’s body.

I had to sort through her things. She had laden the house with photographs, oddments and scraps that pleased her eye. Feathers from birds including some massive black variations that I had always held to be fake but she would never answer.

I found her journal, a patchwork quilt of concerns, lists and tentative explorations of her craft and her feelings towards it. She was her own cheerleader in so many things because she had to be. The words blurred before my eyes but I continued to read. I had not known this woman, only the mother she became.

Her tone changed as her expertise grew, becoming more technical and impenetrable with each month that passed. Then one entry drew my eye for its lack of detail.

He landed at the bottom of the garden. He flew back before I could get the camera.

A chill prickled down my back and I read it again, tried to figure out what she meant.

A poem?
Code to avoid questions about her actions.

The next month’s worth of entries returned to the prosaic and technical.

He likes shortbread. Cries at the taste of tap water. He doesn’t speak English but I understand him perfectly.

A week later.

I can’t put down into words what his touch feels like. There is strength there, but he controls it. I know I shouldn’t. I don’t even know if he can.

The next entry was a drawing of a winged heart, done in HB pencil and shaded with red ink.

She did not mention him again. She began to talk about her body, the changes she was experiencing. It became as terse as her grasp of photography and the dates of the entries represented some interesting possibilities.

My intuition blazed into life. She would have photos of this man. I tried to stop flipping through the calendar in my head and actively looking for something would have helped me do it.

They were in a small album. Carefully pasted photographs and the negatives next to them. I tucked it under my arm with the journal and left the darkroom.

My life had never overlapped with anything uncanny or mysterious outside of the human heart or a good book.

The figure crouched, rendered indistinct by the bushes and shadows at the bottom of the garden aside from a pair of luminous eyes, open and soft like the cap of a mushroom. Black wings stretched out from his back that gleamed with oil, their dimensions softened by the night.

I put my hand to my mouth and the kitchen lights flickered. The album fell from my hands and I ran to the window. Night had fallen and the whole world was a darkroom now. I looked outside and wondered what might develop.

The windows rattled in their frames with the gust of wind that came. I opened the door with my heart thumping like I was running a marathon.

‘I know you’re there.’ I said.

I sounded frightened to my own ears but my nerves sharpened my senses and I saw him at the bottom of the garden, his wings tucked behind him.

‘Where.Is. Christina?’

His pronunciation was careful. Not someone speaking a language they lacked fluency in, but the care of someone whose voice was capable of great and terrible things.

He was taller than any man, with lean black limbs and a taut midsection. He carried a scent that combined leather, damp wool and incense. His face wore a perfect mask of surprise as he cocked his head and looked at me.

His lips curved into a smile, revealing perfect white teeth.

He bowed at the waist, the gleam of his bald head caught the moonlight like blood on glass. He looked up and his smile fell away.


His voice had become low, stretched out on the rack of grief.

I told him and when I had finished, he put his hand on my shoulder. It was difficult to breathe in his presence, the weight of faith made tangible pushed at me from every direction.

I reached out and put my arms around him. He held me with the detached care of a cowboy with a calf, a detached gentility that became more humane with each moment. He put his warm, dry lips to the top of my head and I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, he was gazing at my face.

I had his eyes.

beauty, fiction, love, mother, short fiction, wildness, women

Happy Flowers



Sonya had parked outside Happy Flowers Retirement Village with the air conditioning on full. The dimensions of the hire car had been designed to knock and bash her at every mile of the trip. Her knees and lower back throbbed with discomfort. In her head, she wrestled with the frustrations of duty, manifesting as a nervous, constant litany of tasks and accusations, all turned inwards.

Niamh had the kids. John-Paul had gone for a third stint in rehab. It was down to loyal, industrious Sonya to draw the short straw of the perpetually rigged game of ‘Who Sees Mom’. Their individual obligations did not deter their enthusiasm towards the last, pressing question left to their family.

Sonya checked that the paperwork was all there, notarized and prepared by Niamh’s brother-in-law. Through a series of emails, late night phone calls and listless conversations interrupted by children, they had agreed that this was a smart move, a matter of pragmatism and realism. A clear application of the values instilled into them by their parents.

Dad would understand, they all said. He was no longer around to confirm or deny it, but they appropriated his memory in ways that Sonya did not recognise as being authentic. They attributed homespun wisdom lifted wholesale from television and fiction. She would not correct either of them, but would nod and wait for them to ask when she was going to go see her.

She collected herself, took a deep breath of the chilled air and stepped out of the car into the brutal heat of Orlando. She had parked as close as possible and dashed inside to the reception area.

Happy Flowers was arranged in layers, the pristine reception area being the outermost. It was decorated in soft pastel colours and solemn minor key melodies piped in as soft as a whisper. Sonya had been here enough to know that it was all bullshit.

The Happy Flowers here were plastic and hollow, like the promises made in the brochure. Sonya was still constrained enough by a need to be liked to force a shallow smile at the receptionist and gave her mother’s name.

The receptionist, a plump, coiffured paragon of efficiency swallowed at the mention of her name. She picked up the phone without breaking eye contact with Sonya.

‘Mr Hayes? Mrs Stewart’s daughter is here to see her.’

No one here asked which one. Mom would have filled them all in on who we were and how ungrateful we were.

The receptionist put the phone down and slipped her a smile like she had brought it out from a drawer.

‘Please take a seat. Mr Hayes will be out.’

Sonya struggled to hold onto the rising, twisting panic that had flared into life, symptoms of an old disease. She slammed her palms against the desk.

‘Where the fuck is my mom?’

The receptionist scowled and pointed a finger at her.

‘Hey, I’ve got a can of pepper spray right here, lady.’

The door opened and Mr Hayes stepped through. Sonya believed that if it had been something serious, then they would have called her, but she lost service plenty of times along the drive and should she check her phone? Right now?

‘Miss Stewart?’

Sonya looked up and smiled.

‘Just tell me where my mom is. Please.’

He wore a white shirt, rolled up to the elbows. There was a small wet mark on his tie, presumably from the lunch that had been interrupted by her arrival. It rewarded her with a small twist of pleasure that she had been something of an imposition to this man.

They should have called her.

Normally, she would have engaged in the listless pillow fight that coming here always became, but she was hot, tired and she couldn’t find her mom.

He sighed and asked the receptionist to pass him the flyer.

‘What does this mean?’

He grimaced before he told her. She had left of her own free will. Sonya imagined her chained up in a basement somewhere, eating from a dog’s bowl whilst kneeling on packed dirt floors. She looked at the flier, the man featured on it.

‘Isn’t that -?’

Mr Hayes gave an embarrassed chuckle and nodded.

‘Yes. they have their address on the back. One of them was working here, and they got talking.’

Sonya chuckled and shook her head. Her relief broke like the sunset after a hard day.

‘Wow. No wonder she’s gone. She took me to see those last two movies he did.’

Sonya remembered her manners, thanked him and strode out to the car.

Everything runs in a circle, she thought. Here I am, going to retrieve my wayward mother, the same way she had. Except she hadn’t, not really.

She got back into the car and pulled out, programming the address into the satellite navigation system.


The abandoned truck sat atop bald, deflated tyres that had sunk into the ground. Its sheen had been transformed into the same consistency as the dirt. It sat there like a broken guard dog, looking out through cracked, rheumy eyes as she stood by the car.

She looked down at her heels and wished she had worn sneakers or something with better support. She took out her phone and dialled the number from the flier.


A soft, happy voice. It reminded her of her brother and she winced at the depth of it. He could barely look after himself but it would have been something.

‘I would like to speak to Donna Stewart please. This is her daughter.’

A soft chuckle.

‘Erm, yeah sure.’

Sonya looked down the path, to where the house stood.

‘In fact, I’m stood by the rusted truck at the front, if I could come up and see her.’

Another chuckle.

‘Cool, ain’t it? Came with the house.’

Sonya ran her tongue over her teeth and closed her eyes, trying to stay calm. She could call the police, but that would make things worse. Police. Cults. Her and Mom in the middle of it.


Sonya opened her eyes.

‘Well, what?’

A long sigh and a smack of the lips.

‘Are you coming up or what?’

The call disconnected and Sonya saw the front door pushed open. She pulled her blouse from where it had stuck to her back and bristled for confrontation.

The most shocking thing about her mother was her expression.


She had combed out her white hair and wore a purple cotton dress that fell to her calves. Her feet were bare and as she came closer, Sonya saw the intricate patterns of henna snaking down her lean arms. Mom had always been beautiful to her, but she was seeing an entirely different woman here. She glowed with a vitality that Sonya envied.

Donna pulled her into a deep, enthusiastic embrace. She pulled back and planted a warm kiss on her cheek that made Sonya gasp with surprise.

‘It’s so good to see you.’

Sonya peered at her, trying to see if her pupils were dilated. She was effervescent to a degree that made her someone new to her own daughter.

‘Mom, Happy Flowers said you left.’

Donna laughed and nodded.

‘No, I got free, darling. You need to see this for yourself.’

Sonya had visions of a softer Jonestown, naked toddlers and root mash for every meal. Donna took her hands and Sonya remembered the paperwork she needed her to sign.

A surge of mischief arose in her, and she decided to follow where it was pulling her as much as her mother.

Everything inside was painted purple. It had faded to a pink blush where the sun hit the walls but Sonya laughed out loud at the ridiculous, glorious mess of it.

‘It’s so you know you’re entering into another reality.’

There were another three houses and a set of stables converted into beds and living spaces. It was all done in purple. The smell of pot and animal dung hung in the air, pleasant in a simple, primal way. Mom took her hand.

‘You have to meet him.’

Sonya looked around her, still coltish with concern.

‘Mom, this is like a cult or something. You can’t be in a cult.’

Donna shook her head, smiling with a benign forgiveness.

‘No, sweetie, I was in a cult. I spent decades training for something that I didn’t really want to be.’

Sonya let go of her hand.

‘You mean us?’

Donna came forward and put her hands on her shoulders.

‘You were the reason I stayed so long. But Sonya, I didn’t need to be put away after your father died, I needed to be set free.’

Sonya lowered her chin to her chest.

‘Mom – ‘



His voice was low and rich, it strolled across the air to her ears and made her look up from her pained recollection. He was bare chested, showing off his taut abdominals and broad shoulders, the curls of dark hair that collected on his pectoral muscles. His hair was long, thick and dark as a raven’s wing, held back from his face by a twist of rawhide. He wore faded blue jeans that slung low on his hips.

‘Hi.’ Sonya said.

‘I’m pleased to see you. Donna has told me a lot about you.’

His career had been, not as the leading man, but the vain, arrogant jock who would get his comeuppance through his own dumb masculinity and his inability to relate to women. It had been one role played across a number of films. She had heard that he had done theatre once, had driven all night to see him but her car had broken down.

This, though, was either his greatest role or how he had always been.

‘Oh god, should I apologise now?’ Sonya said.

He laughed and showed his teeth. He had a slight overbite but his lips were thick and full. She had imagined kissing them, and the memory returned to her with a force as insistent as gravity.

He shook his head and reached out, touched her upper arm and tilted his head to one side.

‘I will leave you two alone. Will you stay for dinner?’

Sonya thought about the root mash and the naked toddlers. She hadn’t seen any of the latter, but this would make for a good story and allow her a chance to figure out what was going on with her mom. With herself, too.

Sonya nodded with enthusiasm.

He walked on, reached out and grasped Donna’s hand before grinning at her and carried on.

Donna took in a deep breath and took hold of her daughter’s hands again.

‘So, let’s do this.’


They sat in front of a fire. Donna had sat with her at dinner. A massive salad, heaped bowls of fragrant rice and curries of vibrant colours and odours. Everyone helped themselves, and Sonya glanced around, looking at everyone with an increasing sense of yearning. Later after everything had been cleared away, he had built a fire and people had brought out musical instruments. The singing and playing were ragged at first, but with enthusiasm came courage and soon Sonya was sat there, swathed in joyful noise as she watched her mom dance in front of the fire.

Sonya had asked if she could throw some trash on it, and no one had objected. She had rushed back to the car and got everything, tossing it in ragged handfuls, watching it feed the fire until the tongues of flame were fat and hungry.

The hand on her shoulder did not make her flinch. She had been hoping for it.

He passed her a joint and she took it between her shaking fingers. She inhaled, managed not to cough and exhaled it slowly as he sat next to her.

He leaned forward and she moved to meet him.



creative writing, fiction, mother, politics, short fiction, women

A Return To The Fold

Haraathi knelt at the altar and lit a stick of incense before placing it in the holder and clasped her hands together. Jaganath was at the reception desk, checking in a road-weary family but he assured her that he would join her soon enough. She still practiced her faith with a zeal that he was faintly embarrassed by, but accepted as part of the everyday material of their marriage.

The motel had been sold to them back in the 60’s, Haraathi had agonised over the offer but Jaganath’s ambitions had allied with her deference and so they found themselves taking part in the American dream. Her agonies had started, after the fact when she was told that they were sold the place in preference to the worst case scenario, of a black family owning it. Haraathi had learned a blunt, ugly truth about life in the South. A black man could work the land, but there were vested interests who worked really hard to make sure they would never own it. Still, it was a chance to own something, and she gave into him, especially when he sold her on the idea of their unborn son being able to achieve things that were the province of the wealthy, and all for swallowing their pride and rolling their sleeves up to make the place a going concern.

The motel was a peeling, squat building, raised like a boil against the black soil. The pair of them worked endless hours, drunk with exhaustion until the ratio of insects to paying guests turned in their favour. Jaganath had agreed to swear off chewing betel and made good on every promise he made to her.

Elango was born in an American hospital on bleached white sheets whilst Jaganath was held in the blissful embrace of powerful anaesthetics and soft-spoken, focused doctors. She held him in her arms and vowed that he would never have to suffer the indignities that they had.

Like so many promises, it came too true.

He had taken from both of them. His father’s ambition and his mother’s intelligence had been apparent in him in the start. What tested her unconditional love of him laid in wait until adolescence when he embraced the politics of his country. Jaganath had been proud to vote Republican. Haraathi agonised over her small act of deception when she would cast her ballot in favour of humanist or liberal candidates. Such defeats were both comforting and upsetting to her, especially when Elango and his father would become boorish and ungracious at the results. By then, the motel was doing great business and Elango was headed for college, with grades that reflected their investment and his potential. She worried about whether he would get into drugs or reckless, casual sex, drop out and reinvent himself as a beatnik of some description.

He became the chair of the Young Republicans on campus, and his heritage was sold as a shining example of the ideals that the country, she observed, spoke to but seldom practiced. His letters carried the density of political speeches, seldom sharing the things that she wished to know. She worried whether he was eating enough or getting the required amount of sleep, his concern was the tide of liberal ideas that would undermine the fabric of the nation.

Jaganath’s pride stopped her from making her worries public. He threw himself into the business, taking over a second motel and a concern in a soul food restaurant that he passed management of, onto his second cousin Pav. She noted that her son’s ambitions had paternal precedent and threw herself into community work when time allowed. That, and devotion held her upright.

What finally did it, was not when Elango announced his candidacy. Jaganath had wept with joy. It was when he introduced Jacqueline, his fiancée and then dropped in casually that he was now going by the name Eric, that his tears of joy simply became joys. Haraathi did not react as she imagined she would. She once heard a quote when she attended (tolerated, really) her monthly book club where she had weathered naïve, vaguely insulting questions about life in India that stayed with her.

I think being a mother is the cruelest thing in the world

That night, she slept well for the first time in years. That her suspicions had been correct. She loved Elango, but she was not sure that she liked him. Now that he was Eric, she was free to admit that to herself.

He announced that he was going to resolve ‘the Hindu problem’ by converting to Christianity and that he hoped they wouldn’t say anything to any journalists, well that sent Jaganath into a deep, fitful depression. He went back on the betel for a while but Haraathi prayed and with a love that had seen them through back-breaking decades, got him on his feet again. With the muted, blank expressions of torture victims, they agreed to their son’s demands.

They watched the inauguration on television. Eric sacked an aide for not sending the invitation, but the three of them knew the truth.

Haraathi took in a deep breath and chanted to Hanuman for his guidance and deliverance. She felt a rush of certainty and a mischievous amusement that made her smile in a way that life in America had not delivered to her aside from brief, manic bursts, mostly when she was alone. By the time, Jaganath joined her to pray, she had concluded her business with Hanuman and they both observed devotions to milder, kinder gods.


No one knows who managed to hack into Eric’s phone and find the salacious sext messages, sent to the buxom intern. Nor was the matter of how it ended up in the email account of the journalist who had dated Jacqueline around the same time and still held the combination grudge cum candle for her but what did make the front page was enough. Haraathi understood politics and American politics in particular, enough to know that with the left wing, it was always money and with the right wing, it was sex.

Elango came home, and in the end, took over the second motel’s management. He would join his parents in devotions but it was always with a grim reluctance which Haraathi accepted as the price of his return to the fold.

After all, she loved her son from the first. Liking him, she accepted, might take a little while longer.


beauty, blogging, creative writing, fiction, flash fiction, grief, love, mother, nature, short fiction, short stories, Uncategorized, wildness, women, writing

A Mother’s Courage


Corrine awoke in a moment of panic. The straps held and she clutched at her rifle. It was a little after dawn, judging by the light and she forced herself to remain still.

She was eight feet above the ground, a fall like that would not have been a good start to the day. Strapped to the thickest branch meant that no one would stumble upon her with three belts arranged at her shins, thighs and around her chest. Her rifle, cradled in her arms with a round chambered.

The night had passed without incident and she remained still, taking in damp, chill breaths whilst her eyes adjusted to the gloom. A branch snapped and she turned, swung the rifle so that the butt sank into the perfect spot on her shoulder.

It was still wearing clothes, a pinstriped suit torn at the shoulders and it’s left cheek had been eaten, revealing a line of perfect even teeth. Black eyes stared out at nothing, and yet it raised it’s head. Her finger moved to the trigger and she took a breath, aimed down the front sight and slipped the bolt back slowly until it gave a solid click.

The shot blew out the back of it’s skull. lifted the scalp like a rug being shook out and it collapsed. She rested the rifle across her as she reached and began unbuckling each belt in turn. She reached for her backpack on the branches above and slipped it onto her shoulders then slung the rifle over her arm and began the careful, slow descent onto the ground. It was time consuming and fraught with danger, but it kept her relatively dry and the rats did not venture above ground. She resumed her walk.

After an hour, she heard a sigh, breathy and uncertain. She brought her rifle up and swept it around her. She knew that they did not breathe, but they somehow found the means to moan and rasp. This did not sound like them but she could never be sure.

She moved towards it, in careful strides, until she saw the woman’s body in the clearing.

The baby girl strapped to the chest, head turned to the side and looking at her. She waved a chubby hand,giving those breathy cries that could erupt into wails at any moment. She came forward, lowered the barrel of the rifle and looked at it. On the sling had been pinned a note, held at the corner with the safety pin.  Corrine peered at it, upper case printed letters, in a careful hand.


Corrine’s eyes went to the blackened patch of skin on her forearm, bitemarks weeping with infection and the skin mottled with decay. She looked into the baby’s eyes, the ruddy pink skin and the wet, pink mouth opening and closing.

Evelyn reached out and gurgled. Corrine’s eyes filled with tears and she slung her rifle over her shoulder, swept the baby up into her arms. She was shocked by the frangible wriggling energy of an infant’s presence. She sobbed at the fresh wonder of the baby’s scent and she let it come. Weeping for people that were gone now. She had gone over to the school, watched her son press his face to the window and then torn away by grey hands and glistening teeth. Cary with Olivia trapped on the highway, penned in and waiting to the end to come.

She kissed the baby again. Shushed her and unzipped her jacket to bring her closer to her skin. Already she had began to think about what was needed, what she would be risking to get this little girl through another day.

‘It’s going to be okay, Evelyn, it’s going to be okay.’

She reached out a boot and placed the heel on the mother’s chest. She took an arm away from Evelyn and reached to the revolver on her hip. She looked down at the blank, beautiful face, pretty despite the decay and thanked her for her courage.

She showed her gratitude with two pulls of the trigger before she went on her way. She had a baby to feed. A mother’s work was never done.