MOTHER

Stream of Consciousness POV Workshop Entry

Edith Bow is kind enough to run a writing workshop (for free!) that focuses on stream of consciousness POV writing, something I feel… not great at. I have seen incredible results from other authors and have been dying to jump in. I chose to work with Emil Ottoman’s three word prompt “Chessboard, Pyrrhic, Vermillion”. I am thrilled with how my attempt turned out, so thanks very much for including me, Edith. Be sure to check out her workshop.

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I’ve always wanted a rose garden, a living vermillion blanket to cover my beds, to crawl under, be shielded by, protected with. I dream of lying in the earth and letting it grow over me, hide me, and in my dream the roots are not rough. I can picture the view up through the green stems and their swaying nubile buds, the sunlight coming through the thin membranes of leaves, illuminating dark veins against yellow-green hearts of plant life. I’ve always wanted a garden, but my thumbs are pink, fleshy colored — peach maybe. Moons of earth, crescents under my nails from clawing desperate grasping greedy handfuls of this thing we call Mother. I’ve always wanted a garden, but Mother doesn’t like the pinewood box I made for her. She’s always growing out of it. My, look how you’ve grown, you grow up so fast, you’re growing like a weed, little Mother. It’s time I trim you back, put you back in your box. You may outgrow it, you may even try to wither your way out of it, but you’re all mine now. No, your petty pyrrhic victories will only make me try harder. If you outgrow, I will cut you down, if you wither and dry, I will drown you back to life. You, dear Mother, may be the Queen of the chessboard, but I am the one playing the game. I will cultivate you, shape you, ply you into the pretty shapes I like. I will make a checkerboard of boxes and put you in whichever ones I see fit. If you’re good, if you bring me things good to eat and smell, I may even give you something to drink, if I remember. Don’t look so sad, Mother, don’t let your blooms droop and fall, I have plans for you. That natural beauty of yours is exquisite, we simply must display it behind this glass. That fruit of yours is delicious, I will ensure you grow enough for everyone to try it. You see, Mother, I am helping you — you should thank me. I have toiled and worked, soiled my hands and wiled away my days, all for you, all to make you more beautiful. I’ve always wanted a garden, and you do not need so much space. You fit just right in this clay pot, this pinewood box, this cozy bed. I’m as snug as a bug in an emerald rug. And the roots are not rough at all, really, they’re beginning to grow on me. Thank you, Mother, it’s beautiful, truly, just what I’ve always wanted.