Mother

This was an assignment for a college creative writing course, written in 2001.


Mother
@----8--------

Wind whispering through the willows; don’t relax until you are told, dear. My head nods against the trunk, but my eyes won’t focus. My ears hear the words of my mother, but my mind won’t comprehend it. Smile at me, seedless strawberry, I see your teeth have grown in nicely. I pluck you from my basket, Mother droning on about etiquettes and clothing I must buy for myself. I need to look presentable. I need to be polite, cheerful, presentable. But I must also be myself. I scoff inside my bubble of willow boughs, her ears unable to hear such a degrading sound. Selective hearing: the way someone hears only what they want to. Think it’s contagious? Mother has it. Mother has it bad.

Sit up straight, dear, she says. My crooked back can’t take much more, Mother, I think to myself. Don’t make me mother, no. I sit up straight, my back twisting in on itself, hissing at me in the light of the day. I cringe, my spine echoing the dark of night as I sit back against the tree, sitting on a bough as the wind tickles my nose.

Don’t point with your finger, dear, Mother says. I quirk a brow at that one. What does she mean, don’t point with my finger? What am I to do, jut my chin out like a monkey? Hop up and down on one foot, jerking my elbow in the direction I wish her attention to be thrown? I don’t think so, Mother. That is one etiquette that I will not break under.

Bathe every day, same time every day. I snort within my shield of leaves, staring at the green walls that shelter me. Bathe, I thought, every day, same time. Same Bat time, same Bat channel, I thought with a smirk. Yes, oh Joker in my life, I will bathe everyday. But I will revolt against you! I will bathe one hour earlier or one hour later than that of the previous day! Yet, I shall still bathe.

Do not speak until spoken to, dear, Mother says. I roll my eyes, resting my head against the tree, thankful someone is on my side. Am I just a tape player that someone can press the play button? Am I just some automaton to waltz around with my head down, eyes averted, for you to gawk at, mother? I will speak when I wish, Mother, you cannot stop me at that. My voice will rise above everyone else’s, mother, and you will not like it; for I have a voice, mother, no matter what you say.

Dress appropriately, dear, Mother says. Again, Mother, with the appearances. Are you so shallow as to allow me to choose what clothes to wear not out of personal preference, but out of society’s preference? Do you wish me to be another mindless drone, another wandering soul on this planet with no inkling of who I am? Who you are, Mother? Who are you, Mother? Do I know you? You look different.

Oh, no, you are still the same, spouting etiquettes at me like there is no tomorrow, your fur glistening in the sun, your beady eyes the colour of the daytime sky in late winter. Oh, Mother, my faithful Siberian husky. Mother, why does my human mother tell me these things and let you reinforce them?
Would you like a strawberry, Mother? It’s smiling at you.

uh... this doesn't strike me as poetry, of any kind, sorry.

but, you deserve a crit anyway. ^_^

Same bat time, same Bat channel

I think that this is supposed to be bath, not bat

that's the only grammatical mistake I can see, but I'm somewhat disappointed, in both the ending, and the entire... feeling the poem conveyed.

but, good try, none the less

-Pros

This was well written but certainly not poetry, I suggest it be moved.

With that out the way, it's a good story and you use repetition effectively. I have to agree that the twist at the end, rather than making me think and adding to the originality, disapointed me. It threw me and somehow not in a good way. The story is still good though, your grammar is fine apart from the mistake already indicated by Pros and I love the way your persona thinks to herself. The whole 'dear, mother' thing you have going on. Overall, a good piece of work.

It's bat. As in Batman. "Same Bat time, same Bat channel" from the old, old live-action TV series. So the grammar on that is fine.

To be honest, I didn't re-read it before posting it. I wrote it years and years ago and decided to unearth it. It was a Creative Writing assignment in college and it was certainly a narrative prose poem. That was the assignment and the professor graded it as such. So the placement in the forums should be fine, as far as I'm aware. Maybe move it to "other".

The end was supposed to throw a curve from out of no where. It was meant to throw the reader entirely off track from the rest of the piece. It was sort of a sour note, a scratch on the chalkboard. So the reactions from the both of you make me happy.

The feeling was meant to be something of a choppy sensation. The adolescent, pubescent ramblings of a girl about her mother, but at the same time to the faithful dog who enforces it all.

I'd think of this piece as other fiction, but I'd like to say that I rather enjoyed it. I like the subjects you touched on and the piece as a whole was rather quirky with the feelings it gave.

The best paragraph was:

"Dress appropriately, dear, Mother says. Again, Mother, with the appearances. Are you so shallow as to allow me to choose what clothes to wear not out of personal preference, but out of society’s preference? Do you wish me to be another mindless drone, another wandering soul on this planet with no inkling of who I am? Who you are, Mother? Who are you, Mother? Do I know you? You look different. "

I've come to realize that people are still like that in this day and age; they dress in ways to be approved as acceptable in certain society. No thank you, comfort first for me. Yeah, sure that that jacket may look classy and like a million bucks, but is it comfortable? I can't relate to people like that.

The first three lines of the last paragraph gave me a few interesting images with the description of the eyes and the fur. I had a bit of trouble digesting the sentence; "Mother, why does my human mother tell me these things and let you reinforce them?" It was the bump in an otherwise smooth road.

"Would you like a strawberry, Mother? It’s smiling at you." - Oh, I love it! It reminds me of the simple, sweet, innocent thoughts of children. It made me laugh and reminisce. It ended on a happy note. A silly note. It's a perspective that isn't explored much in writing, it reminded me a bit of Alice In Wonderland, in the way how a little girl is thinking aloud all the time... in her own little world as she sees it with smiling strawberries... I dunno. ...Now I'm rambling. Rambling on, trying to express how this flash fic made me feel and what it made me think of.

Thanks for writing a piece that I thoroughly enjoyed.

I'm not sure the debate on the piece's placement, but all I know is what assignment it was for.

Thank you, Fabien, for your comment. Sometimes in things like this, the author means for the bumps and the skips. Rather like the DJ purposely scratching records to create a mood. To create a beat that's a little different than the record intended.

It's great when people can get things out of a piece that the author had never intended. I'm glad you could walk away with those feelings.

I really enjoyed this piece, Kel! I don't have too much time for an in-depth critique--technically I'm not even supposed to be on here while at work, lol--but I'll take the opportunity right now just to let you know that, wherever it belongs in the forums here, it made me smile and made my afternoon run a little faster. Thanks.

Lovely poetic prose...but yes, really ought to be under prose forum, I think. ^_^







Moved to Other Fiction