I saw my mother’s photograph today. In her high school year book. a small, grainy image from 1982. I found it at the back of my school library, after much prodding to be allowed to look through the artefacts.
In the picture her hair is bleach blonde, volumised with hairspray in true 80’s fashion. Her face is plumper than it is now, her eyes more engaged, like she was never planning on turning away. It was her smile that discomforted me the most. It seemed too genuine to belong to the mother I knew.
I ran my fingers across her small paragraph of words. She was born in 1964 and her nickname was socks, but I never found out why. She wanted to be a real estate agent.
“That never happened” I said out loud, not capable of keeping my thoughts to myself.
My mother had me two years after that photograph was taken, to a boy 13 years her senior called richie who she married out of necessary and she left with heavy regrets and a messy divorce. She tells me that she would do it all again, step by step to have me. I want to believe her so badly, but something is stopping me, and I don’t even know what it is.
When I arrived home from school that day my mother was laying her bony frame in the middle of the lounge room, tax documents spread out around her. She was wearing her tired blue overalls, which she had purposely splattered in paint to make people think I was more creative. I took the liberty of emptying the astray for her, which was filled with filters and still producing little waifs of smoke. I remember her telling me of how she had started smoking, when she was fourteen. That her boyfriend of the time did it, and she did it just for something to do. Now her habit was just broken promises and lost New Year’s revelations. Nothing got away from my mother’s addictive personality.
We are moving in the spring. To a town called st ives. Which from what I heard, was small and sleepy and only had one MacDonald’s. She was following a hairdressing job, promised to her by a man called jd with too many rings on his fingers.
My half-brother from my dad’s first marriage lives up north with his girlfriend and three cats. I haven’t seen him in five years. I’m hoping to move up there when I turn 17. Quit school and get a job. i want to be a photographer but I don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon.
So right now it’s just me and my mum and the brick wall between us. My mother and her bitterness. Me and all my innocence. Co-existing as we are.
Hi! I'm not going to go into any great detail because Dianne and pinkshearwater have done great, thorough reviews! This was brilliant. I really, really did enjoy this and I loved the simplicity of the piece. I thought the piece being written as a short snippet worked well. I get an underlying sarcasm, humour...I'm not sure how to describe it. Anyway, well done! Keep up the good work!
Thanks,
~Amelia
Hi there! I'll be reviewing this for you today. ^^
a small, grainy image from 1982.
allowed to look through the artefacts.
“That never happened” I said out loud, not capable of keeping my thoughts to myself.
i want to be a photographer but I don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon.
Hello there,
Well this was definitely an excellent read. I absolutely loved the way you didn't pile your story with ornate adjectives and that you didn't drone on and on about a point. Its clean and very focused, yet brings the impact of the images very efficiently.
There were a few points I'd like to go over though (in red) and the things I especially enjoyed (in blue):
I saw my mother’s photograph today. In her high school year book. a small, grainy image from 1982. I found it at the back of my school library, after much prodding to be allowed to look through the artefacts#FF0000 ">artefacts means remnants of destroyed places or culture, try using a different word.
In the picture her hair is bleach #FF0000 ">bleachedblonde, volumised with hairspray in true 80’s fashion#0000FF ">this whole sentence is absolutely gorgeous in its effectiveness. Her face is plumper than it is now, her eyes more engaged, like she was never planning on turning away#FF0000 ">what do you mean by this?. It was her smile that discomforted me the most. It seemed too genuine to belong to the mother I knew.
I ran my fingers across her small paragraph of words. She was born in 1964 and her nickname was socks, but I never found out why. She wanted to be a real estate agent.
“That never happened” I said out loud, not capable of keeping my thoughts to myself.#0000FF ">Good.Makes me get the idea of their relationship
My mother had me two years after that photograph was taken, to a boy 13 years her senior called richie who she married out of necessary #FF0000 ">necessityand she left with heavy regrets and a messy divorce#0000FF ">it is preferable that you start a new sentence after "and" not to break the flow of the paragraph. She tells me that she would do it all again, step by step#FF0000 ">, to have me. I want to believe her so badly, but something is stopping me, and I don’t even know what it is.
When I arrived home from school that day my mother was laying her bony frame in the middle of the lounge room, tax documents spread out around her. She was wearing her tired blue overalls, which she had purposely splattered in paint to make people think I was more creative#FF0000 ">perhaps you should elaborate on this part a bit more, it's a bit obscure. I took the liberty of emptying the astray #FF0000 ">ashtrayfor her, which was filled with filters and still producing little waifs of smoke. I remember her telling me of how she had started smoking, when she was fourteen. That her boyfriend of the time did it, and she did it just for something to do#FF0000 ">this sentence is structured a bit awkwardly, especially the last part; try rephrasing it. Now her habit was just broken promises and lost New Year’s revelations#FF0000 ">do you mean resolutions?. Nothing got away from my mother’s addictive personality.#0000FF ">Great
We are moving in the spring. To a town called st ives. Which from what I heard, was small and sleepy and only had one MacDonald’s. She was following a hairdressing job, promised to her by a man called jd with too many rings on his fingers. #0000BF ">this whole paragrpah is very good as it zooms in on vital details and leaves everything for reader's imagination
My half-brother from my dad’s first marriage lives up north with his girlfriend and three cats. I haven’t seen him in five years. I’m hoping to move up there when I turn 17. Quit school and get a job. i want to be a photographer but I don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon.
So right now it’s just me and my mum and the brick wall between us. My mother and her bitterness. Me and all my innocence. Co-existing as we are.#0000BF ">Yes, the last sentence was great
Keep writing, you definitely got it in you 
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