Mother-Daughter Relations and Other Horror Stories – Electric Literature
These books about mother-daughter relationships take a look at the Roadwalkers tells both Mary and her daughter's stories as they rise. What are some good stories on mother and son relationships? .. Didn't motherhood start when she was a daughter worrying about her dad when he walked. Each story is an exploration, a journey, a search for something I cannot express in any other way. Mother-daughter relationships have been my.
At the casino, she takes out forty dollars for herself before handing her wallet to me.
I have bowl after bowl until I feel ill. When my mother is empty-handed, she collapses onto the chair across from me. I am silent, which only irritates her further.
I learned long ago not to ask for details. My mother shields herself from her memories as though defending against a sharp instrument, withdrawing into her bedroom for days at a time. This is what I imagine: My four-year-old mother finds a dying bird lying on hot concrete. Its wings and legs must be broken because it just lies there, flopping like a fish out of water.
My mother, transfixed by it, watches until it makes its last flop. To save the stiff, soft body from the sun, she brings it in to her mother, who is taking a bath. There is a hardness about her too. She is a sunken gourd, the hollow inside swollen with water. Years of nicotine have created this baby-doll, too-bright yellow.
When my mother brings her the bird, her palm opened for her mother to see, what she has in mind is to lay the bird body along the porcelain edge of the tub, like an offering. But before she can place it there, her mother splashes her and the bird and tells her to get out of the house. My mother hides the bird under an empty, upside-down flower pot for later because her mother is already calling after her again. Naked except for a frayed lime-green towel around her middle, her mother knocks her on the head several times, each one harder, and tells her to scrub her hands.
My mother thinks she looks like an angry vegetable. This is when my mother is the youngest child, and her siblings are all in school. My mother trails behind watching the orange skirt hem fall behind and catch up with round, pink calves. Her mother does not ask her to hold her hand. My mother stares at a painting of an owl on a tree limb.
I return home from school to find The Texas Chain Saw Massacre on the kitchen counter, a fresh bottle of vodka next to it. Texas Chain Saw is our favorite. Slasher films mean one of two things, either a really good day or a really bad day.
The skin under her eyes is yellow. I unscrew the top off the vodka, get a bottle of tonic from the pantry, and set out two glasses. I put three ice cubes in each, fill them half way up with vodka, the rest tonic.
I pass her a glass.
Mother-Daughter Relations and Other Horror Stories
I took night classes while working full-time and raising you, and all by myself. I show her a pizza from the freezer and wait for a nod, which she gives.
- The top 10 stories of mothers and daughters
We put in Texas Chain Saw and each curl up in our own blankets at opposite ends of the couch. A few times our feet accidentally touch through the blankets, and we bounce off each other.
We like being sucked up inside ourselves, safe in our own salty warmth. I saw the house she grew up in just once. This was also the only time I ever saw my grandparents. My mother took me to visit them the Christmas before her father died.
The living room was like a place deep under the ground. Whenever I thought about being buried alive, usually I thought no oxygen, bones desperate for space, and the worst kind of aloneness you could imagine.
But being buried alive with other people, your family, and the smell of them as they suck up oxygen that could have been yours: Three scrawny, hairless dogs were piled on top of each other in a round bed next to the television. The house smelled like hairless dog skin. The rest of the house was closed doors with thick, mottled glass, so that all I could see were faint shadows.
There was almost no light in the house except for in the kitchen. Her face seemed yellow too, and I could barely understand what she said. I remember that I asked my mother later whether my grandmother was from another country.
Metal pans were arranged like a mosaic. There were brownies, oatmeal cookies, butter cookies, a cake with cherries and marzipan, and fudge, peanut butter and chocolate.
She pushed the pans toward me, and I hesitated. I knew the story of Hansel and Gretel. But I was afraid of her too.
She asked him if he was taking care of himself. She brought him packages of summer sausage and a cheese log. Before we left, my grandmother stood and lifted a cardboard box from the top of the refrigerator. It was called Bitsy the Spider. In the car on the way home, my mother asked me if I really wanted to keep that old torn-up book. She looked fierce, like she was going to tear up the road.
She smiles at me. Earlier in the week I developed a rash on my stomach, and when I told her I was worried about it and wanted to see a doctor, she told me it was nothing and that it would go away. She said I was a hypochondriac — this from my mother, who is sick all the time. I went to the doctor on my own, and it turned out I had scarlet fever.
Within a couple of days, the rash covered most of my legs and arms and chest. My rash was like a puddle of purple ink, spilled all over my body. I looked like a burn victim. It was thirty degrees outside, but I walked around the house in shorts and a tank top, not just because I was burning up half the time, but because I wanted my mother to see my skin, to see what she had called hypochondria. No over-the-counter pain medication would do the job.
What she did was yesterday she brought home a bag full of soup packets. Inside the bag are two plain white boxes, and I lift the lids to find two wigs. This always makes her angry, but I hate to think of money wasted.
My hair is already up in a bun, so I slip it over my head. My mother adjusts it for me. I look like a stranger. I imagine myself running through the aisle of a drug store, knocking bottles from shelves. My lipstick is smeared across my cheek, and I am singing at the top of my lungs.
There is no other Sally. You could try the other one. My mother cannot answer me. I try to do something nice for you, and this is what I get. This girl fits my mood. It fits real well. I want you to put the other one on. I feel cruel somehow, my hands in her hair like this. Her hair is dry and brittle from years of coloring.
The bobby pins give her the look of a woman who hangs out in laundromats, smoking cigarettes and coughing. My mother has never smoked a cigarette in her life, yet she has aged like a smoker. Stress has laid its hand on her. I set the blonde wig down upon her head. I pull and tug until it seems snug. The blonde is too blonde.
She is running her fingers through the strands. It hurts me to see her do this. When I won a couple of awards at my junior high commencement, my mother told me she was proud of me.
Inspirational Story Mom and Daughter Relationships | corrosion-corrintel.info
Each story is an exploration, a journey, a search for something I cannot express in any other way. Mother-daughter relationships have been my preoccupation over the past 20 years.
Here are some of the books that have inspired me. The Great Mother by Erich Neumann translated from the German by Ralph Manheim Ever since the dawn of western civilisation, we have lived within patriarchal structures. So what has happened to the feminine in our human subconscious? The philosopher and psychologist Neumann was a student of Carl Jung.
9 Books on the Complexities of Mother-Daughter Relationships
In this classic he traces the representation of the feminine from the beginning of image-making in caves via mythological storytelling to monotheistic religions. A psychologically insightful and thought-provoking read.
The story presents us with a poetic reminder of how narrow traditional roles for women were — even if at first glance it might appear there was space for self-defined manoeuvre. It is written with empathy and honesty by a woman who has come to terms with a difficult mother. Searching for Mercy Street: But she was also bipolar and incapable of fulfilling her role as mother. She has five daughters, and no higher aspiration than to find husbands for them. At the end of the book the author sighs: