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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Survival / Success
- Subject: Inspirational / Uplifting
- Published: 04/13/2020
It was harsh, the winters
Harsher for the whiners
For the caves shook and trees shivered
And sunk onto the miners
Mame was already standing at the door when the men came. Her unbuttoned gown was lazily hanging off of her shoulders, about to fall off. Her eyes had a dog-like resignation, her mind coagulated with her bodily chemicals and her lips babbling intoxicated incantations. All she did, all she could do, was to latch onto their dirty feet while her indecent person crumbled upon the snow. And her infant, too pure to mourn, curled up in his crib in a peaceful slumber. Both exhausted. Both weak. Both abandoned.
The cave between the two muddy plateaus and beneath the woodlots led to a deep passage. Within its depth, the protectors of the village mined the richest coal in His majesty’s territory. Fair men came in funny carriages and took the coal away to the citadel. And in return they would bring them bread. Their sole purpose and their very existence had been fostered in that cave. They called it the ‘Phoenix nest’.
At the arrival of dusk, the sun coloured the cave a heavy crimson; as if still bleeding from the weapons of destruction that decimated its womb and killed its children. As Mame stared at its void, she could only see a grave of her beloved and only feel the cave’s evil spirit lurking in its depths, disguised as the reaper. How she wished it would let her see his husband once, even as a last torture. But the reaper was not known for its kindness. Not since the humans took his job. For Mame there was no scope for weakness. She had to be strong. She had to be brave. For her child. For herself. The fair men traded in coal, for bread had a price. A price she had to pay. And the only currency she possessed was her body. It seemed the reaper had one last soul to take.
Men came and men went. But Mame was there, inside the harrowing blackness, losing an inner battle with every passing day. Beneath the chatter of men, and the thud of chisels and shovels, she quietly released her screams. Every hammer blow seemed to shove a nail in her coffin. As she looked at the dark walls of coal closing in on her vulnerable self, she pushed herself harder to endure the pain - the agony of her body and her heart. Her eyes drooped down, her muscles fatigued, and her tears dried out. Her body lied down but sleep failed to embrace her. Her sighs weren’t sighs anymore, her cries weren’t cries anymore. She earned her bread but wasn’t hungry anymore. She had a fire in her hut, but no warmth anymore. Her infant suckled on her milk, but her nipples numbed out. She couldn’t feel anything. Not anymore.
Times passed and the neighbours talked. The infant grew into a little child. He was told how his mother befriended the witches who wore unholy clothes, danced and frolicked all night and dined with godless men, and how his disgraceful mother would be thrown into the abyss with them; living her remaining life in solitude. The child, confused and scared, cried incessantly. He swung his fist and thumped his feet. He grabbed her arms and banged his forehead on her bosoms. She did not know how to calm her scared child. Yet, hardened by the ugly truths of a hysterically sadistic society, her heart of stone felt the stab of a chisel as she slapped her boy. Shocked, he by her cruelty and she by his sudden pause, both sat there amidst a deafening silence. Yet in the end, attesting the enigma of nature and creation at large, the oppressed ran towards his oppressor in search of solace. While Mame took her boy in her arms she stroked his brown little head and said,
“Men don’t cry in this land, Amari.”
The days in the cave didn’t seem long now. Her body did all the work while her gaze was transfixed and her mind transcended into her memories.
“Did it hurt when they whipped you?” she asked, resting her head on her husband’s shoulders.
“Like the coal I mine, I burn too Mame,” he said, tucking her closer to his chest, “….but my mantle remains black, and it shall remain that way!”
Frenzied she asked, “Is it true that a phoenix rises from its own ashes?”
Laughing, he reached for her lips and pecked her. Caressing her belly he said, “If it is, I’ll fly both of you to the citadel one day!”
As the clanging of cold metal broke her trance, she found herself lying, spent and used; her skin blending with the coal and a fear of death gripping her. Knowing, one day, a long time ahead, she would decompose into the earth and in a vicious cycle of life, come back to this very cave, as the coal around her. And even in death and rebirth, she would only go on to get hurt by the instruments of men.
But she couldn’t fall now. She knew she had to keep on going. For herself. For Amari.
“Don’t worry love! I’ll fulfill your promise.”
She often wondered what her life amounted to. 'The woman who sold her body'- they said. Some said she was a victim, others called her a predator. Some deemed her worthy of respect, while others shamed her. 'She's necessary!' - she once heard. Though she knew her sacrifice meant nothing, she respected the witches and the wizards, who willingly or unwillingly, had chosen to endure the embers of a burning world falling down on the thin skin of their fragile society. She only smiled at them. The whites and their destruction, and the 'dark' whites with their rotten bread cursed her as 'the whore.'
'If only they knew'- she thought. If only.
Then came a time, when the plateaus lost their greenery, the woodlots dried out and the cave almost hollowed. The villagers did not serve His majesty now. Their bread was their own. And their coal was everybody’s. Fewer men worked now. And as the men slowly abondoned the nest, so did Mame. But it was acceptable, as Mame lost her youth and Amari gained his. It was his time to go to the citadel on his own, leaving the ‘Phoenix nest’ barren. He knew now, that fairies were from old fairy tales. But the demons were real. They told him he will not be accepted, like his mother. That they would disapprove of his skin. That they were not supposed to go there, especially since he was his mother's son.
Amari would kiss his mother's forehead and tell them how if it wasn’t for her, his father’s tools wouldn’t still be hot, but rusting away back to the earth. How she never let the winter make him cold or the famine keep him hungry. He told them how immensely proud he was of his mother.
His mother, the coal miner.
The Phoenix Nest(Kanishka Roy)
It was harsh, the winters
Harsher for the whiners
For the caves shook and trees shivered
And sunk onto the miners
Mame was already standing at the door when the men came. Her unbuttoned gown was lazily hanging off of her shoulders, about to fall off. Her eyes had a dog-like resignation, her mind coagulated with her bodily chemicals and her lips babbling intoxicated incantations. All she did, all she could do, was to latch onto their dirty feet while her indecent person crumbled upon the snow. And her infant, too pure to mourn, curled up in his crib in a peaceful slumber. Both exhausted. Both weak. Both abandoned.
The cave between the two muddy plateaus and beneath the woodlots led to a deep passage. Within its depth, the protectors of the village mined the richest coal in His majesty’s territory. Fair men came in funny carriages and took the coal away to the citadel. And in return they would bring them bread. Their sole purpose and their very existence had been fostered in that cave. They called it the ‘Phoenix nest’.
At the arrival of dusk, the sun coloured the cave a heavy crimson; as if still bleeding from the weapons of destruction that decimated its womb and killed its children. As Mame stared at its void, she could only see a grave of her beloved and only feel the cave’s evil spirit lurking in its depths, disguised as the reaper. How she wished it would let her see his husband once, even as a last torture. But the reaper was not known for its kindness. Not since the humans took his job. For Mame there was no scope for weakness. She had to be strong. She had to be brave. For her child. For herself. The fair men traded in coal, for bread had a price. A price she had to pay. And the only currency she possessed was her body. It seemed the reaper had one last soul to take.
Men came and men went. But Mame was there, inside the harrowing blackness, losing an inner battle with every passing day. Beneath the chatter of men, and the thud of chisels and shovels, she quietly released her screams. Every hammer blow seemed to shove a nail in her coffin. As she looked at the dark walls of coal closing in on her vulnerable self, she pushed herself harder to endure the pain - the agony of her body and her heart. Her eyes drooped down, her muscles fatigued, and her tears dried out. Her body lied down but sleep failed to embrace her. Her sighs weren’t sighs anymore, her cries weren’t cries anymore. She earned her bread but wasn’t hungry anymore. She had a fire in her hut, but no warmth anymore. Her infant suckled on her milk, but her nipples numbed out. She couldn’t feel anything. Not anymore.
Times passed and the neighbours talked. The infant grew into a little child. He was told how his mother befriended the witches who wore unholy clothes, danced and frolicked all night and dined with godless men, and how his disgraceful mother would be thrown into the abyss with them; living her remaining life in solitude. The child, confused and scared, cried incessantly. He swung his fist and thumped his feet. He grabbed her arms and banged his forehead on her bosoms. She did not know how to calm her scared child. Yet, hardened by the ugly truths of a hysterically sadistic society, her heart of stone felt the stab of a chisel as she slapped her boy. Shocked, he by her cruelty and she by his sudden pause, both sat there amidst a deafening silence. Yet in the end, attesting the enigma of nature and creation at large, the oppressed ran towards his oppressor in search of solace. While Mame took her boy in her arms she stroked his brown little head and said,
“Men don’t cry in this land, Amari.”
The days in the cave didn’t seem long now. Her body did all the work while her gaze was transfixed and her mind transcended into her memories.
“Did it hurt when they whipped you?” she asked, resting her head on her husband’s shoulders.
“Like the coal I mine, I burn too Mame,” he said, tucking her closer to his chest, “….but my mantle remains black, and it shall remain that way!”
Frenzied she asked, “Is it true that a phoenix rises from its own ashes?”
Laughing, he reached for her lips and pecked her. Caressing her belly he said, “If it is, I’ll fly both of you to the citadel one day!”
As the clanging of cold metal broke her trance, she found herself lying, spent and used; her skin blending with the coal and a fear of death gripping her. Knowing, one day, a long time ahead, she would decompose into the earth and in a vicious cycle of life, come back to this very cave, as the coal around her. And even in death and rebirth, she would only go on to get hurt by the instruments of men.
But she couldn’t fall now. She knew she had to keep on going. For herself. For Amari.
“Don’t worry love! I’ll fulfill your promise.”
She often wondered what her life amounted to. 'The woman who sold her body'- they said. Some said she was a victim, others called her a predator. Some deemed her worthy of respect, while others shamed her. 'She's necessary!' - she once heard. Though she knew her sacrifice meant nothing, she respected the witches and the wizards, who willingly or unwillingly, had chosen to endure the embers of a burning world falling down on the thin skin of their fragile society. She only smiled at them. The whites and their destruction, and the 'dark' whites with their rotten bread cursed her as 'the whore.'
'If only they knew'- she thought. If only.
Then came a time, when the plateaus lost their greenery, the woodlots dried out and the cave almost hollowed. The villagers did not serve His majesty now. Their bread was their own. And their coal was everybody’s. Fewer men worked now. And as the men slowly abondoned the nest, so did Mame. But it was acceptable, as Mame lost her youth and Amari gained his. It was his time to go to the citadel on his own, leaving the ‘Phoenix nest’ barren. He knew now, that fairies were from old fairy tales. But the demons were real. They told him he will not be accepted, like his mother. That they would disapprove of his skin. That they were not supposed to go there, especially since he was his mother's son.
Amari would kiss his mother's forehead and tell them how if it wasn’t for her, his father’s tools wouldn’t still be hot, but rusting away back to the earth. How she never let the winter make him cold or the famine keep him hungry. He told them how immensely proud he was of his mother.
His mother, the coal miner.
Kevin Hughes
10/26/2021Kanishka,
I don't know how I missed this one. As you can tell from the Thread, everyone loves it. And as far as "When a writer of the Month says I've got it going on, I will belive that person." Well, you are that person! Writer of the Month to go along with all your other well deserved accolades.
This story is wonderful, so you garnered a lot of comments...and mine too. Bernardo couldn't have written a better comment, one that I would have written myself. To see how well you write, communicate, and imagine, in a second langauge (maybe even third) is simply mind boggling.
Well done!
Smiles, Kevin
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Kanishka Roy
10/26/2021And the writer of the month thing truly is a full circle. Thanks for pointing that out. Makes me appreciate my own journey, and how far I have come. Thank you Kevin, from the bottom of my heart. And one huge thanks to Julie!
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Kanishka Roy
10/26/2021Hey Kevin,
This story is quiet special for me. This is the one that reignited my zeal for writing and to be finally acknowledged by one of my most vocal supporters of my work in storystar, I must admit, feels fulfilling.
And yeah English is not my first language but it's the one that I am the most comfortable in expressing my ideas through.
Thanks a lot for your support as always.
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Bernardo Mendes
10/25/2021Beautifull story Kanishka! I've said it before but I have to say it again, your writing skills are awsome, and your imagination amazing!
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Lillian Kazmierczak
10/24/2021That story moved me. His mother doing what she needed to do to keep them alive and the son realizing her self-sacrifice to appreciate it for what it is. Your writing is wonderful. You really are talented. You should pursue a career in writing.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Kanishka Roy
10/24/2021That's just so good to hear! Thank you so much. Maybe professionally it's not possible as of now.... But I'll never stop pursuing writing that's for sure
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Martha Huett
06/30/2020You've really got it going on, man. Thanks for this story and its prequel. The depth of your writing is so enjoyable. :)
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Kanishka Roy
06/30/2020Hey,
Thanks so much for the kind words. When the writer of the month says I've got it going on, then I'll believe that person. LoL.
I'm so glad you liked the stories.
I've actually made an abridged version of the prequel in a video recitation. I would love it if you take a peak.
You'll find it in my profile. Hope to hear your insights soon!
Love!
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Jason James Parker
05/02/2020You write at an enviable level, Kanishka. Your turn of phrase is efficient, insightful and beautiful. : )
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Kanishka Roy
05/02/2020Coming from you, that's satisfying!
I'm glad you found it insightful as I used too many allegories.
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
JD
04/13/2020I think you write beautifully, Kanishka. Your story if full of depth of feeling, understanding, and empathy for those who struggle to survive under difficult circumstances. I'm not sure I agree with your classification of your story as 'inspirational' though.... it seemed more like the opposite to me... except perhaps in the end when the child defended his mother and honored her for the sacrifices she had made for him. Yet he was then to follow in the footsteps of his parents in the mines... a black hole of suffering which sucks the life from those who descend into the depths to survive. Or perhaps I am misinterpreting your meaning? Anyway, I thought your story was outstanding and thought provoking. And I really like the short 'About Me' you gave in your Author Profile: "Trying to understand the world one story at a time." Beautiful. I hope that you will share more of your 'world understandings' with us soon. Thank you for sharing this short story with us, and welcome to Storystar! :-)
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Kanishka Roy
04/13/2020Hey there!
Truly appreciate the warm welcome and the very kind words! Feels new, tbh. I am really glad to be here!
About the category, I really couldn't find anything appropriate for this and I inspirational seemed the closest. And I fully agree with you. About your interpretation, I tried to represent the citadel as the zenith of the minority's ambitions. The boy growing up to reach that height is supposed to be symbolic of him breaking the cycle of nepotism and breaking the shackles of a bigot society. I guess I need to be working on my narration.
Again, thanks for the welcome!
COMMENTS (7)