Competition Thirty Shortlisted: Mama Says by Emma Phillips
Mama says hate grows slowly; it festers in corners, plants its seed, gains momentum until its tendrils tighten around the core of you, the kind of weed you need to rip out before it takes hold of everything. Mama says hate is an ugly flower. It has no scent she reckons, but insects still swarm to it. Animal law is not for equals; some creatures thrive on division. Mama says home is more than land, sometimes it’s a feeling. She places a hand to her chest as she talks, spreading her fingers like petals of jasmine. She says they can’t take it away from us. Home, Mama whispers, is here.
Mama says hate is a master of disguise. It wraps itself in pomp and ceremony, but when the last beat of the drum has sounded, the loudest noise is truth. Mama says hate is the wind and we are the waves chasing the shore. Mama is strong, her love, a tsunami.
Mama says our story began when hate tried to twist her memories. All that she and Papa had known was reduced to a bedroll he strapped to his back. In the bottom of their bag, Mama placed a root from her garden in Damascus. A rose, she tells us, one hand to the earth, can thrive both there and here. In Arabic, Zahra means blossom.
Mama says hate is a snag of barbed wire, the sort that surrounds a prison. She says men can turn themselves into jails. But we are free to choose. Mama says hate is the lies it tells. We are not to believe them. A thorn draws blood when it pierces skin, but a rose will flower when it lays down roots.
Emma Phillips is a short fiction writer from Devon. She lives by the M5, which constantly lures her off on adventures. She is addicted to crisps.
Photo by Wyxina Tresse
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