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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

A short story about Tasha's mother who is struggling to cope with her PTSD after losing her mother who was her pillar of strength and decides to drink her sorrows away,while trying hard to hide it away from her teen daughter Tasha,who is a poet and story writer.Tasha can see through her mother and want to reach out to her but she can't and wishes her boyfriend Phiwa,who is an ultimate solution to every obstacle she comes across was there to help her with her mother.



When all life is gone,all that's left are tears of remembrance.Red infected tears squirt from my half closed eyes,down my delicate cheeks and drop down to the silk white dress i have embellished myself with...

I think the dress fitted my dame better,she never stained it with any blood,it always remained immaculate....well until an AK-47 bullet that came like a wreaking ball ripped her ribcage apart.She became mute the minute the metal touched her dirty skin then all her cries and cries softened and she lay there,soaked in blood,helplessly in the pavement,exhaling all her life out.It was then I knew the grim reaper had cuffed her since it had been a while he had been flirting with her.My tear buds instantly collected liquid and I effortlessly let them out ,stained her dress for the first time with my red tears and since then it has always been the case,staining it with all types of wines and later,when sober,rinse it with warm water,warm like the cups of rooibos tea she used to cook in the pot every morning.



Containing her blood that was infiltrating in the pavement but it was impossible to do so because not only her blood was leaving her body,her loving soul and motherly spirit which I couldn't catch and contain were chasing the wind.I tried holding back my tears but I emptied my vessels out till dry.Maybe I might need a refill from the wines downtown...

Watching the woman with soft clay hands that have moulded me into what I am,running out of life finds no place in my memory stick instead it hounds around and attemps me to get another JACK DANIELS bottle from our closest pub.Haha..I should buy shares in that place,I'm their most loyal customer.


I pray every night and gulp bitter tasting mugs of vodka and wine afterwards.

Wait,I'm an angel and this act is unacceptable...

But..Jesus turned water into wine so I'm helping him finish the ones with price tags contained in bottles that everyone labels ungodly.

Oh!The heavens must be roaring with praises and applauses!

But maybe they should save those for when i finally sing for them.

Sing for them,with a broken voice,my ears echoing my mother's cry,maybe I might just sing that out.

A musician that cannot hold a note,just a glass of wine in hand and later burps melodies of melancholy.

Will God listen or will God banish such?

A drunken angel?


anyways let me not worry about that and head to the store before Tasha comes back from the library.




Man,that diamond refracts a positive view of life into my dull shell and I praise my ovaries for carrying such.She somehow saves me from my misery and I never have to take my inner child on a playdate around her,she got books to read for the little princess widow and hush her cries,her cries for a mother lying six feet undergroup.She's got braincells that work like a whirlwind,with a solution to every wonder and obstacle,isn't she just perfect?


While these thoughts run a marathon in my mind,I hear the door cracking open and I figure out that must be the return of the sunshine.Indeed,as soon as she steps in the house,like candles,colouring crayons and all the colours of the rainbow,she brings light and love to the room.

'Hey Mom,Phiwa and I hve been working on these super beautiful stories for our book,could you please take time to read them and do a review?'I then ecstatically take the treasure book out and hand it over to her.


Tasha's pov:


She has been crying,I can see it in her eyes,all red and swollen up.I want to erupt into an ear piercing temper tantrum as she goes on and on about how beautiful her day was and how she is dipping her toes into self help ponds.The vulnerability is written all over her countanance but she is still trying so hard to act tough.I adore the way she always goes out of her way for me,all the love and support showers and backrubs with affection afterwards but right now,she's the one who needs all that,from me.If my father were round,maybe he would've been her 'HOLD MY HAND,I'M DROWNING IN SELF DESTROY POOLS' but he is not here.The aotie ducked two seconds after I was born and I would probably trip over him on the street.I've always imagined how death-of-thousand-wounds boring a reunion with him would be,sad hey.

But let me brush that off,all i need right now is my dame okay,smiling and uproarious laughing.


Honestly all she got is me,why doesn't she let me be the sprindle fibres so I can hold the chromatid she is into the right headspace,where healing art is a meal for any course of the day?

Maybe if amiable Phiwa[my boyfriend] were here,he would skate us out of this mystrry,he's good with those.


But maybe the stories might do the trick,she might find the cure to her misery and stop overworking her brain and emotions.Only then she would have control over her conscious mind that works like a relentless overachiever,incessantly spinning around from thought to thought,stopping only when she sleeps[if she does],then starting up again the second she blinks back to reality.Only the demons screeching in her headbord would finally show face and I'd punch them for her,just like she always punches mine.


Oh,I completely forgot to tell you guys I am in the kitchen,making her her favourite kiwi smoothie and as I enter our room with the glasses in my hand,I'm caught by her smile with the storybook in her hands and a high pitched voice dictating 'Go rinse your fingertips,they are bleeding!CREATIVITY!'.


Submitted: June 01, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Qhamisa Mazwana. All rights reserved.

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