50 Word Stories: Childhood Saved

She scrubbed with a vigour that belied her young years repeatedly dabbing her sponge into her pink bucket, then rubbing for all she was worth.
“It’s frosted glass,” said her mother.
“But I want to see outside.”
“That’s why it’s frosted.”
“I don’t want the world to see you.”


I thought she lived there,

So many hours did she spend

Upending cupboards to find ingredients

For days of incessant cooking.

The mistress of the washing machine,

Queen of the ironing board,

She lived them all daily.

When you’re young it seems normal,

As you grow older, less so.

But only when you reach a certain age,

Have a certain understanding of life,

Does your mother’s love affair with the kitchen seem wrong:

She did not love it, never loved it.

That room of the exotic smells

And constant running water

Was simply the furthest away from Him;

But he’s gone.

Now, she plays golf:

She is unchained and happy.

I wish I’d known of bolt cutters 

When I was five.

The Place Where Mothers Are Made

Are you sure you wish to know the way? 

You do. 

Then follow my words and do not stray for mothers are made in no other way.
Behind the old mill stands a mistletoe hedge covered in globes of mystical white. Dig deep, look through, and if you’re lucky you’ll find a lane. It isn’t always there, magic doesn’t work like that. Follow the lane to Nowhere Wood and enter with an open heart. Don’t stray from the path. Things could get unpleasant.
After the wood comes the land of stars, where mountains climb and eagles soar: eagles are the keepers of the route, but only if they wish to show it. Pick one and follow it over whichever range it flies. I know that sounds impossible, but things move slower in fantastical realms. Climb and climb, then climb again, until you reach the star filled heavens that crest the massifs. Choose your star and jump for it. 
You won’t, you say!

You must trust this old man. 

There is no other way.

Now, where was I?
Jump and clasp the star between your palms and hold on. Oh, and don’t forget to close your eyes. The star won’t take you anywhere if your eyes are open. The place where mothers are made is more secret than the place you go to at the end. If you catch my meaning, that is. You’ll know when you can open them again, you’ll here needles. 
Here’s the most important part of all. Listen good or some child, somewhere, in some time and some place won’t get their mother and that would be a crying shame.

Peep through the windows of the little, log cabin you find yourself outside and you’ll see a lady old as time itself. She’ll be crocheting mothers for all the children of the world. She’s the mother maker, you see. She makes them all. That’s all she does. It’s a full time job and she puts her heart and soul into each and every one. Her needles are the ticking of our hearts and that’s the truth.
You don’t believe me!

You must.

You never know, it could be yours she’s knitting.

Now, what was I saying. 

Ah, home.
Before you leave, you must write your name in the visitors book, as folk can only visit the place where mothers are made once and once only. When you’re done, close your eyes and wish for home. You’ll wake up back outside the old mill. 
I’m a crazy old fool, you say.

Then you’ve no love and no soul and I pity you. 

You’re sorry. 

You should be.

Oh, and one more thing before you go. 

Please push this slip of paper under the old woman’s door.


Because I want her to know I still love her. 

We don’t all get to see our mothers as much as we’d like and I’m no different.

What does it say?

Why, just what we should all say to our mothers.

I love and miss you.


Lonely Nights

Hush, my child,

Your tears deserve much more.

Tenuous droplets of hope,

They pass me by unchecked,

Unseen, ignored.

Shuttered and lonely,

I walk the streets,

Making un-light of the luminance,

When I should be with you.

No choice, I plead!

But there is always choice.

Lonely nights for us both.