Young Writers Society

I struggled out of my mothers grasp

I struggled out of my mother's grasp

When I was a little girl I thought that the world would live forever. That nothing could destroy it or hurt it. Never did I imagine or even realize that this was not so. I love the earth, and I love my people. But when it finally came to me what was really happening I had no idea what to do. I liked this introduction but it was also a little confusing with the wording and the way you are introducing the story.

I was only eight years old. My father had gone out with a group of people in the village to collect more wood. My mother was with me, and we were making supper for when my father returned.

“Karra, make sure you add enough salts to that or it will taste funny,” Mother had told me. I nodded and applied a little pinch of salt, pointing my little pinkie finger up to look like a princess, dainty and careful with every movement. Mother had smiled and laughed.

“Mother, why aren’t there enough trees for everyone?” I had asked so innocently, for I was a child and knew nothing of the truth. Mother didn’t want to tell me yet, but I asked so many questions that should have pointed to some part of the real picture. And yet I was naïve and scared to ever see such a thing happening to the place and people I loved so much. I wish now that it had occurred to me sooner. I think this is probably just me but I think you should try to tell more about what's happening.

“Well, dear,” Mother said delicately, “Trees aren’t very common these days. They like to grow in certain places that are hard to get to.”

I nodded, completely trusting her every word. “Oh. That’s why?”

“Yes, dear.”

We worked at the dough for awhile, me in my happy silence and mother in her disturbed silence. My thoughts were consumed of my current life, which was always happy and hardly ever sad or disappointing. My father was a good friend of the mayor. They worked together to find ways of preserving the trees and finding more resources for the village people to survive off of. My mother stayed home with me most of the time and taught me how to read and write.

Reading and writing were not forgotten yet. I knew that before this time there was one where everyone knew how to read and write in at least one language. But now things are different. Survival is human instinct, and it has taken over most people’s lives. Food and water are scarce in many, many areas. You may find one city with a great amount of food and water, but the one next to it is starving. That’s why war is everywhere now. No one knows how to share. Nobody has time to learn how to read and write when most of the world’s population is starving and parched. Parched sounds a little strange in this context maybe try dehydrated

But our village was very fortunate. A river ran from the top of a mountain, flowing down into our village whereeveryone drank from. There were small forests surrounding us, with bushels of berries and game to be hunted. We did not cut the wood there for fear that our only source of food would be diminished to nothing. So we went to the east, further into the deep valleys of the unknown.

It was also fortunate that no one had found us. Our village was hidden in the mountains where airships could not see us from the sky. If someone had found us we would all be in grave danger. Greed and raw panic had a tight grip on the people of earth. One place that was plentiful in food and water would be stripped of its resources by anyone who could take it from us. We had heard stories of such places, and wished our place not to be the next. So we hid ourselves away from the rest of the world.

But one day it would be found. We all knew it would happen. No one can hide forever.

But, I as a child knew nothing, and therefore did not understand what was happening when my mother came crying into my room that night. I was startled awake by her sobs and cries of, “Oh, dear God, why him? Why?”

I sat up and looked at my mother, wondering what was going on. “Mother, what is it?”

At first her sobs were so overwhelming that she could not speak. Eventually she calmed herself enough to say, “Your father-” she broke off in another fit of sobbing. Alarm struck me, and I cupped her face in my tiny hands.

“Mother, why are you crying?” My voice was rising. I was scared, for my mother had never looked so stricken with sadness in all my life. Her eyes had puffed up and the tears were streaming down her face like a small river.

“Oh, baby.” She took me in her arms and said quietly, “Something terrible has happened.” She cried into my hair as I tried to think of what could possibly go wrong to make my mother cry so.

“What happened?” I asked after a time, afraid of the answer. Mother was stroking my hair now.

Her voice broke while she said, “Your father has been killed.”

I was frozen, terror and panic rising in me to a point where I could not sit and let my mother stroke my hair. I needed to find my father.

“No.” I ripped myself out of my mothers grasp and ran out the door, screaming, “Not father!” I ran outside, looking wildly about for any sign of activity. There were people standing about on the road, talking quietly. I saw a form on the ground…

“Father?” At first I walked, and then I ran to the circle of people. Someone tried to hold me back, but I fought and won, and fell to my knees at the side of my dead father. His eyes were closed, but I could tell that he died in vain. Angry lines were etched in his skin, as if he died shouting at someone. My mothers sobs combined with mine filled the village as we wept over our loss.

My father, Faren Oxforde, was shot in the back by outsiders. They saw him and robbed him of his gun, his pack of food, and his water. That was all.

It’s been eight years since then, and now I know the truth that was kept from me as a child. I have taken the place of my father in the village next to the mayor, making plans of survival and taking care of my people. It’s the only thing I can do.