(Mother's Heart)
(Mother's Heart) feelings stories

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Autoplay OFF   •   2 months ago
...Writer's block maybe? ... this is kinda random...
About carving. I wrote until I got an idea

(Mother's Heart)

...Writer's block, maybe?.... the next chapter to what @ariesgirl06 and I am doing is on hold for a while until I can come up with something solid. :(

[I also did this quickly, so tell me if something - emotions, parts, grammar, language use, etc - is missing. I would greatly appreciate that! - also helps me learn as a writer XD] - I literally made up the story along the way.


*thwack* *thwack* *thwack*

Jay swung his many size too large axe at the tree in a heavy, rhythmic, and slow way. Actually, it wasn't too large for his height.

He was well built, but more in a lean way, making his wrists seem frail in comparison. The only reason he wasn't abandoned was his skill.

His swift seasoned movements made use of the length of his arms to hack at the wood with precision to hit low on the trees.

While he was a long way away from being the fastest and the strongest, he could last longer than any other man, and work almost without rest.

It used to be a passion, but now it only felt like cycling between life and hell. Everytime he struck the wood, his body will shiver along and his heart would jolt as he mindlessly droned on.

He couldn't give it much thought, as his entire self was partially unresponsive.

But his gut told him that it wasn't because of the strength he had been putting into each strike.

Nor the recoil.

Nor his trail of fallen trees.

Nor the expanse of giant tree stumps behind him.

His body just wouldn't listen, and he didn't want it to either. The only thoughts that resounded inside his head was each strike.

Each crack.

The splintery wood.

The number.

... And then the vibrant moss covered bark of the next tree which he would always stroke tenderly.

After thirty, the objective of every day, he would walk back lazily with the axe slung over his shoulder.

It wasn't his job to clean them up.

He stared at his foot, and then at the grass peeking out of the ground all around the stumps.

They were vibrant green, lush, and shaded. But they didn't know that they were going to be burned away by the next day.

Under the undeserving warmth of the setting sun, his mother's words rang in his mind.

"She was right," he muttered.

[Okay, what did his mother say? XD ] (answer is at the end.)

This time, he paused and finally raised his gaze forwards at the sun.

He then turned around, cutted off a good section of a hand width branch, and left in a more purposeful manner.

After reaching the camp, he ate a quick meal at the dinning hall and went to his cabin. It was shared with five others, but they would usually drink until late today.

Tomorrow was their only rest day for the week, like any other.

He would always go to bed early since he did not want to break his habit.

But not today. Something kept up and going even without giving his hard and shabby bed a chance.

Under the starry sky and a full moon shining it's loving light, he sat on the the wooden doorstep of the cabin. He took out a flask of whiskey and downed a big gulp before putting it away.

Then he lit the oil lamp which he took down from a hook beside the cabin door.

With a Folding knife in hand and the wood in the other, he just started to chip away at the bark. He didn't know what he was carving, yet he knew it would only be one object.

Just like him, alone.

After he chipped off all the bark, he smoothed it out. A while of spinning the wood around later, he felt a connection to the wood. Looking through the perspective of the egg shaped wood, he felt ...exposed.

He couldn't help but think of home, somewhere he was fully shown but enveloped.

It slowly morphed into a miniature house. But when it came to the details, which flashed so clearly in his mind, he just couldn't bring everything together.

Each fragment of memory had their own story, time, and space.

Only now did he realize that he had yet to explore every nook and cranny of his home.

He then moved to carving his smiling mother, but he couldn't remember her face. Especially those piercing green yet soft eyes of hers.

He couldn't capture the essence of who she is by just a statue.

The wood was only hand-sized now. If he decides to continue, it would merely fit into the center of his palm.

Stuck, yet not frustrated, he subconsciously moved carved a simple heart from what was a rough carve of her chest. It was her love that he wanted to hold again. He then took his time and care to round it out.

After sanding and smoothing it, he felt that something was missing. Himself. His hands moved on their own to carve a pair of wings.

After pausing for a while, he turned it around.

There he carved:

*I Ain't Smart, And I'm A Big Baby At Heart, But I Won't Topple From Just This, Mother.*


Mother's Last Words When He Left:

(My Baby boy, before you go out into this world, you should know that you are a good kid, a bright one. But you know you ain't smart. You're just a child at heart.

You should just stay at home, but Mother won't argue with you. You are big and strong now. Just remember what I said and don't get tricked! Otherwise, don't lose yourself!)

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