Any edits? Please share. Anything you think is great? Please share. Anything you think is terrible and I should change immeditely? PLEASE PLEASE SHARE. Thanks!!! Also, this goes with a prologue. If you have not yet read it, please do before you read this: https://youngwritersproject.org/node/35074
My mother had told me since the day I was born that life isn't something to take for granted. She showed me how to gather berries one day, and instead of eating them, we shelved them in a tiny rock crevice, frozen down by the river. She told me that I was never to have those berries unless it felt like they were the only bright thing left on earth. At the time, I didn't understand what she meant. But I knew if the time came when I had to touch those berries, it would be very scary.
Mom named me after her favorite plant that grew in the forest: ivy. She said it made her think of safety and adventure, and the fact that it was a vine intrigued her even more. She said vines were plants that decided to make themselves useful as something else. She never told me what she used them for, though.
This morning it's a new moon. That's how we keep track of the days, because we have no idea about the day of the week or the date. When the moon is full, we bathe in the river beside the small cave we live in. This is a special treat for me, because often we don't have enough time for such frivolities. When the moon is half, like a petite canoe in the sky, Mom puts on her dirty shawl and creeps into the city These are the nights when I bite off slivers of my nails, and they scatter the floor like tiny half moons. These are the nights we go to sleep late, trying to imagine there are no stores of bread hidden in the crevices of rock, trying to imagine there are no animals who would like to eat them. Often we'll wake up in the morning after half-moon nights and find everything Mom stole had gone to waste.
Today, the new moon means rest. We have nothing to do but try not to dwindle the food supply and droop our toes in the river. Today I notice Mom is slumped against the tree outside the cave, looking pale. When I ask her what's wrong, she tells me to go look for berries while turning her face away. I comply, hunting for my favorite blackberry bush that sits out in a dense clump of trees. While gathering the fruit, I prick my finger on an outstretched thorn and draw back, quickly sucking my hand to ease the pain. Before heading back, I notice the stain of red on the bush, glinting in the sunlight. It looks like a warning.
Mom is still sitting by the tree when I get back. Her shoulders are hunched and her fingers are limp, trailing over the bark of the tree again and again. I stare at her, trying to determine what's going on.
"Ivy." Her voice is soft and caring, and she pats the moss next to her, a silent invitation for me to sit down. I do, noticing her tired eyes and sagging face. The sun is behind a cloud, and the light is flat and gray. Wondering what we'll eat tonight, I roll the berries I'm holding around in my palm. They're warm and full to bursting with juice. Mom puts her hand over mine and squeezes it. I open my fingers and she takes the berries from me, holding them delicately.
"You know what we are." She says it almost harshly, making my heart beat faster. "You know we are different. We are the only ones left. Humans." The word seems to echo into the surroudning forest, and my stomach gives a leap. That word has always been hushed up, covered with her fingers over my mouth. I am not allowed to say it, and I don't want to.
"You, Ivy, are my only daughter. My joy. You carry a burden no child should. The burden of being the last of your kind." She has the air of passing something heavy over to me. I hold my breath, trying not to make a sound.
"I am tired. It is time for me to leave this angelic prison of a planet. It is past time." She closes her eyes for a moment, and I see the worry lines on her forehead. For years, for fourteen years she has tried so hard to care for me, to keep me healthy, to make sure I have a good life. She has told me that it will be difficult, she has prepared me as best she can. She has fed me the small amount of food she is able to scrounge, she has become thinner and thinner, and now... is she giving up? I place my arms around her, but she gently pushes them away.
"There is a place in the city, across from the back of a bakery. I lived there the months I was pregnant with you." She's speaking quickly, forcing the words out. "It is dangerous there, but there is easier food. Go there. Go. In the far east corner, you know the way... try your hardest, my Ivy. In the world's mind, you are not meant to be here. In mine, you are. You must persevere. You must persuade them..." Her voice is fading, and I'm panicking. She lies down on the moss beneath the tree. I lie down beside her. Closing her hand briefly around mine, she hands me the berries. A tear drips down onto them. Whether it is hers or mine, I can't tell. but her eyes are closed now, and she looks peaceful. She whispers a word to me, and I barely catch it with the wind rushing in the leaves above. "Remember..."
When I wake up the next morning, I am lying beside her under the tree. I run into the cave and pull out a sheaf of dirty paper, one of the few we keep for emergencies. The plastic pen is sitting beside it, broken and dry. I run back outside and sit down against the tree, stroking my mother's head.
Dear Person,
There used to be a smart, beautiful, brave being living her beside the ginkgo tree. If you had known her, I know that would have loved her. She is dead now. But by choice. She chose to leave. This may seem foreign to you, but she knew who she was and why she was here. I am now the last of us on earth. It's scary. If you are here, please say a prayer to the woman buried beneath the ginkgo tree, and her daughter. The human.
Thanks, Ivy.
Mom had taught me how to write when I was six years old, showing me the letters of my name in the dirt, tracing them slowly with her finger. The easy, quick I. The sharp, thick v. The curly, mysterious y. My tears are falling quickly now, and the letter is smudging. I place it on the little nook outside the cave, then begin to dig a hole underneath the tree. My hands are small but tough, and I dig quickly, the hard earth flying. The hole I make is small, but so is my mother. She's always been small.
I curl her up in the hole, so she looks peaceful and happy. I know my mom, and I know she always felt like the earth was a prison for her, somewhere that she didn't belong. She left me as her legacy. She left me to carry on. For some reason, it doesn't feel frightening right now. It just feels right.
I cover Mom with the damp earth and sit watching the mound for a while, while birds fly around over my head and the world settles down for a bit. It is quiet and hushed, like there's a smothering buzz in my ears. The rise and fall of my breath does not feel like a miracle yet, but eventually it will. I know that I'll have to go to the city, wearing Mom's shawl and sneaking to the spot behind the bakery, and I will have to make a new life. Alone. A shiver comes up my spine, but I know I have to do this. It's all I have left.
My mother had told me since the day I was born that life isn't something to take for granted. She showed me how to gather berries one day, and instead of eating them, we shelved them in a tiny rock crevice, frozen down by the river. She told me that I was never to have those berries unless it felt like they were the only bright thing left on earth. At the time, I didn't understand what she meant. But I knew if the time came when I had to touch those berries, it would be very scary.
Mom named me after her favorite plant that grew in the forest: ivy. She said it made her think of safety and adventure, and the fact that it was a vine intrigued her even more. She said vines were plants that decided to make themselves useful as something else. She never told me what she used them for, though.
This morning it's a new moon. That's how we keep track of the days, because we have no idea about the day of the week or the date. When the moon is full, we bathe in the river beside the small cave we live in. This is a special treat for me, because often we don't have enough time for such frivolities. When the moon is half, like a petite canoe in the sky, Mom puts on her dirty shawl and creeps into the city These are the nights when I bite off slivers of my nails, and they scatter the floor like tiny half moons. These are the nights we go to sleep late, trying to imagine there are no stores of bread hidden in the crevices of rock, trying to imagine there are no animals who would like to eat them. Often we'll wake up in the morning after half-moon nights and find everything Mom stole had gone to waste.
Today, the new moon means rest. We have nothing to do but try not to dwindle the food supply and droop our toes in the river. Today I notice Mom is slumped against the tree outside the cave, looking pale. When I ask her what's wrong, she tells me to go look for berries while turning her face away. I comply, hunting for my favorite blackberry bush that sits out in a dense clump of trees. While gathering the fruit, I prick my finger on an outstretched thorn and draw back, quickly sucking my hand to ease the pain. Before heading back, I notice the stain of red on the bush, glinting in the sunlight. It looks like a warning.
Mom is still sitting by the tree when I get back. Her shoulders are hunched and her fingers are limp, trailing over the bark of the tree again and again. I stare at her, trying to determine what's going on.
"Ivy." Her voice is soft and caring, and she pats the moss next to her, a silent invitation for me to sit down. I do, noticing her tired eyes and sagging face. The sun is behind a cloud, and the light is flat and gray. Wondering what we'll eat tonight, I roll the berries I'm holding around in my palm. They're warm and full to bursting with juice. Mom puts her hand over mine and squeezes it. I open my fingers and she takes the berries from me, holding them delicately.
"You know what we are." She says it almost harshly, making my heart beat faster. "You know we are different. We are the only ones left. Humans." The word seems to echo into the surroudning forest, and my stomach gives a leap. That word has always been hushed up, covered with her fingers over my mouth. I am not allowed to say it, and I don't want to.
"You, Ivy, are my only daughter. My joy. You carry a burden no child should. The burden of being the last of your kind." She has the air of passing something heavy over to me. I hold my breath, trying not to make a sound.
"I am tired. It is time for me to leave this angelic prison of a planet. It is past time." She closes her eyes for a moment, and I see the worry lines on her forehead. For years, for fourteen years she has tried so hard to care for me, to keep me healthy, to make sure I have a good life. She has told me that it will be difficult, she has prepared me as best she can. She has fed me the small amount of food she is able to scrounge, she has become thinner and thinner, and now... is she giving up? I place my arms around her, but she gently pushes them away.
"There is a place in the city, across from the back of a bakery. I lived there the months I was pregnant with you." She's speaking quickly, forcing the words out. "It is dangerous there, but there is easier food. Go there. Go. In the far east corner, you know the way... try your hardest, my Ivy. In the world's mind, you are not meant to be here. In mine, you are. You must persevere. You must persuade them..." Her voice is fading, and I'm panicking. She lies down on the moss beneath the tree. I lie down beside her. Closing her hand briefly around mine, she hands me the berries. A tear drips down onto them. Whether it is hers or mine, I can't tell. but her eyes are closed now, and she looks peaceful. She whispers a word to me, and I barely catch it with the wind rushing in the leaves above. "Remember..."
When I wake up the next morning, I am lying beside her under the tree. I run into the cave and pull out a sheaf of dirty paper, one of the few we keep for emergencies. The plastic pen is sitting beside it, broken and dry. I run back outside and sit down against the tree, stroking my mother's head.
Dear Person,
There used to be a smart, beautiful, brave being living her beside the ginkgo tree. If you had known her, I know that would have loved her. She is dead now. But by choice. She chose to leave. This may seem foreign to you, but she knew who she was and why she was here. I am now the last of us on earth. It's scary. If you are here, please say a prayer to the woman buried beneath the ginkgo tree, and her daughter. The human.
Thanks, Ivy.
Mom had taught me how to write when I was six years old, showing me the letters of my name in the dirt, tracing them slowly with her finger. The easy, quick I. The sharp, thick v. The curly, mysterious y. My tears are falling quickly now, and the letter is smudging. I place it on the little nook outside the cave, then begin to dig a hole underneath the tree. My hands are small but tough, and I dig quickly, the hard earth flying. The hole I make is small, but so is my mother. She's always been small.
I curl her up in the hole, so she looks peaceful and happy. I know my mom, and I know she always felt like the earth was a prison for her, somewhere that she didn't belong. She left me as her legacy. She left me to carry on. For some reason, it doesn't feel frightening right now. It just feels right.
I cover Mom with the damp earth and sit watching the mound for a while, while birds fly around over my head and the world settles down for a bit. It is quiet and hushed, like there's a smothering buzz in my ears. The rise and fall of my breath does not feel like a miracle yet, but eventually it will. I know that I'll have to go to the city, wearing Mom's shawl and sneaking to the spot behind the bakery, and I will have to make a new life. Alone. A shiver comes up my spine, but I know I have to do this. It's all I have left.
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