Writer in Progress

Strands of Youth

Context:

Elaborate: Twisted Genres

Take this opportunity to experiment with perspective. Carlson wrote from Bigfoot's point of view. From whose point of view will you tell your story? The Chupacabra? The apple in Snow White? An alien from another planet? A fish out of water? A citizen in the lost city of Atlantis? A small animal in the grass? Whatever you choose, make sure it suits your purpose. Take this time to complete your experimental writing piece. It'll be submitted at the end of Unit 7.

Submission:

A hairbrush. Out of all the things I could've been, the heavens chose a hairbrush. But not just any hairbrush, an instrument meant to be used by Mother Gothel. I will admit she's not the worst owner. I have friends from all over Germany who tell me stories about how they get thrown across the room, or they're not used at all. But the woman I serve goes far beneath the surface. The beautiful grin she shows the world cannot compare to the snarl I see when she's alone in her room. Because to her, I am her tool. I am her excuse. I am her ticket to disguising her youthful deceit. I am the string that ties her and her daughter together.

She holds me with a smile and drags me across the room. I listen to the taps of her shoes, the shuffles of chairs, and I can feel my head intertwine with someone else's. I hear the dreamy sounds of a song. Her daughter's song. The melody that brings joy inside the tower, with a delicate voice that could put children to sleep. I see how the mother's eyes glisten when her hair glows. The wrinkles from her forehead disappear. The speckles and spots on her arms smoothen into a baby's coat. The saggy skin lifts like a cloud refreshed into the air. She reassures her daughter that she is where she is supposed to be: In her arms, secure in the pillar they call home. The little girl holds her mother tight and exchanges words of affirmation. There's trust between them. It's as if there's no illusion; A truthful family.

This happens every night. But as Mother Gothel gets older, crinklier, uglier... Those nights turn into mornings, afternoons—into every second of the day the mother needs her strands of youth. Both of them become desperate for more company. The mother reaches for me like it's her last day and whips me in circles until the signs of death disperse. The daughter watches the window for lanterns that shine as bright as she does. On the outside, the two of them have a loving ritual they perform together. But I know how they are. I know how they act behind closed doors. I know they don't want to need each other. The only chance the mother has of staying on Earth is the bundle of blessings she brought into the tower. The daughter sighs every time she sees her mom, not yet realizing how she puts her hair above everything else.

Sadly, I am just a hairbrush. I am a hairbrush that sees a mother's protection as a means of manipulation.