Brambles
By Samantha Reilly
Walking
Everyone in our family has a different walk. My father's walk is heavy and sure. My brother's walk is like a saunter
birthed from practiced confidence, his arms sway loosely against his sides as his knees bend and he sinks heavily
into the soles of his shoes, shifting his weight back and forth between the two. My walk is clipped and urgent;
calculated, my path like a straight line.
But my mother's walk, my mother's walk, is like that of a ballerina, dainty and delicate as she sweeps across the
kitchen floor or quietly pads her way down the staircase each morning. I envy how she walks so gracefully in heels.
She walks elegantly in stilettos, her long dresses sweeping against her legs. Her walk is hurried when she sees your
hurt, rushing to you to make you feel safe until she is holding you and kissing you, kissing away the pain. Her walk is
slow and diligent as she creeps along your bedside to check on you as you sleep as all mothers do. Sometimes she
sleeps next to you until you fall asleep before walking away, down the hall, walking, towards dad, towards dreams.
My Name
In Old English my name means heard by God. In Aramaic it means listener. I'm not sure which one is more
important for in one sense I am listening and in the other sense I am being heard. My name is eight letters. It means
bewitched. Reminiscent of the 80s. It means anxious sleep and high expectations. It is the female form of another.
I wasn't named after anyone. Although my middle name was my grandmother's first. She was nothing like me. My
grandmother. I would have liked to have known her, even though she carried on a
long term affair for years, maybe even decades. I don't know why my grandfather and her are still
together. They were both cheaters, lucky to have not born illegitimate children. They break up like high school
sweethearts and then get back together. My grandfather will sweep her up like a child and bring her right back
home. Just like that. And then they'll “break up” again. It's a sorry situation. All that drama.
The story goes that my grandfather never forgave her. He would call on his daughters, my mother included, and
moan in a drunken stupor about his wife. I could see him sitting there in his smoking room, his beer belly hanging
over his leather belt and a Marb slipped between his lips, the phone cocked against his left ear. He probably hadn't
shaved, and he probably hadn't left the smoking room that week. I have inherited my grandmother's name, but I
certainly don't want to inherit her cheating character. I'm getting married in June.
Fiancé
Jason's hands are large and calloused. He works in a lumber mill; sawing, cutting, sanding, hoisting, and cutting
again. My father says he'll make a good husband if I'd make a good wife. Father's hands are too soft.
Jason doesn't talk much. He's quiet. His solid hands cup my face, brush aside my long brown hair. And then he's
kissing me. Kissing me; lips part, hot breath, like a wet breeze, fingers mesh. His hands are thick; his heart full.
I feel nothing.
Mama
Mama is quiet; quieter than Jason. She cooks and cleans and hums the same song throughout the day. She is
dainty as a doll, but her eyes are dark. When she talks, it's in short spurts. A chore. A command. A request. Rarely a
comment or opinion. Sometimes I wish I knew what she thought about. I remember as a child wandering into the
kitchen where Mama was sitting with her elbow propped on
the table, looking out across the acres of field behind our house. She just stared and stared. And didn't
say a word. Didn't know I was there. Staring out the window like she was hungry.
Layers of tulle caught about her ankles. She blinked. “Mama?”
Her chin pivoted on the crest of her palm. She stared.
“Mama? What are you doin'?”
She turned, looking beyond the window, beyond the field, further.
Caleb
He called on me today. We walked side by side through my father's property, beyond the farm. We hoisted our legs
over the stone wall, laced with thorns and brambles. For a moment he held my hand. We passed the physical
boundaries of my father's land and crossed over; crossed over onto the Johnson's farm. We walked along the wrong
side of the stone wall talking. Talking about nothing; about everything. Whispering. He said he hated the mill. Hated
it with everything in him. Hated the monotony and the drudgery of the same things, the same expectations. He hated
my father too. Wanted to take me away. I listened. I listened like I'm supposed to.
Soon we were running. Running along the division of land. Two. Running. Down the slope and tripping; tripping on
my skirt and pulling me down with him; tumbling. Kissing. Kissing hard.
God
Maybe God was busy that day. He didn't keep me from doing it. Didn't convict my heart. Not until later. Late at
night. When night consumes and destroys the lofty thoughts and seeps in through the creases of your eyes and into
your mind. Maybe I will go to hell like father says in a tired voice. He prays for me.
Three
I didn't see Caleb after that night. I listened to my father's instruction. Listened to tradition and old rhyme. I
accepted. Accepted role and place and society. Accepted truth; truth like reconciling the
human condition. We marry in three months, Jason and I. And though our love is unrequited, I will do
my duty to him, for tradition states it necessary. I will walk straight and pointedly, towards illusions, towards respect,
towards make believe. This is the sound of the resistance.
Mama
Mama says marriage does not need a foundation of love, but one of commitment. Romance and marriage do not
often coincide. She says you can learn to love someone. Learn to love.
Dreams
I'm like a plank of drift wood. Red. Floating, caught in still of the harbor.
Grandmother
Lee came to visit today; my grandmother. Her spindly white hair, a mess of tight curls atop her head, moved ever
so slightly in the summer breeze that passed over the deck where we sat, mother, father and I. She took a
weathered hand, the soft skin of her fragile fingers toying with the beads along her chest. She wore red red lipstick.
Red. Like the color of strawberries, ripe and plump, ready for picking. I sensed my grandmother's mind moving to
and fro against the currents' of yesterday's past. Moving slowly.
The breeze moved the fabric of her sleeves as she rocked back and forth, the rocking chair creaking with her
weight. Back and forth, back and forth; creaking. She said she was leaving Grandpa again. She said it like the quiet
voice at the end of the day telling you goodnight, sleep well, see you tomorrow.
My father told her to leave, go home. Return to her husband like a good wife. She cackled, her red lips surrounding
yellowed teeth, jagged and unfitting.
By Samantha Reilly
Walking
Everyone in our family has a different walk. My father's walk is heavy and sure. My brother's walk is like a saunter
birthed from practiced confidence, his arms sway loosely against his sides as his knees bend and he sinks heavily
into the soles of his shoes, shifting his weight back and forth between the two. My walk is clipped and urgent;
calculated, my path like a straight line.
But my mother's walk, my mother's walk, is like that of a ballerina, dainty and delicate as she sweeps across the
kitchen floor or quietly pads her way down the staircase each morning. I envy how she walks so gracefully in heels.
She walks elegantly in stilettos, her long dresses sweeping against her legs. Her walk is hurried when she sees your
hurt, rushing to you to make you feel safe until she is holding you and kissing you, kissing away the pain. Her walk is
slow and diligent as she creeps along your bedside to check on you as you sleep as all mothers do. Sometimes she
sleeps next to you until you fall asleep before walking away, down the hall, walking, towards dad, towards dreams.
My Name
In Old English my name means heard by God. In Aramaic it means listener. I'm not sure which one is more
important for in one sense I am listening and in the other sense I am being heard. My name is eight letters. It means
bewitched. Reminiscent of the 80s. It means anxious sleep and high expectations. It is the female form of another.
I wasn't named after anyone. Although my middle name was my grandmother's first. She was nothing like me. My
grandmother. I would have liked to have known her, even though she carried on a
long term affair for years, maybe even decades. I don't know why my grandfather and her are still
together. They were both cheaters, lucky to have not born illegitimate children. They break up like high school
sweethearts and then get back together. My grandfather will sweep her up like a child and bring her right back
home. Just like that. And then they'll “break up” again. It's a sorry situation. All that drama.
The story goes that my grandfather never forgave her. He would call on his daughters, my mother included, and
moan in a drunken stupor about his wife. I could see him sitting there in his smoking room, his beer belly hanging
over his leather belt and a Marb slipped between his lips, the phone cocked against his left ear. He probably hadn't
shaved, and he probably hadn't left the smoking room that week. I have inherited my grandmother's name, but I
certainly don't want to inherit her cheating character. I'm getting married in June.
Fiancé
Jason's hands are large and calloused. He works in a lumber mill; sawing, cutting, sanding, hoisting, and cutting
again. My father says he'll make a good husband if I'd make a good wife. Father's hands are too soft.
Jason doesn't talk much. He's quiet. His solid hands cup my face, brush aside my long brown hair. And then he's
kissing me. Kissing me; lips part, hot breath, like a wet breeze, fingers mesh. His hands are thick; his heart full.
I feel nothing.
Mama
Mama is quiet; quieter than Jason. She cooks and cleans and hums the same song throughout the day. She is
dainty as a doll, but her eyes are dark. When she talks, it's in short spurts. A chore. A command. A request. Rarely a
comment or opinion. Sometimes I wish I knew what she thought about. I remember as a child wandering into the
kitchen where Mama was sitting with her elbow propped on
the table, looking out across the acres of field behind our house. She just stared and stared. And didn't
say a word. Didn't know I was there. Staring out the window like she was hungry.
Layers of tulle caught about her ankles. She blinked. “Mama?”
Her chin pivoted on the crest of her palm. She stared.
“Mama? What are you doin'?”
She turned, looking beyond the window, beyond the field, further.
Caleb
He called on me today. We walked side by side through my father's property, beyond the farm. We hoisted our legs
over the stone wall, laced with thorns and brambles. For a moment he held my hand. We passed the physical
boundaries of my father's land and crossed over; crossed over onto the Johnson's farm. We walked along the wrong
side of the stone wall talking. Talking about nothing; about everything. Whispering. He said he hated the mill. Hated
it with everything in him. Hated the monotony and the drudgery of the same things, the same expectations. He hated
my father too. Wanted to take me away. I listened. I listened like I'm supposed to.
Soon we were running. Running along the division of land. Two. Running. Down the slope and tripping; tripping on
my skirt and pulling me down with him; tumbling. Kissing. Kissing hard.
God
Maybe God was busy that day. He didn't keep me from doing it. Didn't convict my heart. Not until later. Late at
night. When night consumes and destroys the lofty thoughts and seeps in through the creases of your eyes and into
your mind. Maybe I will go to hell like father says in a tired voice. He prays for me.
Three
I didn't see Caleb after that night. I listened to my father's instruction. Listened to tradition and old rhyme. I
accepted. Accepted role and place and society. Accepted truth; truth like reconciling the
human condition. We marry in three months, Jason and I. And though our love is unrequited, I will do
my duty to him, for tradition states it necessary. I will walk straight and pointedly, towards illusions, towards respect,
towards make believe. This is the sound of the resistance.
Mama
Mama says marriage does not need a foundation of love, but one of commitment. Romance and marriage do not
often coincide. She says you can learn to love someone. Learn to love.
Dreams
I'm like a plank of drift wood. Red. Floating, caught in still of the harbor.
Grandmother
Lee came to visit today; my grandmother. Her spindly white hair, a mess of tight curls atop her head, moved ever
so slightly in the summer breeze that passed over the deck where we sat, mother, father and I. She took a
weathered hand, the soft skin of her fragile fingers toying with the beads along her chest. She wore red red lipstick.
Red. Like the color of strawberries, ripe and plump, ready for picking. I sensed my grandmother's mind moving to
and fro against the currents' of yesterday's past. Moving slowly.
The breeze moved the fabric of her sleeves as she rocked back and forth, the rocking chair creaking with her
weight. Back and forth, back and forth; creaking. She said she was leaving Grandpa again. She said it like the quiet
voice at the end of the day telling you goodnight, sleep well, see you tomorrow.
My father told her to leave, go home. Return to her husband like a good wife. She cackled, her red lips surrounding
yellowed teeth, jagged and unfitting.
New Hampshire Writers Short Stories
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