All the Stories Matter: Growth

Growth

 Inspiration:

"Growing Up" by Olga Dabrowska 

Mummy: 

The tears fell slowly and deliberately. 

Drip. I hate this. 

Drip. I hate this. 

Drip, Drip, Drip. Hate, hate hate. 

The little girl was overcome by the strength of her emotion, her body racked. How could they not understand? Did they not see the fear? The narrowing of her pupils, the goose-pimples on her skin. Still they sent her out here. They would not listen. Their eyes glazed over dismissively when she tried to give voice to what lurked in the dark, in the shadows. 

The drips of her tears gained in volume as they mingled with the water from the watering can. 

Drip drop. I’m scared. 

Drip drop. Why me? 

Drip … the anticipation of a sound that never came. 

The blackness soaked up the sound as a sponge, acknowledging the arrival of something else. Something else entirely. The chill set in from her toes and traveled agonizingly slowly up her legs. Involuntary fear gripped her, quivering and shivering, always at her back.  With the lightest touch, their breath made her tremble. Or was it the rhythmic, pulsing beating wings. She felt every movement as a statue, unable to turn around or even take a breath. The crawling legs magnified into multitudes. Their number or motive unknown, left only to the limits of a imagination stretched by fear. They congregated further, another then another. A clan, a pack a murder. She shuddered, unable to raise her arms to break the spell and brush them away. But still she stood strong, through willpower or lack of it, she wasn’t sure.

Sudden salvation! The garden was bathed in a brilliant orange, her fears receded in an instant as an angel’s voice peeled out. The wings dispersed beaten but still untamed. Their battle and hers done for today.  “Dear, have you finished watering my tomatoes? Thank you for doing your chores but come in for dinner, your father’s already at the table and it's getting dark.” She put down the can, releasing her whitened grip, gathered her dignity and walked towards the door. Slowly, deliberately, one foot then the next. A little stronger, a little prouder, a little taller. Head held high, deliberately resisting the urge to look back at her tormentors. Only a slight rustling in the shadows gave any indication of their presence, but she knew they were there, waiting, patient in her fear and strength. Always at her back.

Erin (Age 5): 

Story #1. This is a garden. The garden belongs to me. I love my garden.
Story #2. This is flowers. One flower is in a flower pot. It is beautiful. 



Read more about what inspired our "all the stories matter" collaborations in creative writing here  and here.

What do you think of our stories? Why not write one yourself based on this picture and share your results with us here….