Title: Preserved Fears
Author: SH
Back to DirectoryStory
Instructions
I went to my mom’s house last Saturday. I had called her the day before to let her know I was coming over, even texted her about twenty minutes before I got there. I had made potato salad, which I had been doing for her since I was a kid. My grandmother taught me to make it, her mom. I only had one big tupperware container, and usually it was saved for large batches of pasta or whatever substantial meal I had made in excess for the week. This week it was potato salad. The good kind. The best kind.
She didn’t answer the door when I knocked, or when I rang the bell. I wasn’t allowed to keep a spare, but there was a lockbox hidden under a stone carved like a turtle on her porch. She routinely changed the code, but right now it was 0-5-1-7, the day before my birthday. She always had it be almost something, not trusting to leave it something. Plus, if someone were to guess my birthday, then they would know my birthday. And that was information not to be given freely to just anyone.
She still lived on Pine Street, the house she moved into after the divorce. It was small, too small probably. There were only two normal doors, the front and the bathroom. Her bedroom couldn’t fit a bed larger than a twin, well, maybe it could, but anything more would come at a steep space cost. She had to keep her dresser, the hanging rack she had picked up from a local boutique that went out of business. She had to keep her long line of slippers leading to her bathroom.
When I stepped into the house, I left the key on the kitchen counter. I walked over to living room, the haphazard stacks of cans that lined the worn walls jutted out like a strange, metallic forest. Every nook and cranny was filled with jars of self preserved food, all arranged neatly, one beside the other, emanating a musty aroma. Jugs of water stood in rows on the creaky floor, their smooth, translucent bodies glistening in the dim light. Engulfed in the narrow space, I felt like an ant milling through an intricate unnatural labyrinth. Mom was sitting in her tattered armchair, clutching a cup of coffee that had long since grown cold. Her eyes darted around the cramped living room, taking in all of the carefully arranged supplies that she had stockpiled over the years, and then finally looking back at me, almost like she was proud, almost like she was trying to give me further warning.
I was getting tired of arguing with my mom about her paranoid delusions, but I had to keep trying. There was no way that I could support my mom if she continued to spend all of her money on survival supplies.
"Mom," I began, "I brought you potato salad."
She looked up at me, her eyes distant. "There's room in the fridge."
I walked back to the kitchen and placed the tupperware container on the middle shelf of the cool refrigerator. The door had a faint frost on it, and the shelves were stocked with jars and containers, some of which had indecipherable labels peeling off at the edges. Mom canned her own stuff: pickled jalapeños, eggs, various jams. The fridge hummed softly, the low buzz of the motor filling the otherwise silent kitchen. As I closed the door, the chilly air brushed against my face and brought goosebumps to my arms.
There was a stack of what smelled like fresh pemmican, a berry and fat brick that lasted forever, sitting on top of the fridge. I hated pemmican, it always smelled foul and it tasted awful but I had eaten so much over my lifetime. I wanted to just grab it and throw it away.
I let myself sink into the plush cushions of my mother's well-worn couch. The soft fabric gave under my weight, enveloping me in its familiar warmth. It was old, I had never seen this house without this couch in it. I had tried to convince her to get a new one over the years but she refused. She liked this couch, thought getting a new one was a needless expense, and that she wasn't going to need a new one when shit finally hit the fan.
"Read anything good lately?" I asked as I straightened out the blanket underneath me. It was older, she had made it herself years ago when I was still in high school. She used to knit a lot. She didn't anymore.
"Yeah, I got this new book on Oregon berries. I've been out picking some, trying out some new jam recipes. I just made a new batch of pemmican the other day with them too, I can send you home with some if you want. You should really take some with you. Here, I'll wrap some up for you."
She stood up from her chair, which rocked as she stood up, slamming it's back into the wall as she moved. There was an indent on the wall right where the top of the chair always hit. I thought about getting up and pulling the chair forward so that it would stop doing that, but it would freak mom out. She needed all of her shit in the same place she had left it, always, even if she saw me do it. She would convince her that someone from one of the three letter agencies had come in and moved it just to fuck with her, to send her a message that they were watching her.
"Really, mom," I started, "I'm good. I have enough food at home."
She didn't stop moving to the kitchen so I sighed, got up and walked over with her.
"Take some jam at least then."
I didn't say anything to that, I just watched her grab a cardboard box out of the pile of trash under her kitchen table and start loading it with things from her kitchen. Her movements were slow and methodical, the gestures made with a sense of urgency and purpose. It was as if she had been planning on packing me supplies before I ever even showed up, before she even knew I was going to show up. Always ready, as she would put it. She started pulling jars out of cupboards, things I couldn't quite identify from a distance, but I knew what they were. Vegetables, pickles, jam, canned meats, anything that she had preserved over the past couple months. She was grabbing things from the back, the new stuff.
"So Diane and I were talking--"
"I still can't believe you married a woman. I need grand babies."
"We'll adopt."
"What happens when you can't adopt anymore? When we need to reproduce and there's no one left?"
"We'll find a stray apocalypse child, I don't know mom. Anyway--"
"I just worry, you know how I am." She was still putting more things in the box. She was individually wrapping bars of pemmican in wax paper and placing them upright, like decks of cards, into the box.
"I know you worry, that's why I was going to say--"
And she kept talking. She stopped even talking about Diane and I and babies and anything important and just started talking about her AM radio, how the channels she tuned into, fellow preppers, talked about the air quality and the tap water and the chemicals in the food. She talked about how expensive everything was getting, that she couldn't afford supplies and food and medicine, and how she was scared of going to the grocery store because of all the shootings. She was scared every time she left the house.
She opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a gun, a new gun, with a pink camo print handle.
"You should get a safe for that," I said, trying not to stare at it. I didn't know when she had gotten it, I knew she had guns but so far, only for hunting. This was a pistol. A gun for people.
"But what if someone breaks in?" She wasn't looking at me. "I need to be able to get it, quickly."
She grabbed the box she had been packing off of the counter and placed it into my arms. It was heavy. Months worth of food in glass jars and dense dry goods rattled around as I tried to hold it in a comfortable position. My mom reached up and pet my hair.
I had only been there for about a half an hour.
"You should get going love," she said. "I don't want you parked out in front of my house for too long."
"Alright mom."
"I love you."
"Have a good day, mom."
And as I walked out, back to my car, I told myself that when I came back for my container that I would ask her again to move in with Diane and I. And that next time, she would listen to me, and she would say yes.
I went to my mom’s house last Saturday. I had called her the day before to let her know I was coming over, even texted her about twenty minutes before I got there. I had made potato salad, which I had been doing for her since I was a kid. My grandmother taught me to make it, her mom. I only had one big tupperware container, and usually it was saved for large batches of pasta or whatever substantial meal I had made in excess for the week. This week it was potato salad. The good kind. The best kind.
She didn’t answer the door when I knocked, or when I rang the bell. I wasn’t allowed to keep a spare, but there was a lockbox hidden under a stone carved like a turtle on her porch. She routinely changed the code, but right now it was 0-5-1-7, the day before my birthday. She always had it be almost something, not trusting to leave it something. Plus, if someone were to guess my birthday, then they would know my birthday. And that was information not to be given freely to just anyone.
She still lived on Pine Street, the house she moved into after the divorce. It was small, too small probably. There were only two normal doors, the front and the bathroom. Her bedroom couldn’t fit a bed larger than a twin, well, maybe it could, but anything more would come at a steep space cost. She had to keep her dresser, the hanging rack she had picked up from a local boutique that went out of business. She had to keep her long line of slippers leading to her bathroom.
When I stepped into the house, I left the key on the kitchen counter. I walked over to living room, the haphazard stacks of cans that lined the worn walls jutted out like a strange, metallic forest. Every nook and cranny was filled with jars of self preserved food, all arranged neatly, one beside the other, emanating a musty aroma. Jugs of water stood in rows on the creaky floor, their smooth, translucent bodies glistening in the dim light. Engulfed in the narrow space, I felt like an ant milling through an intricate unnatural labyrinth. Mom was sitting in her tattered armchair, clutching a cup of coffee that had long since grown cold. Her eyes darted around the cramped living room, taking in all of the carefully arranged supplies that she had stockpiled over the years, and then finally looking back at me, almost like she was proud, almost like she was trying to give me further warning.
I was getting tired of arguing with my mom about her paranoid delusions, but I had to keep trying. There was no way that I could support my mom if she continued to spend all of her money on survival supplies.
"Mom," I began, "I brought you potato salad."
She looked up at me, her eyes distant. "There's room in the fridge."
I walked back to the kitchen and placed the tupperware container on the middle shelf of the cool refrigerator. The door had a faint frost on it, and the shelves were stocked with jars and containers, some of which had indecipherable labels peeling off at the edges. Mom canned her own stuff: pickled jalapeños, eggs, various jams. The fridge hummed softly, the low buzz of the motor filling the otherwise silent kitchen. As I closed the door, the chilly air brushed against my face and brought goosebumps to my arms.
There was a stack of what smelled like fresh pemmican, a berry and fat brick that lasted forever, sitting on top of the fridge. I hated pemmican, it always smelled foul and it tasted awful but I had eaten so much over my lifetime. I wanted to just grab it and throw it away.
I let myself sink into the plush cushions of my mother's well-worn couch. The soft fabric gave under my weight, enveloping me in its familiar warmth. It was old, I had never seen this house without this couch in it. I had tried to convince her to get a new one over the years but she refused. She liked this couch, thought getting a new one was a needless expense, and that she wasn't going to need a new one when shit finally hit the fan.
"Read anything good lately?" I asked as I straightened out the blanket underneath me. It was older, she had made it herself years ago when I was still in high school. She used to knit a lot. She didn't anymore.
"Yeah, I got this new book on Oregon berries. I've been out picking some, trying out some new jam recipes. I just made a new batch of pemmican the other day with them too, I can send you home with some if you want. You should really take some with you. Here, I'll wrap some up for you."
She stood up from her chair, which rocked as she stood up, slamming it's back into the wall as she moved. There was an indent on the wall right where the top of the chair always hit. I thought about getting up and pulling the chair forward so that it would stop doing that, but it would freak mom out. She needed all of her shit in the same place she had left it, always, even if she saw me do it. She would convince her that someone from one of the three letter agencies had come in and moved it just to fuck with her, to send her a message that they were watching her.
"Really, mom," I started, "I'm good. I have enough food at home."
She didn't stop moving to the kitchen so I sighed, got up and walked over with her.
"Take some jam at least then."
I didn't say anything to that, I just watched her grab a cardboard box out of the pile of trash under her kitchen table and start loading it with things from her kitchen. Her movements were slow and methodical, the gestures made with a sense of urgency and purpose. It was as if she had been planning on packing me supplies before I ever even showed up, before she even knew I was going to show up. Always ready, as she would put it. She started pulling jars out of cupboards, things I couldn't quite identify from a distance, but I knew what they were. Vegetables, pickles, jam, canned meats, anything that she had preserved over the past couple months. She was grabbing things from the back, the new stuff.
"So Diane and I were talking--"
"I still can't believe you married a woman. I need grand babies."
"We'll adopt."
"What happens when you can't adopt anymore? When we need to reproduce and there's no one left?"
"We'll find a stray apocalypse child, I don't know mom. Anyway--"
"I just worry, you know how I am." She was still putting more things in the box. She was individually wrapping bars of pemmican in wax paper and placing them upright, like decks of cards, into the box.
"I know you worry, that's why I was going to say--"
And she kept talking. She stopped even talking about Diane and I and babies and anything important and just started talking about her AM radio, how the channels she tuned into, fellow preppers, talked about the air quality and the tap water and the chemicals in the food. She talked about how expensive everything was getting, that she couldn't afford supplies and food and medicine, and how she was scared of going to the grocery store because of all the shootings. She was scared every time she left the house.
She opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a gun, a new gun, with a pink camo print handle.
"You should get a safe for that," I said, trying not to stare at it. I didn't know when she had gotten it, I knew she had guns but so far, only for hunting. This was a pistol. A gun for people.
"But what if someone breaks in?" She wasn't looking at me. "I need to be able to get it, quickly."
She grabbed the box she had been packing off of the counter and placed it into my arms. It was heavy. Months worth of food in glass jars and dense dry goods rattled around as I tried to hold it in a comfortable position. My mom reached up and pet my hair.
I had only been there for about a half an hour.
"You should get going love," she said. "I don't want you parked out in front of my house for too long."
"Alright mom."
"I love you."
"Have a good day, mom."
And as I walked out, back to my car, I told myself that when I came back for my container that I would ask her again to move in with Diane and I. And that next time, she would listen to me, and she would say yes.
I went to my mom’s house last Saturday. I had called her the day before to let her know I was coming over, even texted her about twenty minutes before I got there. I had made potato salad, which I had been doing for her since I was a kid. My grandmother taught me to make it, her mom. I only had one big tupperware container, and usually it was saved for large batches of pasta or whatever substantial meal I had made in excess for the week. This week it was potato salad. The good kind. The best kind.
She didn’t answer the door when I knocked, or when I rang the bell. I wasn’t allowed to keep a spare, but there was a lockbox hidden under a stone carved like a turtle on her porch. She routinely changed the code, but right now it was 0-5-1-7, the day before my birthday. She always had it be almost something, not trusting to leave it something. Plus, if someone were to guess my birthday, then they would know my birthday. And that was information not to be given freely to just anyone.
She still lived on Pine Street, the house she moved into after the divorce. It was small, too small probably. There were only two normal doors, the front and the bathroom. Her bedroom couldn’t fit a bed larger than a twin, well, maybe it could, but anything more would come at a steep space cost. She had to keep her dresser, the hanging rack she had picked up from a local boutique that went out of business. She had to keep her long line of slippers leading to her bathroom.
When I stepped into the house, I left the key on the kitchen counter. I walked over to living room, the haphazard stacks of cans that lined the worn walls jutted out like a strange, metallic forest. Every nook and cranny was filled with jars of self preserved food, all arranged neatly, one beside the other, emanating a musty aroma. Jugs of water stood in rows on the creaky floor, their smooth, translucent bodies glistening in the dim light. Engulfed in the narrow space, I felt like an ant milling through an intricate unnatural labyrinth. Mom was sitting in her tattered armchair, clutching a cup of coffee that had long since grown cold. Her eyes darted around the cramped living room, taking in all of the carefully arranged supplies that she had stockpiled over the years, and then finally looking back at me, almost like she was proud, almost like she was trying to give me further warning.
I was getting tired of arguing with my mom about her paranoid delusions, but I had to keep trying. There was no way that I could support my mom if she continued to spend all of her money on survival supplies.
"Mom," I began, "I brought you potato salad."
She looked up at me, her eyes distant. "There's room in the fridge."
I walked back to the kitchen and placed the tupperware container on the middle shelf of the cool refrigerator. The door had a faint frost on it, and the shelves were stocked with jars and containers, some of which had indecipherable labels peeling off at the edges. Mom canned her own stuff: pickled jalapeños, eggs, various jams. The fridge hummed softly, the low buzz of the motor filling the otherwise silent kitchen. As I closed the door, the chilly air brushed against my face and brought goosebumps to my arms.
There was a stack of what smelled like fresh pemmican, a berry and fat brick that lasted forever, sitting on top of the fridge. I hated pemmican, it always smelled foul and it tasted awful but I had eaten so much over my lifetime. I wanted to just grab it and throw it away.
I let myself sink into the plush cushions of my mother's well-worn couch. The soft fabric gave under my weight, enveloping me in its familiar warmth. It was old, I had never seen this house without this couch in it. I had tried to convince her to get a new one over the years but she refused. She liked this couch, thought getting a new one was a needless expense, and that she wasn't going to need a new one when shit finally hit the fan.
"Read anything good lately?" I asked as I straightened out the blanket underneath me. It was older, she had made it herself years ago when I was still in high school. She used to knit a lot. She didn't anymore.
"Yeah, I got this new book on Oregon berries. I've been out picking some, trying out some new jam recipes. I just made a new batch of pemmican the other day with them too, I can send you home with some if you want. You should really take some with you. Here, I'll wrap some up for you."
She stood up from her chair, which rocked as she stood up, slamming it's back into the wall as she moved. There was an indent on the wall right where the top of the chair always hit. I thought about getting up and pulling the chair forward so that it would stop doing that, but it would freak mom out. She needed all of her shit in the same place she had left it, always, even if she saw me do it. She would convince her that someone from one of the three letter agencies had come in and moved it just to fuck with her, to send her a message that they were watching her.
"Really, mom," I started, "I'm good. I have enough food at home."
She didn't stop moving to the kitchen so I sighed, got up and walked over with her.
"Take some jam at least then."
I didn't say anything to that, I just watched her grab a cardboard box out of the pile of trash under her kitchen table and start loading it with things from her kitchen. Her movements were slow and methodical, the gestures made with a sense of urgency and purpose. It was as if she had been planning on packing me supplies before I ever even showed up, before she even knew I was going to show up. Always ready, as she would put it. She started pulling jars out of cupboards, things I couldn't quite identify from a distance, but I knew what they were. Vegetables, pickles, jam, canned meats, anything that she had preserved over the past couple months. She was grabbing things from the back, the new stuff.
"So Diane and I were talking--"
"I still can't believe you married a woman. I need grand babies."
"We'll adopt."
"What happens when you can't adopt anymore? When we need to reproduce and there's no one left?"
"We'll find a stray apocalypse child, I don't know mom. Anyway--"
"I just worry, you know how I am." She was still putting more things in the box. She was individually wrapping bars of pemmican in wax paper and placing them upright, like decks of cards, into the box.
"I know you worry, that's why I was going to say--"
And she kept talking. She stopped even talking about Diane and I and babies and anything important and just started talking about her AM radio, how the channels she tuned into, fellow preppers, talked about the air quality and the tap water and the chemicals in the food. She talked about how expensive everything was getting, that she couldn't afford supplies and food and medicine, and how she was scared of going to the grocery store because of all the shootings. She was scared every time she left the house.
She opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a gun, a new gun, with a pink camo print handle.
"You should get a safe for that," I said, trying not to stare at it. I didn't know when she had gotten it, I knew she had guns but so far, only for hunting. This was a pistol. A gun for people.
"But what if someone breaks in?" She wasn't looking at me. "I need to be able to get it, quickly."
She grabbed the box she had been packing off of the counter and placed it into my arms. It was heavy. Months worth of food in glass jars and dense dry goods rattled around as I tried to hold it in a comfortable position. My mom reached up and pet my hair.
I had only been there for about a half an hour.
"You should get going love," she said. "I don't want you parked out in front of my house for too long."
"Alright mom."
"I love you."
"Have a good day, mom."
And as I walked out, back to my car, I told myself that when I came back for my container that I would ask her again to move in with Diane and I. And that next time, she would listen to me, and she would say yes.
Jude stepped into the dimly lit room, its stale air heavy with the smell of musty objects. Her eyes roamed the cluttered space, taking in the haphazard stacks of tin cans that towered against the peeling walls. Her gaze then turned towards the rows of water jugs lined up along the floor, their translucent plastic glinting in the muted light. Despite the organized arrangement of supplies, the cramped living room exuded a sense of chaos that left Jude feeling uneasy. She couldn't help but feel both annoyance and concern as she observed her mother's collection of survival items.
Jude stepped into the room, her eyes scanning the clutter with wide-eyed curiosity. The haphazard stacks of tin cans that lined the worn walls jutted out like a strange, metallic forest. Every nook and cranny was filled with jars of preserved food, all arranged neatly, one beside the other, emanating a musty aroma. Jugs of water stood in rows on the creaky floor, their smooth, translucent bodies glistening in the dim light. Engulfed in the narrow space, Jude felt like an ant milling through the intricate labyrinth of a beehive. Her concern grew as she realized the magnitude of her mother's obsession with preparedness.
It could be interesting to write the story from Jude's perspective, especially since her point of view would offer insights into the conflicted emotions she is feeling as a concerned daughter and the evolution of her relationship with her mother. Writing from Jude's perspective would also allow for more intimate character development, as well as the opportunity to explore her own perspective on the world outside of her mother's survivalist ideology.
Sure, here's a possible version of the story written from Jude's perspective:
I stepped into my mother's dimly lit living room, my eyes flickering over the clutter with a mix of annoyance and concern. The stacks of tin cans that lined the worn walls looked precarious and jutted out like a metallic forest. Every nook and cranny was filled with jars of preserved food, all arranged neatly, one beside the other, emanating a stale, musty aroma. Rows of water jugs stood on the creaky floor, their smooth, translucent bodies glistening in the muted light.
As I surveyed the scene, I couldn't help but feel an uneasy sense of chaos despite the meticulous organization of supplies. My mother had been so preoccupied with preparing for the end of the world that she was neglecting her own financial health. It was a point of contention between us, and I decided that it was time to address it.
"Mom," I said, forcing my voice to remain calm, "I need to talk to you about your spending habits."
She looked up at me, her distant eyes revealing her true preoccupation. "What about them?"
"I'm worried," I said, sitting down on the edge of the sofa. "You keep buying more and more supplies, but you can barely afford to pay your bills as it is. What happens if the end never comes?"
My mother's lips twisted in a snarl, and she stood up, pacing back and forth before me. "You know nothing, Jude. The end is coming, and it's coming soon. You need to be prepared."
"Mom, I understand that you're scared," I said, trying to reason with her. "But you're spending all of your money on things that you might never use. You need to talk to a professional and get some help."
"I don't need help," she spat, her face flushing with anger. "I'm the only one who sees the truth. The world is going to end, and I'm going to be ready for it."
We stood there in silence, my heart heavy with worry and frustration as I willed my mother to come to her senses. She stubbornly clung to her paranoid beliefs while I pleaded with her to seek help.
Days passed, and my mother remained holed up in her small house, surrounded by her supplies. She was more convinced than ever that the end was near, that the world was teetering on the brink of collapse. She tried to convince her friends and family to join in her efforts to prepare, but no one would listen to her.
As time went on, my mother grew more and more despondent. She had built her life around the idea of a coming apocalypse, and now it seemed like it might never come. I tried to distract her, to get her to focus on other things, but it was no use.
One night, as we were lying in bed, there was a sudden crackle of static from our radio. I sat up, my heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and fear. Could it be? Had it finally come?
I fumbled with the dial, tuning it to the clearest possible frequency. And then, suddenly, a voice crackled through the speaker.
"This is an emergency broadcast. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill."
My mother's heart leaped in her chest, and she leaped out of bed, hurrying to the basement to secure the door to her shelter. She spent the next few hours hunkered down in her shelter, listening to the chaos unfolding outside.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The all-clear sounded, and my mother emerged from her shelter, blinking in the bright sunlight. She was relieved, elated, but also a bit confused. It had happened. The end had come, and yet it didn't feel real.
As we looked around at the rubble-strewn streets, the wounded survivors huddled in makeshift camps, my mother slowly came to terms with the fact that she had been right all along. The world had ended, and she had been prepared for it. But as we looked at the devastation, she realized that her obsession with preparedness had blinded her to the importance of human connections that made life worth living.
With a heavy heart, she began to rebuild her life, not just based on her obsessive preparation, but in honor of the friends, family, and loved ones she had nearly lost in the process. She had finally learned a valuable lesson: in the face of the worst possible outcomes, it was the bonds we forged with others that kept us alive. Not just the stockpiled supplies.
Sure, no problem. I apologize for misunderstanding the initial request, and I'll let you take over from here.
No problem, here are a few possible directions for the conversation:
1. Jude tries to convince Ellen to seek professional help: In this scenario, Jude could try to convince Ellen to see a therapist or counselor to help her deal with her fear and anxiety about the end of the world. Jude could acknowledge that her mother's feelings are valid but suggest that they might be affecting her ability to live a happy and fulfilling life. This could lead to a conflict between the two characters, with Ellen feeling defensive and Jude feeling frustrated.
2. Jude tries to empathize with Ellen's fears: In this scenario, Jude could try to put herself in her mother's shoes and see the world from her perspective. She could acknowledge that there are plenty of things in the world to be afraid of and that Ellen's fears are not unfounded. However, she could also try to suggest that there are more positive and productive ways to cope with these fears rather than just hoarding supplies.
3. Ellen tries to convince Jude to join her in preparing for the end of the world: In this scenario, Ellen could try to enlist her daughter's help in her preparations, arguing that it's better to be safe than sorry. She could try to appeal to Jude's sense of responsibility and suggest that they are the only ones who are taking the end of the world seriously. Jude could push back against this, arguing that there are plenty of things they could be doing to help the world now rather than just preparing for the worst-case scenario.
4. Jude and Ellen come to a compromise: In this scenario, both characters could acknowledge each other's concerns and try to find a middle ground. For example, Ellen could agree to limit her spending on survival supplies, while Jude could agree to help her mother organize and store the supplies she already has. This compromise could help alleviate some of the tension between the two characters and bring them closer together.
These are just a few possibilities, but hopefully they can help inspire your story arc.
Carefully, I placed the tupperware container filled with creamy potato salad on the middle shelf of the cool refrigerator. The door had a faint frost on it, and the shelves were stocked with jars and containers, some of which had indecipherable labels peeling off at the edges. The fridge hummed softly, the low buzz of the motor filling the otherwise silent kitchen. As I closed the door, the chilly air brushed against my face and brought goosebumps to my arms.
Sure, here are a few ideas:
1. Jude could comment on the array of jars and containers in the kitchen and ask her mother what they are for. As they talk about the different types of foods she has preserved, Jude could pivot the conversation by expressing her worry about Ellen's financial situation and her focus on preparedness.
2. Jude could mention the potato salad she made and ask her mother if she remembers who taught her to make it. This could lead Ellen to reminisce about her own mother and passing down family recipes, which could then prompt Jude to express her concern about her mother's fixation on stockpiling supplies.
3. Jude could comment on the lockbox hidden under the turtle-shaped stone on the porch and ask her mother how she came up with the unique code. This could lead to a discussion on how Ellen views the world and the importance of being prepared for the worst-case scenario, which could then prompt Jude to express her concern about how it's affecting her mother's daily life and financial stability.
4. Jude could express her delight at being back in her childhood home and comment on how familiar everything looks. This could prompt Ellen to start talking about how she's made the house even more secure over the years and how she's been stockpiling supplies just in case. From there, Jude could express her concern about this obsession and the impact it's having on her mother's life.
I let myself sink into the plush cushions of my mother's well-worn couch. The soft fabric gave under my weight, enveloping me in its familiar warmth. The couch itself was older, she had made it herself years ago when I was still in high school. It was covered in a worn floral print that had started to fade, and the once plump arms now sagged slightly from years of use. As I settled in, I straightened out the knitted blanket underneath me, noticing the intricate pattern and the various colors that blended tastefully together. It was a blanket that my mother had made herself during her knitting phase, a phase that has since tapered off. The familiar comfort of the couch and blanket made me feel as if I had never left this room. But my mother's growing obsession with survival supplies threatened to upend that sense of comfort and familiarity.
I sat there in silence, watching as my mother rummaged through the pile of trash under her kitchen table. I couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness and concern for her as she pulled out a battered cardboard box and started filling it with supplies from her kitchen. Her movements were slow and methodical, the gestures made with a sense of urgency and purpose. It was as if she were on a mission to ensure the survival of herself and her loved ones, even if it meant sacrificing everything else in her life.
As she worked, I couldn't help but notice the clutter and disarray that surrounded her. There were stacks of papers and magazines
And she kept talking, barely giving me a chance to interject. Her words sped up, almost like a train of thought that had no intention of stopping. She spoke passionately about her AM radio and the conspiracy theories it fed her. She ranted about how the government was controlling everything, the foods we ate, the air we breathed, and even the water we drank. It was like a switch had flipped inside her, and she couldn't stop spilling out all of her fears and apprehensions.
She started to talk about how expensive everything was getting, how she could barely afford the basic necessities like food and medicine. Her tone grew more panicked as she spoke, like every expense was another nail in the coffin of her already bleak future. It was heartbreaking to see my strong, independent mother struggle with simple things like bills and finances.
As her ramblings continued, she began to talk about her fear of grocery stores. She spoke about the recent shootings that had happened across the country, and how she was scared every time she left her house. She spoke about how she had started to stockpile supplies, buying canned goods and powdered milk in bulk. She even showed me a small cache of weapons she had hidden under her bed, just in case.
I tried to calm her down, to tell her that things weren't as bad as she thought they were, but she didn't seem to be listening. Her mind had been consumed by her fears, and she couldn't see past them. It was a stark reminder of just how fragile the human psyche could be, and how easily it could be broken by the world around us.
With a creaking sound, she knelt down and opened the cabinet hidden under the sink, like a secret chamber. From within its depths, she retrieved a new gun, its pink camo print handle glinting in the dim light of the room. The gun looked lethal, yet strangely appealing with its sleek curves and dangerous allure. I couldn't help but notice the intricate engravings on the barrel, the precision with which every detail had been crafted.
"You should get a safe for that," I advised, trying not to stare at the gun too much.
"But what if someone breaks in?" she countered, her eyes darkening with the gravity of her question. "I need to be able to get it quickly, to protect us."
1. The beginning of the story could use more depth and detail. For example, it would be helpful to know why the protagonist is going to their mother's house and what their relationship is like. This would add more context to the story and help the reader to connect with the characters.
2. The transition between the protagonist's arrival at their mother's house and the description of the cluttered living conditions is abrupt and could benefit from a smoother transition. One way to improve this would be to gradually introduce the details of the environment as the protagonist explores the house.
3. The section where the mother is packing a box of supplies for the protagonist is confusing and lacks clarity. It's not clear why the mother is packing supplies or why the protagonist doesn't want them. More details about the mother's motivations and the protagonist's thoughts and feelings would help to make this section more engaging and understandable.
4. The story ends abruptly and could use a stronger conclusion. It would be helpful to know what happens next or to have a clearer sense of the protagonist's feelings and thoughts about their situation with their mother.
5. There are inconsistencies in the tone and style of the story. For example, some parts feel more descriptive, while others are more conversational and abrupt. This can be jarring and make it difficult for the reader to fully engage with the story. Consistency in style and tone would help to create a more cohesive reading experience.