A Gaping Hole

by Philippa Bowe

You went and left me, mamma, and at your rain-sluiced graveside a hole in my soul opened, precious things tumbling onto the mud. You were gone for good and the hole gaped, festered. So I took in a lungful of clammy air and clambered deep into the tree trunk of my soul, surely rotting from inside out, causing bark to flake. Instead of rot I found sturdy fibres, pulsing sap, defiant heartwood. I filled my boots and fashioned a sentinel to guard the gape, shaped in my own likeness. I still cry for you, mamma, but I am fortified.

6S

Philippa Bowe is a writer and translator who switches between the instant gratification and thrill of flash and the marathon of novel-writing. Her stories are featured in various online and print publications and anthologies, including Reflex Fiction, Bath Flash Fiction and Firewords, and have been placed in a host of competitions.