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Tajrish

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Soroosh Shahrivar

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“Only then did he hear the small gasp—a soundless cry—and feel his mother’s cold fingers tightening on his arm. He turned toward her. Saw the red stain spreading across the front of her dress where the sword had driven in. Through him. Through her. There, just above her heart. The too-small hole of a too-great wound. His mother’s eyes met his. “Rhy,” she said, a small, disconcerted crease between her brows, the same face she’d made a hundred times whenever he and Kell got into trouble, whenever he shouted or bit his nails or did anything that wasn’t princely. The furrow deepened, even as her eyes went glassy, one hand drifting toward the wound, and then she was falling. He caught her, stumbled as the sudden weight tore against his open, ruined chest. “No, no, no,” he said, sinking with her to the prismed floor. No, it wasn’t fair. For once, he’d been fast enough. For once, he’d been strong enough. For once— “Rhy,” she said again, so gently—too gently. “No.” Her bloody hands reached for his face, tried to cup his cheek, and missed, streaking red along his jaw. “Rhy …” His tears spilled over her fingers. “No.” Her hand fell away, and her body slumped against him, still, and in that sudden stillness, Rhy’s world narrowed to the spreading stain, the lingering furrow between his mother’s eyes. Only then did the pain come, folding over him with such sudden force, such horrible weight, that he clutched his chest and began to scream.”

Mother And SonDeath Of A Parent
Book:A Conjuring of Light
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“For what it’s worth,” said the Veskan prince, raising his blade. “I really only came for the queen.” His mother spread her arms, the air around her fingers shimmering with frost. “Rhy,” she said, her voice a plume of mist. “Run.” Before the word was fully out, Col was surging forward. The Veskan was fast, but Rhy was faster, or so it seemed as the queen’s magic weighted Col’s limbs. The icy air wasn’t enough to stop the attack, but it slowed Col long enough for Rhy to throw himself in front of his mother, the blade meant for her driving instead into his chest.”

Mothers LoveMother And Son
Book:A Conjuring of Light
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“Wolf, as he watched her, felt weak, despicable, faltering. He felt like a finical attendant watching the splendid fury of some Sophoclean heroine. He became aware that her anger leaped up from some incalculable crevasse in the rock crust of the universe, such as he himself had never approached. The nature of her feelings, its directness, its primordial simplicity, reduced his own emotion to something ridiculous. She towered above him there with that grand convulsed face and those expanded breasts; while her fine hands, clutching at her belt, seemed to display a wild desire to strip naked before him, to overwhelm him with the wrath of her naked maternal body, bare to the outrage of his impiety.”

ArgumentMother And SonMotherlyMaternal
Book:Wolf Solent
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“I tried to go to group counseling, but the lady said they were full and so when I tried a 1-on-1 with a counselor, they didn’t respond to my calls. I tried so many times. It’s already so embarrassing asking for help. And you have to pick up my calls, too. Please, mom. When you don’t pick up the phone, my head goes all over the place and I think you’re dead.”

DepressionFear Of DeathThe Goodbye SongMother And SonAsking For HelpReaching OutObsessive Thinking
Book:The Goodbye Song
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“The Mad Room It’s where I go when I’ve lost my temper, my mind on fire, no way around or out of the chair on the dirt floor in the cellar. I’m not one to give into her pressure, as corporal punishment is all it’s about. It’s where I go when I’ve lost my temper. Why does it seem she relishes trouble? The soap in my mouth, the foamy shout, only the hard chair hears my whimper. It’s where I go when I’ve lost my temper. The bare light bulb hums, little doubt I will die alone, kids the curious spider. My bottled-up scream, I can never tell her comes from the fear of living without her love, not from her duty as a mother. The room closes in, but I don’t bother to move an inch. Everything is silent except the hiss of pipes, an angry mother. It’s where I go when I’ve lost my temper.”

LovePunishmentMother And Son
Author:Jim Frazee
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“It's been over a year since they've visited their son's market. As they walk through the parking lot they take in a number of improvements. Brian admires the raised garden beds made of cedar planks that flank the sides of the lot. There are stalks of tomatoes, staked beans, baskets of green herbs- oregano, lavender, fragrant blades of lemongrass and pointed curry leaf. The planter of baby lettuces has a chalkboard hung from its side: "Just add fork." A wheelbarrow parked by the door is heaped with bright coronas of sunflowers, white daisies, jagged red ginger and birds-of-paradise. Avis feels a leap of pride as they enter the market: the floor of polished bamboo, the sky-blue ceiling, the wooden shelves- like bookshelves in a library. And the smells. Warm, round billows of baking bread, roasting garlic and onions and chicken.”

ProduceFlowersHerbsSeasoningsScentsMarketMother And SonAvis MuirStanley Muir
Book:Birds of Paradise
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“At the sight of the dozen assorted cupcakes, as bright and optimistic as party hats, Louise's eyes lit up. "How wonderful!" she said, clapping her hands together again. I handed her one of the red velvet cupcakes that I'd made in the old-fashioned style, using beets instead of food coloring. I'd had to scrub my fingers raw for twenty minutes to get the crimson beet stain off them, but the result was worth it: a rich chocolate cake cut with a lighter, nearly unidentifiable, earthy sweetness, and topped with cream cheese icing and a feathery cap of coconut shavings. For Ogden, I selected a Moroccan vanilla bean and pumpkin spice cupcake that I'd been developing with Halloween in mind. It was not for the faint of heart, and I saw the exact moment in Ogden's eyes that the dash of heat- courtesy of a healthy pinch of cayenne- hit his tongue, and the moment a split-second later that the sugary vanilla swept away the heat, like salve on a wound. "Oh," he said, after swallowing. He looked at me, and I could see it was his turn to be at a loss for words. I smiled. Louise, on the other hand, was half giggling, half moaning her way through a second cupcake, this time a lemonade pound cake with a layer of hot pink Swiss meringue buttercream icing curling into countless tiny waves as festive and feminine as a little girl's birthday tiara. "Exquisite!" she said, mouth full. And then, shrugging in her son's direction, her eyes twinkling. "What? I didn't eat lunch.”

IngredientsFlavorsHahaCupcakesMother And SonRed VelvetAnnie QuintanaOgden Gertzwell
Book:How to Eat a Cupcake
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