Smith 1

Margaret Smith

EN

Furuness

26 Oct 2023

A Warm Embrace

To live next to the earth's biggest cemetery is to be satiated with death. He, or at least the

idea of him, was always there, lurking in the shadows of Daisy’s home. Every time a floorboard

would creak or a faucet would leak the girl's mother would tell her it was death, coming to claim

the child should she act up against her wills. Of course, Daisy believed her. And she would fix

that floorboard and that faucet as quickly as she could so that death would let her and her mother

be. But he was always there, living as their neighbor. And this child, even against her mothers

wishes, would come visit his home at times. For what is a beach, if not a playground designed

for a child’s delight?

“Now, Daisy” Her mother would always start, not even looking back as she cleaned the

dishes “Remember what I told you about playing near those waters.”

“But-“

“Are you talking back to me?” Joanna, in all her virtue and kindness, let her words

simmer in spite. She had long since stopped cleaning and stood there impassively, arms at her

side.

Daisy, with her head tilted towards the floor in silent submission, “No, mum.”

Joanna turned, leaning down to kiss her daughter's forehead, “You know I only do this

because I love you.”

And just like always, the child would reply, “Yes, mother.”
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“Do you love me?”

“Yes, mum.”

“And will you do as I say?”

“Yes, mum.”

And that is how they were. How they communicated. Joanna was all Daisy had. And

Daisy was all Joanna had. In Daisy’s eyes, Joanna knew everything. She was the one who read to

her, who cooked for her, clothed her, housed her, birthed her. If it were not for her, what would

Daisy be? Who would Daisy be? What would she know?

Now, Daisy was not entirely sure of what death actually was. This meaningless concept

which only had a negative connotation thanks to her mother. A small warning akin to going to

sleep without supper. Death had no physical body and therefore no reason to become overly

fretful. Daisy knew it was bad but did not understand the extent of which it was. Joanna never let

her out of the house much, the world being as dangerous and unkind as it was. And when she did

venture out, it was always to go to the marketplace. And when they were in the marketplace,

Joanna held her on a very tight leash.

Daisy would clench her fists and hold in her tears like a big girl. Like the girls she would

see in the small shops around the town with their pretty dresses and pink bows. Her mother

would scoff at them and turn her daughter away so as to not be spoiled; Their shoulders were so

scandalously bared and their skirts an irredeemably indecent length. And despite her mothers

words, Daisy desired this so, so desperately. She was around their age as well and perhaps in any

other universe at any other place in time she could have been their friend. To be one of the pretty

girls in their pretty dresses and their pink bows. To smile so wide as they did. To be out of this
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seedy town and its seedy people. If she were a seed, she would hope to grow into a sunflower.

For she loved the sun more than anything.

The last time the sun had kissed her lips was when she visited her grandmother. They had

only met once when Daisy was very young. Too young to fully articulate her thoughts and wants

and feelings. She doesn't remember her grandmother or much of the visit. But she does

remember the sun. Her first and only love. She remembers the way the sun's butterfly lips placed

her in an innocent embrace. She would surely crumble if her mother had ever found out she had

let another being's lips find her cheek. So, for now, it’ll be our little secret.

She would be a sunflower. Not a daisy, like her namesake. Daisy’s are ugly little things

that grow like weeds and are too commonplace to be considered special. No, she would be a

sunflower. She would be favored by the sun and live in his golden palace among the angels.

Sunflowers would surely grow there. But for now she would remain content in this cloudy town

with her cloudy mother.

The market was a wonderful reprieve from the child’s usual life of sheltered conformity.

Aside from the quick glances she would sneak at the girls, her eyes would also wander across

other delights her mother would typically reject. Sweets of unknown flavors, wooden dolls with

rosy cheeks, machines of light and wonder.

It was awful, really. This repetitive form of self sabotage. The guilt of disobeying her

mother eating her away, “These things should not bring you joy.” Joanna yanked Daisy’s head

away from the display’s, “I give you clothes, food, a warm bed. That should be enough.”

But the strange excitement she got from these small moments of rebellion was more than

enough to make it worth it. Daisy would refrain from laughing, for her mother found the sound

obnoxious. So the little half-smiles she kept to herself when the world was asleep and she knew
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she was alone. A quiet relief flooding her body that resulted in her stifling uncomfortable,

unwanted laughter.

And these little acts grew to be an unfathomable hunger. She giggled more often when

she knew she was alone, she stole her mothers lipstick, she learned to admire her reflection, she

tried on her mothers heels, she drew little pictures of herself in the corners of the, she wondered

and dreamed. The girl had kept these things to herself. This is sensitive information, after all and

I expect you to keep your mouth shut when you promised to keep this a secret no matter what I

tell you. Even when she had decided to sneak away one night, out onto the beach in a moment of

egotism.

‘If this is where death resided, then surely he must be a friendly fellow.’ She had thought

just as much. The Ocean was such a wonder to behold. To play in her sands and collect her

seashells. She was happy, she felt safe at his home. Why had such a wonderful place been kept

away from her? She felt an overwhelming sense of happiness, the first she had felt since her

chance encounter with the sun. Hours would pass under a moonlit sky where Daisy would find

herself chasing birds, making sand castles, jumping over waves, amassing a collection of

seaweed, etching patterns into the shore, and cleaning off the sand that stuck to her skin with the

seawater.

And before the sun's rays were able to be seen hitting the edge of the Earth, Daisy would

slip out of her wet clothing before tossing it in the bin to be cleaned tomorrow. She would retreat

to the warmth of her bed and snuggle in for the few hours of sleep she allowed herself to have.

And life continued like this for a couple of weeks. Fix the house day in and day out, a rare trip to

the market, and an evening excursion to the ocean. Toes curled around the mucky sand as tiny

footprints implanted themselves into Mother Earth. It was always too loud at the beach during
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the day. But by nightfall everything seemed so much more serene. Which is why, on a particular

Sunday evening, Daisy knew something was wrong.

The seagulls screamed in agony as the waves beat down on the shore. And the gloom

that filled the sky only added to the sense of sheer terror that wracked the poor child. Walking

along the beach laid before her a fish, half-dead and half-eaten. It’s glossy eyes filled with tears

that starred up into her own, wide and fascinated. Its stomach was ripped open and was currently

being feasted upon by a gang of seagulls. But Its body rose up and down in shallow breaths (If

fish could breathe she was not really sure), fighting for its own survival. The gleam on its silver

skin looked dimmer, broken.

She wanted to move. To shout into the ocean. A desperate howl that scratched at her

throat. Crying, begging, anything to make them notice her. To run over there and shoo the birds

away with a shout, saving the poor fish and what little life he had left. To fix his boo boos and

kiss his gills as she delicately tended to the fish’s wounds in the same way she did so many times

before to her own. He would become her pet, her best friend. She would name him appropriately

(Bubbles? Bait? Fin? She would decide later). Perhaps she would get him a lady fish and the two

would have cute little fish baby’s and Daisy would become a grandmother. And when the fish,

after so many long years of living as her companion, had come to join her father in heaven Daisy

would bury him in the yard under her favorite tree. A proper burial for one who had brought so

much joy into her life.

But she did not. Could not. The fish was already dead. Its body once full of life and vigor

had been ravaged to the point of unfamiliarity. The seagulls, like kings of old, lifted their goblets

into the air as they ravaged the bounty of fruits and meats caught and plucked by their unwilling
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servants who killed unwilling boars. Words stuck in her mouth the same way the meat stuck in

their teeth. She was frozen in the shocked realization: This is death.

How wonderful, how appalling; This little fish. It was safe within the arms of the ocean,

why had it made such a foolish mistake to leave? Did the ocean, in all its ethereal beauty and

terror, decide the fish was not fit enough to swim in her waters? Did it not fix the floorboards or

the faucets? Is this why death came for it? Why he chose to become so unfriendly and

unfamiliar? Daisy felt heavy. This child does not know what she just witnessed and therefore

unaware how to process it. So she dragged her body back home, crying all the way.

When Joanna saw her appearance in the morning: Eyes shot open, sand sticking to her

skin, vomit dribbling down her chin; She knew Daisy had gone against her. She would be

punished, naturally. But Joanna only did so out of love, of course. To protect her child from the

world and its miscreants. How else was Daisy supposed to react to such a situation? To

something she had never experienced or seen before?

And she never went back to that ocean again. She would remain with her mother for the

foreseeable future. And that little girl was never seen smiling again. She had stopped wanting,

stopped dreaming for anything more than her little house in her little town. When that child was

no longer a child and had one of her own, she raised her daughter in the same manner that her

mother and her mother before her: with love.

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Guided Reflection

Look back at your diagnostic story. Then look at this midterm story. How have you improved?

Support your answers with evidence from your work. (Or, to put it another way, point to the

differences.)

Honestly looking back at my original diagnostic story, I wouldn’t say anything

substantial has improved. Perhaps a bit meatier? But this could also be due to the fact that my

midterm paper is around 7 pages longer than my diagnostic story. On that, I do think I’ve gotten

better at writing ‘vaguely’, or as Viktoria would describe it, ‘Dream-like.’ I don’t know how to

describe it really, but I think my diagnostic story is a lot more rough and rigid while my midterm

is smoother and abstract. For example, my transitions between paragraphs: “...seedy town and its

seedy people. If she were a seed, she would hope to grow into a sunflower. For she loved the sun

more than anything.

The last time the sun had kissed her lips was when she visited her grandmother. They had

only met once when Daisy was very young.”

Compare that to my diagnostic story, which often didn’t involve transitions between the

paragraphs and ideas: “...I don’t have the capacity to believe in a higher power, but If there is a

god out there, they certainly don’t care for a life as unimportant and meager as mine…”

Dependent upon them for life’s every need, I grow complacent.”

I’ve never written or added dialogue to any of my previous stories, so this was a big step

for me. And while the dialogue I added was minimal, it was still there so I’m proud of myself for

at least including it.

I also really had to restrain myself from adding any overtly religious themes. Most of

what I write usually has an overtly religious theming to it. This can be seen in my diagnostic
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story: “I don’t have the capacity to believe in a higher power, but If there is a god out there, they

certainly don’t care for a life as unimportant and meager as mine.” I had to restrain myself really

hard from falling back into that with Joanna in this story.

But also strangely enough both stories have to do with fish in one way or another?

I felt much looser when coming up with this. There is an idea that I want to put out there

Tell me about your writing process. How did you go about drafting and revising this story? How

many drafts did you do?

A lot about this story changed from the first to the final draft. I don’t usually outline my

drafts on paper. Instead, I come up with the story in my head and write down different lines/story

beats on the paper that will later be rearranged into a more workable story. And through this

process, I’m able to mold and weave a story.

This story changed a lot through my time with it. I was originally going to write a

completely different ending, it was supposed to be written in third person, but most significantly,

the ending was supposed to be the beginning. After conferring with my writing group, I decided

to change a lot of my story. I still wanted that consistent theme of “Bad parenting and its

consequences on the child” and I knew what point A was and what point B was, but I didn't

know how to get from point A to point B in my story.

What's the best part? What are you proudest of?

The part where Daisy finds the dead fish was the first part of the story that I wrote. And

that also happens to be my favorite part! Despite being a very squeamish person myself, I really

love writing about and depicting gore in my stories. I tried to restrain myself with the nitty gritty
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of it all. Instead, I showed the gore through metaphor. Specifically, the comparison to the

seagulls and the kings. I feel really egotistical writing this but I do genuinely enjoy the way that

metaphor (and the paragraph as a whole) came together during the culmination of the story.

What would you do with this story if you had more time with it? What would you target for

improvement, and how would you go about making that improvement?

The most cliche thing to say would be to expand more on characters and setting. And it's

cliche because it's needed so often. Including right now. So, yes, I would definitely want to dive

deeper into Daisy’s everyday life, Joanna’s past, the town, etc… Make this a story that happens

over a period of time rather than an abstraction of time.

There is something I want to say with this piece. But due to time, I wasn't able to expand

and apply myself to the full extent on my themes in the story. This ties back into wanting to

expand upon the characters and the world, since my themes are conveyed through them. If I help

to develop my characters more, that will help to develop my theme.

And although I mentioned how I was proud of myself for not involving any religious

elements into the story, I am a creature of habit and given the opportunity I would 100% make

Joanna an evangelical.

What questions do you have for me? How can I support you?

How do you make dialogue sound natural? I really enjoyed the time we talked in class

about dialogue (The idea that every character in a story thinks they are the main character really

stuck with me), and I think I understand how to implement it, but not really how to make it
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sound normal? If that makes sense? I’d also really love some more pointers for developing a

setting for your characters!