An excerpt from Emily Wright’s manuscript in the making . . .

Little Sister

A novel about the rise up against preconditioned expectations women and girls have learned to accept and often think nothing of enduring.

Unlikely Muse

The high-pitch hum of heat buzzed around her like a war cry that frenzied flying insects. Raising her head to ease the tension mounting in her shoulders, the breeze was quick to cool the sheen of sweat at Melody’s hair line. It was too late to consider a hat. The task had already begun. Gardening was meant to be light welcome work. Not this patch of dirt. The massive plot carved out at the back of the yard did not make the chore of weeding enjoyable in the slightest. It was labor: an overgrown jungle of hated perennials crowded out the desired ones.  

Melody’s mother, Emma, had wanted a small patch of the acre yard reserved for some flowers. A splash of color to enjoy while at the kitchen sink gazing out the window or sipping coffee as she sat on their expansive deck. Hugh had a different view. The hunk of land Melody’s father had dug out would have been massive for a public space . They should have known his ‘go big or go home’ attitude would warrant a backhoe. In fact, her mother had mentioned a rock garden and envisioned stones no bigger than pumpkins jutting up between her peonies and iris. Instead, Hugh arranged for a front-end loader to drop off stones that any normal person would categorize as boulders to squat in the sprawl of upturned earth. 

Now, when Emma looked over her yard she saw a neglected eyesore of weeds and overgrown plants choking out some sort of grotesque ruins. She hadn’t asked for a hobby that would require multiple days to tend to. It was now a constant reminder of time she had reserved elsewhere, while the hours of work needed to maintain this wild foliage dogged her from her view from the kitchen. Very rarely did Emma sit on the deck anymore and when she did she turned her back to her jungle garden.

In an effort to help with this, Melody had set out to weed a section of garden; a mere portion that, perhaps over a few days, would make some sort of headway. There were no disillusions to this thankless effort that would hold very little impact. Nonetheless she would try. At the very least, she hoped to inspire her mother to come out and garden by lightening her load somewhat.

This too could backfire. In early summer, many of the flowers had yet to bloom. Weeding without a degree in horticulture was risky. Melody was prepared for her mother’s misguided wrath. Unearthing the wrong plant could trigger Emma’s anger. The rage meant for her husband, the frustration with her own neglect, could rear its ugly head to hiss and snarl at her daughter’s good deed. You know, the kind that doesn’t go unpunished.

On this particular day, Melody stood to straighten her back and once again vowed to never own a garden of this size. Cows had been grazing in the west field when she first knelt, trowel in hand. They were  now migrating to the east. The slow trod down the hill was a muddy one. Their once creamy white coats were dappled with muck and manure as they slogged along. At the base of the gentle slope, water pooled and gathered in the wells of their hoof prints to pull at their legs. The cows plodded on and glanced back every so often at their struggling calves, helpless. Mud sucked at the entire length of their little limbs. Every step was a silent labor. 

Looking on, Melody spotted the smallest calf and worried for its safety, not knowing how to, but wanting very much to intervene. But it endured. Measured and slow, the tiny cow, now dipped in mud, fought to find higher ground along the fence line. The effort to get there seemed greater than the straight line behind its mother, but Melody appreciated its will to find a better way.

It was painstaking to watch as the small cow navigated through thick inhospitable stocks of wild grass while the sodden earth clung to every step. The calf’s unwavering effort was rewarded when it broke through to dry land. This was made obvious when it pranced and leaped towards its mother and the rest of its herd. Frolicking calves were always a gleeful sight. This little guy’s struggle made for a rewarding happy dance and a smile found its way to Melody’s lips. Her gardening tasked seemed manageable after witnessing the inspirational feat of an unexpected muse.

Then, grunts of protest and annoying complaints interrupted this moment of purity as the only bull reached the marsh field. Always lagging behind and bringing up the rear he ambled along. Seeking out the calf’s path, the massive male sought higher ground to minimize his efforts. Leg muscles twitched as he easily pulled his mud soaked ankles from the wet dirt. Detouring and avoiding the straight path left by the females the bull balked and bitched the entire way. A noisy rant to the others making his inconvenience and rage known. 

As he passed by Melody, his over privileged mud smattered ball sack bobbled behind. 

“And that’s why we eat the males!” Melody hollered at the disgruntled beast before returning to work on her mother’s garden.