A Stable Home

Deep in some forgotten foothills slumped a little yellow cottage where a mother and her two sons lived. The woman was so wicked that she only ever spoke to the boys in slurred screams, endlessly enslaving them to chores that were rightly her duty. The children were ages seven and eight, but you wouldn’t know it because their hands grew callous and their eyes heavy, seemingly bearing the wrinkles of well-worn men. They stilted their voices and conversed between the cracks, careful to never be overheard. One day, something did hear the cries of these children bemoaning their mother…

On this fateful afternoon, the two brothers played catch: gloves and ball in hand as they did most days. They roamed a large field that only held the cottage and a rusting horse stable. They played far from the house because they didn’t want the mother to overhear their laughter. The autumn sun warmed their skin while the breeze whispered a gentle melody. Sometimes they overthrew the ball, and it rolled into her empty horse stable. It was filled with dirt and dried hay; neither horse nor mother had set foot inside since soon after she’d built it.

In the distance, their mother yelled at them to come inside for supper. The boys rushed back. As the mother stomped through the family room, a toy rocking horse crumbled under her foot. She screamed. Ezra, the younger of the two boys, knew it was his. He had left it on the unkept carpet. Ezra’s jet-black eyes watered as he collected the crumbled pieces, trying to salvage the small horse.

“How many times have I told you to never leave your toys out!” She stumbled forward and slapped Ezra across the face. The tiny wooden pieces fell to the floor. He whimpered as a hand imprint slowly appeared on his cheek. “Get out of my sight!” She screamed.

Ezra grabbed the broken toy and ran to his room. Tears streamed down his cheeks until he screamed behind a slammed door.

The mother violently turned towards the eldest—Milo—who peaked from the kitchen table, watching the scene. Spit dripped from her mouth as she roared, “Eat and go straight to bed! I don’t want to look at you either.” The mother limped over to the recliner in the living room and examined her foot.

Milo bit back his angst over a half-made plate of scraps. Before joining his brother, he stuffed fragments of food into his pocket for Ezra. Then he got up, put his dishes in a full sink, and slowly walked towards his bedroom. But before he did so, Milo stood at the corner of the living room, before entering the hallway. He watched as his mother’s long black hair was shoved into a clip; she had white strands sticking out in every direction atop her head.

Milo murmured, “Good night, mama, I love you.” She didn’t look up. The woman was in a trance, her body glued to her chair—and eyes—the television. It was her favorite place these last few years.

Every night was the same: they watched her glossy red eyes glaze over into a cold, distant, and empty space. She laughed when the scenes weren’t funny and yelled when the television showed a romantic couple holding hands or kissing. She seemed possessed—gazing mindlessly at every advertisement. As if it were her job, she reached for the black bottle that sat comfortably by her side.

 ⁎              

The boys shared a bedroom. Ezra sat next to the windowsill, holding the broken rocking horse in his tiny hands. The reflection from the stars shined through his eyes, making his pale skin look as ivory as an elephant’s tusk. Ezra squeezed the horse and sobbed. Milo entered the room and walked towards him. He noticed the toy and stared out of the window, brushing his shaggy hair out of his face. “You want me to toss it?” Milo asked. “You should just get rid of it.” His brown eyes seemed to darken.

Ezra exhaled the breath that Milo held in. “I want to keep it.” His deep black eyes turned to his older brother, “Maybe we can fix it.” The once brilliant cherry red paint peeled under the belly of the horse, fading to orange from his oily fingertips.

“Some things can’t be fixed.” Milo spat, pacing the bedroom. Silence filled the space between them. The older brother finally sighed and sat next to Ezra.

They gazed into starlight. Milo leaned in to speak until a crash echoed from the kitchen, followed by a whimper. They rushed to the door. Ezra crept around his older brother, curious to see the commotion, but dared not make a sound. The cottage creaked from the wind. The only sound came from the pounding harmony of their heartbeats. They crept just far enough to gaze into the living room—Milo saw her first. Their mother’s body sprawled across the floor; the black bottle toppled over, dripping onto the hardwood floor. He hid the scene from his little brother. “Everything’s alright. Let’s go to bed.” Milo said.

“But I heard—”

“It was just a book.” Milo guided him back to the room. “Let’s go to sleep.”

Ezra stared at his older brother but ultimately acquiesced. A collective sigh escaped their mouths like a duet.

Back in their bedroom, Milo shut the door and pulled the food from his pocket. He handed it to his brother, unwrapping the napkin with care. Ezra put the scraps of food on the dresser and grabbed Milo’s arm, leading him to the window.

Standing below the star lit sky, he said, “Talk to the stars with me.”

Milo hesitated, but not for long. The two companions had spent many nights looking for answers below the flickering lights.

“Do you think anyone can hear us?” asked Ezra.

“No, she won’t be awake until morning.” Milo said snidely.

“That’s not what I meant.” said Ezra solemnly. He looked at his brother, then squeezed his eyes tight and began to pray, “Please, bring our mother back. Make her like she was, like before. Please.” They sat beneath the stars for what seemed like hours—wishing upon them—until night became sleep.

The next day, the two boys played catch near the empty stable. It towered above them and laid only three stalls wide. Originally adorned in red paint, the roof turned to rust, and the gates were left unhinged. It was as if they were waiting for someone to enter.

All at once, the wind howled, and the daylight faded to black. Milo and Ezra were greeted by millions of stars. As if pulled into a vortex, the stars combined into one. They stared in wonder as the single star descended. The boys froze in awe as it landed between them. Their faces glowed from the light and the star flickered.

A gentle voice sang:

“Come my children, and listen close, I hear your calls at night.”

After a pause, Milo spoke hesitantly but with courage, “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

“I come from where you came from.”

Bewildered, the brothers turned to each other. The star’s voice was warm and familiar.

Ezra, with a sense of hope, then asked, “Are you here to help our mother?”

The star’s vivid hue glistened, then it cooed,

“To get your mother back, a tender hand must mightily close her mouth. She will no longer scream or shout, nor say anything at all.

In this silence you both must be brave, for you’ll all suffer greatly.

Uncertainty will loom and danger will befall a boy.

But always remember, storms come to pass.

For on the other side of silence is harmony.”

Before they could say another word, the star ascended out of the darkness, scattering beams of light across its landscape. The sky filled with twinkling lights once more, then the sun returned. They squinted. The sunshine penetrated their pupils, but they hardly noticed because they were searching for the star. The brothers stood stunned on the yellowing grass.

Their mother called them in for supper. They meandered towards the cottage and washed up. Starstruck by what they witnessed, they ate in silence. The mother hadn’t noticed their stillness, instead she turned on the TV as the boys washed the dishes like robots. 

“Those dishes better be spotless.” She slurred. Her back faced them, “I’ll make you do them again.” She paused. “And all those toys better be put away this time.”

The boys wandered into their bedroom when they finished the chores. Once secluded, they discussed the talking star.

“Was that God?” asked Ezra.

Milo was silent, he didn’t know what to say. Instead, he simply shrugged, still not able to grapple with what had happened. With no brotherly assurance to be had, Ezra turned to fix his broken toy. With glue in one hand and the head of his toy horse in the other, Ezra smashed it back together, unaccustomed to a gentle touch. The horse fell apart when he released his grip. Frustrated, Ezra threw it onto his bed. Contrite and remorseful, he recalled the star, then picked it back up and gently set the crumbled horse gently on his windowsill.

Milo watched until his face softened, “Maybe it was God.” The hair on his arm stood.

“Milo. What do we do?” Ezra pleaded.

Mildly bewildered he answered, “You heard… We must close mom’s mouth tonight.”

“Then the magic will work?” Ezra asked hopefully.

Milo turned to the window and stared into the sky. “I think so.” Dusk approached and Milo sighed.

⁎ 

A thunderous snore erupted from the hallway. Milo nodded to his brother, still uncertain but willing to try. An hour passed and Ezra battled his desire to fall asleep but soon succumbed to slumber. Milo tried to wake him but was unsuccessful. He knew this forced him to face their mother alone.

The cottage stood still and quiet, except for the leaves that rattled in the breeze like snakes. It was time. Milo crept through their bedroom and into their mother’s. It was empty.

Milo found her snoring in the chair. He inched towards her. The room turned dry and stuffy—so stale it nearly suffocated him. He peered at her sleeping body as another deafening snore made Milo uneasy in his attempt. Summoning his courage, he firmly closed her mouth. She huffed but did not wake. Her mouth locked but nothing else happened. Confused and still afraid, Milo tip-toed back to bed.

The boys awoke the following morning in a haze, not quite sure if the encounter with the star was but a dream they shared. Milo and Ezra were shaken out of sleep. Their mother stirred them in a bewildered rage. It was as if she were caught in the middle of a storm, and snow-flurries blinded her. Panic melted into her face. She moved her mouth to speak but couldn’t. The boys anticipated thunder that never came. Shock clouded their minds. Was it black magic or the divine that touched their mother’s mouth? She clutched her throat, as if she hoped to squeeze sound out. In an exasperated fit, their mother threw the door open and left a hole in the wall behind her.

The boys remained silent until Ezra cleared phlegm from his throat. He whispered, “It was God! She can’t yell at us anymore.”

Milo didn’t respond because he wasn’t so sure. Had he doomed his own mother with a curse? Lost in a flurry of feelings, not the least of which guilt, Milo was left as silent as his mother. He finally found his voice, “Will she ever speak again?”

Ezra leapt to his feet. “Fine by me. When was the last time she said anything nice to you anyway?”

Milo thought about it, realizing that it had been longer than he wanted to admit. He recalled his mother fawning over an unfinished painting that he hadn’t touched in months. It was a warm day and the fragrance from the blooming lilacs flew through the window. She walked into the kid’s room and noticed Milo steadily at work. She marveled at the texture – the contrasting colors that he created on the canvas.

Milo remembered how she beamed. “This is marvelous, Milo!”

Her eyes were as clear as a blue sky. “Soon we will have those stalls full of horses again and you can paint them too.” Her voice shook and she kissed his forehead. Doing her best to suppress her angst, although Milo noticed, she asked, “Can we hang it?” Her words clung to his heart.

He smiled away from her gaze. “I’m not finished.”

“Well, when you are, we’ll hang it.”

“Okay, mom.” The word rolled off his tongue like silk. She squeezed his chin and smiled. Warmth filled his cheeks, making his freckles dance across his face. She was glowing and her long hair swam in the air as he watched her leave his bedroom.

“Milo.” Ezra said.

Milo turned to Ezra who was waiting for his response, “It’s been a while.” He glanced at the unfinished painting, tucked behind the desk. Ezra sensed his unease and suggested they do their chores before she noticed.

⁎  

The curtains were drawn. It was pitch black, except for a dim light that peaked through. The mother paced her bedroom. She shuffled to her vanity, trying to scream but remained mute. Moving to the mirror, she saw her eyes consumed by anxiety, holding her within its grip for what seemed like hours. Gray hair consumed her head. She couldn’t count the number of wrinkles that lived under her eyes anymore. Repulsed, she turned from her reflection.

As the mother welled up with tears, she grabbed the familiar black bottle from her dresser, trying to chug the liquid that routinely eased the pain she refused to feel. But as soon as it hit her tongue, she gagged. It dribbled out of her mouth. She attempted again, like a vampire whose thirst could never be quenched. Again, the liquid shot out and landed on the floor. She could almost see her reflection in the mess.

As the days passed, the red and orange leaves blanketed the ground. The mother adapted to her inaudible nature, tuning her ears keenly to her surroundings. The television flickered different images; she couldn’t seem to fall into her usual trance as laughter harmonized outside. The mother moved from her chair to the window. The drapes were open, allowing the sunlight to beam through the room. She stood entranced in adoration; a gentle warmth filled her heart, and her eyes filled with tears.

The woman who was frail only by appearance wiped them before they had the chance to embrace her cheeks. Then she saw it. Her heart nearly stopped. She turned away from the scene, as though she had found an intruder. The stable she had built many years ago was now rotting away. Her stomach churned and she lost her balance. Her heart sank as low as the dirt the stable stood upon.

Ezra and Milo played catch outside. Milo glanced at the cottage and noticed their mother wobbling through the window; her body hid halfway behind the curtains. Then she disappeared. He scoffed, knowing the similar movements in her body when she indulged in her bottle.

In an exasperated fit, he threw the ball at Ezra, despite knowing his brother wasn’t paying attention. Milo’s aim wasn’t very good. The ball hit Ezra on the shoulder.

“Ouch! What did you do that for?” He shouted at Milo.

“You didn’t catch it.” Milo accused. The anger in his voice was hard to miss, and sorry was all he could muster before he turned to the cottage. Milo stormed into his room and slammed the door. He pulled his paint brushes from his desk. He examined their quality; the bristles were rough, tattered, and old. It seemed like he hadn’t picked them up in months because the dry paint made them stiff. Milo snapped them between his hands and wept.

Ezra entered the bedroom, closing the door behind him he asked, “What’s wrong with you?” He noticed the broken brushes at Milo’s knees.

“I miss her.” His voice cracked and his face fell into his legs. His back leaned into the desk, the only thing holding him up. “We wanted her back the way she was… not this.”

“She can’t yell at us anymore,” Ezra responded.

“Nothing’s changed.”

Ezra avoided Milo’s eyes and coughed, “But we prayed for it.”

“I don’t know, Ezra. Maybe we should stop praying for something that will never happen.”

Ezra got up to his feet, he shuffled through the drawers and pulled the last paintbrush in the cottage. He handed it to Milo. The bristles were used but not old.

“Don’t give up.” He said and reached for his rocking horse. “I won’t either.”

The next day, Ezra couldn’t get Milo out of bed. Milo didn’t want to play catch today. Instead, he gazed down at the unfinished painting. Ezra decided to go outside by himself. The autumn wind shook the leaves as if the breeze whispered for Ezra to escape into them. He grabbed his ball and glove. Running, he tossed the ball into the air, then dropped it as he let out a whooping cough. The ball rolled down a tiny hill into the stables.

Milo watched his brother from the window. Ezra’s words echoed through Milo’s head. Don’t give up.

Ezra searched for the ball inside the stables but instead found old hay. It had withered over the years; he recalled the countless failed attempts his mother made at getting horses to live inside. He coughed again. An itch tickled his throat, and he suddenly felt a chill course through his skin like snakes slithering just beneath the surface. Spotting the baseball in the far corner of one stall, he noticed a picture and a dusty black bottle. The glass frame was shattered, and pieces of the image were worn away from the elements outside. He picked it up and a few shards of glass fell to his feet. The photograph was of a young woman standing tall next to a horse in the stable. Her hair firmly tucked underneath a cap and the horse had a shiny brown coat. The woman’s skin appeared smooth, and her blue eyes stared into the frame like sapphires; he couldn’t make out who she was. It wasn’t until he read the inscription at the bottom of the image that he knew who it was.

It was his mother. He snatched the frame and dashed inside. Ezra couldn’t believe the woman staring at him with such vitality was his mother; adrenaline and joy flooded through him. All Ezra wanted was to show his mother this photo.

He searched for that woman through the cottage until he noticed her sitting at the kitchen table. Black bottles surrounded her like headstones, she grieved. She glanced at him; her eyes were not like the girl in the photo. Instead, they were hollow and flat. It was as if life had left them; she simply existed. Ezra rerouted and instead charged into his shared bedroom; Milo was gone. He sat on his bed and looked at the photo once more. Then he shoved it under his pillow and wept.

Milo had taken a different course. He walked into the kitchen, radiating with pride to display the painting he started months ago now finally finished. Painted on it were heavy strokes of blue, green, and gold, it was the landscape they called home. Inside its vast green hills resided the cottage, the stable, and their family. The texture was breathtaking; the stable looked like the sunset, and it seemed so real that you could walk through it. He painted the three of them playing catch.

When Milo entered, he soon became trepidatious because he found her crying. He displayed the canvas before her, and she reached for it with trembling hands.

Milo asked, “Mama, what’s wrong?” Feeling sorrow for herself, she pointed at her throat. Her once hardened face softened, and Milo reached for her. She flinched.

The painting fell to the floor. Milo was taken aback, unfamiliar to a gentle touch. He scurried away. Alone again, panic rose inside her chest. Her gaze turned to the painting he left behind. She coiled at the sight of the stable and reached for her black bottle. Despite knowing better, she tried once again to pour the liquid down her throat. But no sooner than it went down did it come back up. The bottle fell. Glass shards scattered down the hardwood. Liquid spilled across the painting. Throwing her body to the floor, she tried to save it. Drenched, she wiped the surface. It smeared. The oranges faded into the greens. She lay petrified, staring at the damage she caused. Her body curled like a fetus. She was as shattered as the glass.

The mother eventually found her bed and drifted into an uneasy slumber. When she woke, the painting greeted her. Her face turned green, and she looked as if she were going to vomit.

She ruined the painting. The hues blended into each other, making the image unclear. It wasn’t until she noticed a small fragment of the painting in-tact. She remembered the original. The mother stood between her bottles and the smeared canvas, she rose. Her heart felt clear, and she gathered every black bottle in the cottage. She searched between every closet, cabinet, and crack. Amidst the racket of clanking glass, the boys watched. They were confused by her frantic behavior. She stuffed the bottles into a sack. Once every last one was found, she took the baggage out and heaved it into the dumpster. She paced outside, momentarily contemplating if she should salvage it. Mumbling to herself, she lifted her shoulders to the sky and marched, turning to face home for the first time. They watched her enter her bedroom, and this time the door was cracked, not locked.

The boys dreamt of the day their mother would throw out her black bottles but never thought it would come. They gave a silent thanks to the sky. They were filled with hope and a desire to see if she could speak. They tip-toed to her bedroom as if the sound of their steps would trap her voice within them. On their way, they passed their room, and from the hall Milo glanced at the window. He noticed a dark gray cloud growing and Ezra’s toy rocking horse was missing. Slightly puzzled but determined to check on their mother, they reached her door.

A gentle knock rapped at the door. The two small heads peeked behind the door, as if they didn’t want to be heard.

Milo whispered. “Mama, we want to talk to you.”

No response. They heard faint sniffles cascading through the house like the thing was alive. It was as if the sound engulfed them and they stood within its belly. When they pushed the door slightly, it creaked. Albeit jumpy, they dashed to their room. But there was nothing and no one behind them. The boys turned to one another.

“Where…is…she?” Ezra asked between spurts of coughing.

Milo said, “Quick, follow me.”

They ran. Milo guided Ezra to the location where the star spoke to them. The wind howled. “We have to fix this! God has to help us!” Milo screamed.

They fell to their knees. “What if He’s not listening?” Ezra yelled over the screeching wind as the sky blackened.  There wasn’t a single star in sight.

Milo squeezed his eyes and begged. “This isn’t what we want. Please bring our mother back.” Looking at the heavens, they squeezed their eyes and prayed. The wind flew towards them like tiny knives stabbing their skin.

“How do you know it’s working?” Ezra yelled over the screaming wind.

“We don’t.” Milo yelled back. “But we have to trust.”

Ezra nodded.

As the wind grew fiercer, so did Ezra’s cough. Milo glared at the blackening sky, seeking the familiar star for guidance. No light came. Thunder roared from the sky.

The mother made her way to see the ruckus; it was her sons, dashing into the eye of a storm. 

She wiped her tears and ran out of the door. Milo turned back and saw her rushing towards them.

“Let’s go!” He yelled at Ezra. With a desperate need to speak to their mother, they rushed to their feet and dashed for the cottage.

Ezra was a few paces behind Milo. A violent flurry crashed into Ezra’s weakened body and sent him face-first into the ground. Milo heard a thud!

He turned. Seeing Ezra’s still body on the ground, he cried out in horror, “Ezra! Get up!”

Ezra laid as limp as the dried hay in the stable. He couldn’t stand, succumbing to a fit of coughs. Ezra’s eyes sank as he looked at Milo for help. The older boy dragged his brother’s body across the hills. He stumbled. The mother saw the boys helpless in the storm and braved the dark skies. Although the resistance of the wind pushed against her, she arrived at her son’s side swiftly. Ezra’s eyes slowly rose to his mother’s. His small hand reached for her. The ghost-white skin turned translucent. She scooped his body into her arms and carried Ezra back to the cottage. Milo followed close behind.

Once inside, she touched Ezra’s face. His skin was on fire. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Ezra couldn’t keep his eyes open. The bellowing cough that erupted from his chest frightened them. The mother rushed to the medicine cabinet but to her dismay only found pills that relieve head pain. She groaned. The cottage shook. All she could do was put a cold rag over his forehead. The mother adjusted his frail form, kneeling at his bedside. She held his tiny hand as he laid limp. Ezra exerted short breaths between fits of coughing. Nobody moved.

Milo found his voice, “He’s been coughing for a little while… I didn’t think it was so serious.” The mother wondered how she didn’t notice.

Milo exploded with tears, “I’m sorry, the star told us we’d be in danger.”

Confused, his mother held up her hands, signaling him to stop. Milo told her everything. She sorrowfully gazed at Ezra’s fragile body. His eyes rolled into his head. She re-wet the rag, rang out the excess water, and pulled him into her arms. They stayed that way for hours. A motherly love long overdue felt too late. Milo patiently waited for his brother to wake up. Outside the wind wailed against the cottage walls.

They waited...and waited...and waited...and waited.

The night air grew stuffy like a funeral. The three of them slept in the mother’s bed, too frightened to leave Ezra alone. The moon peeked through the window, and she looked up. A star twinkled back at her. She prayed.

Their mother cringed with every cough that left Ezra’s body that night. Afraid he might stop breathing; she rolled over and put her hand over his chest. It was a dark night. She turned to her sleeping boys' sweet faces, deep in slumber, and tried mouthing I’m sorry. She mouthed again; I love you.

The mother's eyes fought to stay open, but ultimately, she too fell asleep. They slept; each one wrapped in another’s embrace; a mother’s love finally fulfilled. The night became still. A light slowly and silently descended, floating around the room and kissed the mother’s lips. Then it vanished once more.

Dawn pierced the drapes. Ezra gasped. He jolted upright, clutching his chest. The mother and Milo awoke in a flash. Fixated on his breaths, they forgot to breathe.

The mother reached for Ezra and eagerly asked. “How do you feel?”

Slow to answer, he spoke in a whisper, “It’s gone.” Astonished by a miraculous recovery, he clung to his chest in disbelief. Milo gaped at Ezra and their mother.

“It’s gone? Are you sure?” The mother asked as she caressed her young son’s face. She laid her ear against his chest, relieved that the only sound to spring from his chest was his gentle heartbeat. Ezra sat firm, not even a wheeze. Milo remained silent.

“Milo, it’s okay. I don’t feel sick anymore.” Ezra said with cheer. The mother softly set her hand on Milo’s shoulder and his eyes danced between them.

Finally able to express, Milo blurted “Mama, you just spoke. I heard you.”

She touched her throat; it was as if it never stopped working. Skeptical, a voice as smooth as milk asked, “I can talk?” Having heard her voice, she remembered the sensation of speech. Her eyes flew from Ezra to Milo, “Boys. I can talk!”

A rush of triumph filled the room as she fluttered with excitement. Overjoyed, she pulled the boys in for a loving embrace. They sat clenched tightly together until the mother sprang from the bed and pulled something from her dresser. She quickly returned with her hands behind her back. The boys sat perplexed but excited. Their mother planted herself back onto the bed, careful not to expose her secret. Then she revealed the toy rocking horse. Apart from the glued cracks, it was in perfect condition. Once Ezra recognized the fully functional toy, his eyes watered.

“I’m sorry.” Their mother cooed. Ezra carefully put the toy to the side, and the two boys tackled their mother in a loving embrace. A light flashed into her eyes. It came from the horse stable. Peacefully, she uttered, “Let's go play catch.”

Astounded by the mother’s statement, the boys gleefully said in unison, “Yes!”

They gathered their gloves. Ezra ran outside as fast as a jet. Milo followed behind and upon exiting the cottage, he noticed above the door hung the now smeared painting he crafted. Behind him, their mother beamed. They shared a smile, then he dashed out of the door. The mother followed them towards the stable. She spent that afternoon and many henceforth, raising her boys. By the light above, a mother she was and forever would be.

THE END

© Copyright 2020 by Serena Montoya

All Rights Reserved

First Edition Published in 2020 by Serena Montoya

Second Edition published in 2025 by Humming Hearts Publishing

 Cover art and design by J. Montoya

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, persons, living or dead, is coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means of photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This story by no means can be used to train AI.