She decided, as she stood in front of the mirror after the shower, that she resembled nothing so much as an ancient fertility idol. Breasts too large to be fully covered by one hand, a comfortably round abdomen, hips and thighs of rich, rolling substance, like mounds of productive soil warmed by the noontime sun. She was no one’s mother, and yet, staring back at her was the mother of all the Earth. Months of eating her feelings had done this. Soon she would begin to undo it—the fat had reached the point where it was an encumbrance, literally weighing her down—but the thought made her a little sad. She ought to feel disgusted by the image staring back at her, she supposed, but in fact she felt a sense of pride. Pride that her body, a part of her and yet not, could host such eternal, necessary, conflicting concepts as comfort, safety, sexuality, and a kind of base savagery. I made that, she thought. I made that thing, and that thing is me. Contains me. Is me.
This was my first daily fiction post. It’s a scene that popped into my head, fittingly enough, while I was showering. If you like it, please share it using the buttons below.