Beyond Borders Scotland and Dove Tales, the Association of Scottish Writers for Peace, collaborated on the Beyond Writing Competition, aiming to facilitate dialogue and cultural exchange through the creative writing and storytelling. The competition consisted of three rounds; Inspirational Women, Creative Peace and Beyond Borders.

This piece by Elizabeth Train-Brown was shortlisted in Round I: Inspirational Women, chronicling the Crucifixion as told through Mary’s story. The competition’s judge, Jean Rafferty of Dove Tales, described the piece as direct and touching, compelling enough to move even non-believers.

The Mother in Red 

Young when she was chosen,

Fourteen at most:

Perfect age, they said.

Already, her hands were worn

Blackened and grafted

In prophecies and labour.

Saviour

They whispered

Mother

First, she was Mother to

A carpenter

Stable boy.

Held his poverty

And insecurity

In her hands

And kissed them away

With stones

And wings.

Parroted the words

Of angels

And consoled his

Unstill heart.

Next was a baby

In the hay

Drowning in the lowing

Of mothers and beasts.

Bore him with

Narrow hips and

Flat chest

Across the desert,

Tears dry on her cheeks

And eyes heavy with fatigue.

Cradled him at her breast

Nursed him,

Hid him,

Protected him when

They came;

Blood on their tongues

And in their noses.

When they drove

Nails through his

Flesh and crowned

His head in thorns,

It was her who brought

Him down

Crippled arms

Sagging under the weight,

Knees crumpling

And falling down in

The dirt,

His body in her arms.

She wailed and

They cast their stones

Once more.

Bent over him,

Shielding his skin,

The Mother carried him home,

Bathed his broken body

And wept grief,

Pooled in his wounds.

It was she who

Last kissed

His mangled face,

Squinted to recognise

Her son

And smoothed his hair,

Pressed her withered body

Against that boulder

To protect his carcass

From thieves.

Screamed with the

Screams of her bones

And aged muscles,

Heaved the stone over

The entrance.

When she died,

She was born:

Draped in royal blue

The eternal virgin.

They call her modest

Steal the pain she

Endured:

The perfect archetype,

They smear.

But there is blood

In her mouth,

Saliva flecked red,

And scars like claws

In the puckering ribcage

Of starvation,

The dawdling butcher’s

Knife across her stomach

And around her thighs.

Her eyes are not blue.

They are grey with

The faces that haunt her:

The silvery hair

Of wandering crones

Woven with congealed blood

Women lost in reality

Clutching their ashen

Dead-faced children

Flickering shadows dancing

Behind girls, younger than she was,

Following them home.

They may forget,

But she will not.

She will never forget.

She’s always with her children:

There in the fogs of their laughter

In the first infant screams

Endorphin tears of happiness

Wild games of their youth

Sparkling first kisses

The untamed whirls of their dancing

Leaps of joy

Cries of mad freedom.

They call her in prayer

With love in their hearts

Tears in their eyes

Blood in their womb

And pleas on their lips,

Beg the Great Mother:

Mary

Mother of all

Bless me.