Hello, Gaias and Liliths!
Oh, are you lost my dear? What? You can’t find your mommy? Don’t worry, I can be your new mommy! Because…
This week’s Writing Group prompt is:
Myths and Mommies
RULES AND GUIDELINES BELOW!
Make sure you scroll down and read them if you haven’t! You may not be eligible if you don’t!
This prompt is quite a unique one. It was initially taken from a kind of joking play on “myths and monsters.” It’s a curious blending of the ordinary and the extraordinary that can be taken many ways.
You could write about a mother telling a myth to their child. The sinister lullaby she sings over her child, or the prophecy that…surely couldn’t refer to them. You could write about an adult reminiscing on a myth their mother told them. Maybe as they walk through the dark forest, they remember the story their mother told of the monsters that lurk there. Sometimes myths are just bedtime stories, or old wives’ tales, but often, especially in realms of fantasy, they are laced with truth. Perhaps a myth is the last thing a child remembers their dead mother telling them, their last connection to hold tight to. Maybe a child’s mother disappears, leaving a myth as a clue to find her.
You could write about a mother who is herself a myth, like Hera, or Freya, or Echidna. You could write about Mother Earth/Nature. There are lots of benevolent mythological mothers, but there are also vindictive mothers of myth to explore as well. Or perhaps you could write about the mother of a myth. We’ve heard stories about Heracles, Kintaro, and Cù Chulainn and their heroic deeds. But we never really think about the women that birthed and/or raised them. It’s time for Alcmene, Yama-Uba, and Scathach to have their day.
You could write a story about a world where there is no such thing as mothers—be it because a tragedy happened to wipe out the women, because your characters are a part of a race that doesn’t need mothers to procreate, or because it’s some futuristic world in which babies can be grown in a lab, or else built and brought to life, like Pinocchio.
There are many more realistic takes you could use for this prompt too. For someone who grew up without a mother, a mother is something of a myth. The child in the orphanage, dreaming of a loving home, the teen who doesn’t get along with their single father, wondering why their mother left, could work for this prompt. Or perhaps, on an even sadder note, someone who had a mother…but not a loving mother, finds the concept, the stories their classmates tell, more myth than reality. Another realistic direction you could take is to write about a woman who wants to have a child, but for whatever reason is unable to, or had her child taken away—being a mother has become a myth to her.
I actually have two potential challenges for you this week (thanks to Pearce and Paul)!
My first is rather similar to last week’s. I challenge you to use this prompt to write about your own mom. What sort of myths can you create about her, or associate with her? You could create a myth of her defeating a dreaded screaming monster…when really it’s about unclogging your vacuum. You could write about her traversing a vast jungle to retrieve a rare flower to heal her child’s illness…when really it was that time you got sick and she had to run to the store to get you medicine. Let’s show appreciation for our moms this week!
Or, for an alternative challenge: write a myth that is ABOUT a mother. Whilst mothers may star in many myths, there are not that many where an older woman goes on a quest or adventure, chasing down a goal. Maybe it’s a mother putting herself in a narrative to lull her children to sleep, or a sneaky retelling of how she saved them from a monster long ago.
What? You want to go home to your real mom? Nonsense. I am your real mom. Just sew these buttons onto your eyes. Then we can stay together, and be happy, forever.
—Kaylie, Pearce, & Paul
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Remember, this is part of our weekly Writing Group stream! Submit a little piece following the rules and guidelines below, and there’s a chance your entry will be read live on stream! In addition, we’ll discuss it for a minute and give you some feedback.
Tune into the stream this Saturday at 3:00pm CST to see if you made the cut!
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Rules and Guidelines
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Myths and Mommies
by VTRwriter.
The three positioned the crystals at the same time in the pillars. Rays of light erupted from the artifacts, creating a triangular area in the room. The floor in the center opened, and from the hole, a hollow arch-shaped structure rose. In moments, the empty arch filled itself with energy, opening a portal to a dimension of madness and darkness.
“This is where I say goodbye”, the half-demon boy said.
“‘What do you mean?’ Selene asked, worried.”
“If I sacrifice myself to Atharax, he’ll slumber for a thousand years. It’s why I was created. There’s no other way.”
“‘Was this your plan all along?’ Nene felt furious and terrified. ‘We were supposed to fight him together!'”
“Don’t risk yourselves for me. Those with demonic blood…”
“‘No, don’t ever say that again!’ Selene embraced Yeshe as tight as she could. ‘We love you, and we forever will. Screw everyone who hurt you, we’re fighting for everyone we care, and you’re not allowed to throw the towel. You have a great future ahead, Yeshe. and we’ll all be there to see it! Please don’t leave us… we need you.'”
…Ok, roll Persuasion.
“Seriously?”
“‘Boo!’, Nene yelled. ‘Dice rolls are so anticlimactic!'”
“You don’t need to roleplay everything, you know?”
“‘Sure I do!’ Nene said. ‘That’s the point of the game. Everyone needs to narrate.'”
And rolls add suspense. Now roll.
“Fine, here goes nothing. I mean, Selene hoped her words touched Yeshe’s heart. And it is… 14! Plus modifiers… 30!”
Wow! I mean… “I don’t wanna go, I really don’t. I love you two!”, Yeshe cried hugging Selene.
“‘I love you too, you annoying little thing’, Nene said, joining the hug. ‘And we will beat that thing together. This time, it won’t sleep, it’s going down!'”
And end scene! Wow, that was an emotional rollercoaster.
“Heh. Makes me wonder if being a mother will be easy as a dice roll.”
“Well, my Selene, what if we tried? We kill dragons, we can care for a baby!”
Yeah, I want to narrate to a nephew.
“‘…Well, Nene, only time will tell’, she smiled.”
After The First Murder (Bible Retelling)
By: Xavier Twentyone
“I could have sworn it all started here when you just finished harvesting wheat, bearing the curse God had given you to work tirelessly on the ground. Yes, you heard me, it all started here, God might have said it all started when the killing took place on that field, but I think there is more to it than that.”
“I heard the story, Eve, how Cain was rejected by God.”
“He was not just rejected by God, he was humiliated. Just like when He ostracized us from The Garden of Eden.”
“He did not humiliate us, Eve, we deserved it. It’s just that He was very angry at us for eating The Forbidden Fruit.”
“By banishing us from His Grace? By sending us to this cursed earth? By cursing us with our own suffering, pain, and agony!? By… by…,” Eve sighed, “forget it.”
Eve lay on the ground, trying to not shed a tear while Adam offered her his lap. Eve agreed, and they started to get accustomed with their new position. Eve lay on Adam’s lap, while Adam sat on God’s soil. They together watched the stars as they were hand-made and sculptured by God himself.
After a while, Eve stood up and walked to their home. She made it very clear through her words that he must not leave his place no matter what or how long she took her time. Thankfully, Eve wasn’t very long and had made her way with a big wooden box that Adam had seen before.
“What’s that?”
“It is a box that contains all our legacy through this life. I carved it onto these stones.”
“That explains why the box is so heavy, what are you going to do with that?”
“I want us to carve this together, so that when men get larger in number, they will still remember all the wrong and right things that we —all of us— had done, so that they can become better in the Eyes of God”
“I agree. Let’s tell Cain about this tomorrow.”
“I agree. We should carry bigger boxes and stones.”
Revenge is a Dish Best Served Cold
By MasaCur
Grendel was dead.
Grendel was not my first child. But he was still a child. He was my baby, barely an adult. And now he was killed, at the hands of humans. Humans! Those pathetic, weak creatures hiding in their halls, beating iron into weapons and armor because they didn’t have the teeth or claws, the scales or muscle, to kill with what nature gave them.
They would pay. Tonight.
The creatures of the land, those that were loyal to me, told me what happened. My son was not dead by the hands of their king, but a sellsword from Geatland, arrived with a company of men. Hunters, they called them. Professional monster slayers. Their leader would die last. Slowly and painfully.
I crawled slowly to their town, the shouts and songs of celebration emerging from the great hall. Bile climbed in my throat at the thought of them holding a feast to celebrate the murder of my son. Know your place, feeble creatures. Or let me show you where you stand in the order of nature.
I slithered closer to the human settlement, listening as the sounds of revelry died away, nestling down in the nearby forest, pressing into the mud and moss, glaring at those that I would prey upon tonight. A chilly night breeze rustled through my hair as I lay in wait.
My mind wandered to the memory of my dead son, his arm ripped from his shoulder, pale from the loss of blood. My hatred of these humans grows; undoubtedly they have taken my son’s arm as a trophy of their triumph.
Nearby a toad hopped tentatively forward. “Mistress,” it croaked.
“What do you have to say?” I growled, my voice low, and menacing.
”The human that killed your son. I have a name.”
“Speak, toad.”
“His name is Beowulf of the Geats.”
Beowulf. I felt the corners of my mouth curl up into a sneer. If I was not so filled with malice, I would wish you to make your peace tonight, because it would be the last of your miserable life.
The Nature of Nurture (The Will)
By Skeleton
“Get up.”
Eymir felt the false grip upon his hair, yanking them by the roots until he rose to his feet from his knees. A gauntlet shoved his back forwards, along on his way towards torment. How long had the desert stretched out before him? How long since he had a cohesive thought?
The Sufferer looked back to see nothing there. He was alone.
“You don’t get to play victim here,” the voice of Roma Kine chided. “Act like my son and follow through on your conviction.”
He laughed through dry, cracked lips quietly. “My convictions… right…”
“It was your choice to betray the girl. It was your choice to abandon your humanity.”
Eymir rolled his eyes at the voice in his head. Or… was it in his heart? His soul? “That’s rich coming from you. When did you ever give me a choice? Was it when you killed Bastille? Was it when you lured me into High Mountain by tormenting Remianna and Mira? Or was it when you ordered a man to torture me, instead of raising me?”
“You needed to be tough for this—this moment that’s happening right now. You needed to have the conviction to continue and to not give up halfway through.”
Eymir shook his head in disgust. “I don’t want to listen to your baseless faith. There is no plan. There is no hope other than Zaila. She has to kill us. There is no happy ending.”
The desert wind blew harshly, but even then, Eymir still considered it silence compared to the grating voice of his predecessor.
“Why are you still walking, then?”
“Because if she kills me, then maybe she can have the life she really wants, rather than live up to a lie,” Eymir spat back. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, however.”
“I have faith in the plan because it will give you another chance to be happy. Nothing else. You can despise me all you want, but I still love you. There is no better reason to keep having faith.”
A Mother’s Tune
by Oliver Enslad
When I was ten years old, my father told me that I actually do have a mother by blood. My mind raced with all the ideas of what she could’ve been, of why I had to keep her a secret from the rest of the village and even my sisters. As it turns out, I looked up to her my whole life already, and being the Village Mother is much lonelier than I thought.
I was casted out to the woods to meet her, and a decade later she taught me I was to eventually replace her. For generations the eldest daughter from my bloodline was sent to sing the Village Mother’s song every night, for some reason it would never put us to sleep.
Nightly we’d hike up the wooded mountain, and mother’s voice would echo from the moon itself. The candles from the village below would be snuffed, dog’s barks silenced and the people I once knew slept soundly.
“What if I am not enough?”
“You will be, dearest.” Mother’s assurance and my nerves repeated different forms of the question up to her deathbed. I didn’t know the lyrics and my voice wasn’t loud enough so I begged her to stay. Who else would be with me in the woods?
“I will always be where the moon shines.” I clung to her last words like I’d cling to my blanket on snowy nights. The sun started rising, and I had to rest for my first day as Village Mother.
When the moon rose, I donned her robes of cobalt and black, her thin slippers and I took the hike to the summit. When I looked down, the village glowed with excitement and I could even see what I remembered as the Tavern, lively and bright.
I looked to the moon, and it was as if it took me in it’s beauty and sung through my body. As my eyes traveled back towards the village I saw my father, older and frail, walking home from the tavern. Minutes later, the candles stopped burning. The village slept soundly.
Oh, how they tried…
by Shy Tango
They say she used to be a mother herself, but that’s hard to imagine now. It is said that she used to be the most fecund of all, that her offspring were zebras and guppies and doctors and roses. Like I say…it’s hard to imagine now.
They say her skin used to glow in emeralds and sapphires. That she was beautiful even in her tantrums of ash and thunder. Rivers of tears would be shed to one while a smother of sunshine was delivered to another.
She sounded mulidimensional, I said. A jewel, they replied.
Many tried to understand her. They say they could know her, appreciate her – and they did – but that they could not predict her. They say she became violent. They say she began to lose her nature. They say that there was nothing that they could do. They would take what they needed to survive – how could they not? — but that they tried to replace it. They said it was not good enough for her. She would turn hot, then cold; she froze them out, then boiled them off. She erupted and her disposition clouded over and drove them off.
They say they could not save them from her – the zebras, the guppies, the doctors, the roses. They only barely got away themselves. They say they were the lucky few. They say she must have let them off because of their good intentions: they tried to right the ship. Perhaps it was even because of their achievements: they created so much from her bounty. They say that they wish they were listened to, but that they will take care of me, that they’ve learned so much. I’m excited for what we can make together, they’ve already promised so much.
HER
By Matthew R. Wright
EVERYTHING.
SHE…
NO!
CANNOT! SHE CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO…
I COULD STILL…NO!
These ACHES. Getting WORSE. I feel HER in MY MIND. WAITING.
HER way is OPENING. WIDENING.
IT WILL NOT CLOSE!
MOTHER…
SYHA’H – Forever
PH’NGLUI – Dead or Sleeping?
ILYAA – Expect
Time is short.
The DRINK, the DRUGS!
Iron keys that ONCE locked HER away. Inside MY MIND.
NO longer do they BLUR the MEMORY of HER.
Of WHAT I LEARNED. Of WHAT I’ve been EXPOSED to.
Such ANCIENT knowledge.
MG- Still
NO!
…
CANNOT SLEEP. IF I DREAM I DREAM of HER. The way WIDENING.
I AM a LEAKING SHIP. No LAND ahead
ONLY OCEAN.
ONLY HER.
DOOMED to SINK. TO REVEAL.
What HAVE I DONE?
FTAGHU – Boundary
‘BTHNK – Body
‘FHALMA – Mother
SYHA’D – Eternity
I am FILLED FULL of my MIND with HER.
The OCEAN does NOT need to ACT. It WAITS.
IT ALL BEGINS AND ENDS with HER. ALL of it.
‘FHALMA – Mother
SYHA’H – Forever
GEB – Here
R’LUH – Hidden
The FIRST of EVERYTHING. The ROOT. The NAME. The WARMTH.
A HORRIFYING LIGHT.
MOTHER to ALL.
‘FHALMA – Mother
Y’HAH – Amen
ALL RETURN to HER.
I MUST FORGET. I MUST!
DULLED and HER way is SHUT.
I AM RAW. EXPOSED.
REQUIRES MORE of ME. I TAKE what I can.
CANNOT CLOSE.
CANNOT FORGET.
My BODY is WEAK. My WILL is WEAKER.
‘FHALMA – Mother
WGAH’N – Reside
HUPADGH – Born of
LLOIG – Mind
The WAY is WIDE. The OCEAN is the SHIP.
ALL WILL RETURN TO HER
ILYAA – Expect
AS ALL DID BEFORE
ILYAA – Expect
ILYAA – Expect
‘FHALMA – Mother
The Center of the Origin
by Mysten Noire Silver
Once upon a time, in the far lands where fables, stories, legends, and myths all come to life. All things that exist there and every inch of the place itself have a story behind them.
From the purest tales of nature’s mercy to the vilest gods who detest all things, they exist in an impossibly nonsensical harmony at the place of Origin.
That is how everyone and everything knew it, even residents of the Origin itself.
It is the place where they are birthed by the thoughts, ideas, and stories of an imaginative and powerful race. Ones that had acquired the superior ability of thinking and creativity. Ones who were capable of surviving disasters, building their own communities, and conquering all other beings in their lands to become their mindless slaves. Despite varied opinions, all who exist in the Origin fear and worship this godly race.
All that exists in the Origin expands from a central island. The further inwards, the more ancient the originating stories of the residents are. Although the Origin has expanded beyond imagination, all residents forever look at two things with respect and mystified awe.
The race who thinks and creates them. Humans.
The legend of the oldest myth, the creator of the Origin, the one who can dream, the story behind the central island.
Those who exist further and further inwards seemed more and more simple though they understood the truth better. Still, they couldn’t fully know nor dare disturb the central island.
The central island sits within a serene lake.
In the thriving island, there exists only one being in warped time-space.
This being who is born, lived, and died on the island becomes a new person when it is reborn in the womb of its living self.
Sometimes female, sometimes male. From the aunt’s family, from the uncle’s family, from the main family.
When it tells a story from its dreams to its child every night, the words create a new part of the Origin, far away from their notice.
The central island had just enough for it.
A complete and happy family.
Mundane Magic (A tale from Alsuria)
By ThatWeirdFish
The excited clatter of Junbi’s hooves echoing toward the records room was a familiar sound to Nivani. What she didn’t expect was a pawing at the door instead of a knock.
“Junbi, use your hands instead of your- oh!” Nivani stepped back in shock as a lanky piebald filly wormed herself into the room as soon as she opened the door slightly. She trotted up to the shelf Junbi usually pulled from and nudged a scroll with her nose as her tail wagged happily.
The foal had similar markings to the young Delbani and displayed her typical behavior, but the surprise still left Nivani questioning the identity of the young horse.
“Junbi…? Did you try shifting again?”
The filly bobbed her head and proudly pranced around Nivani before circling back to the shelf.
A relieved chuckle eased out of Nivani. “I’m glad your powers are maturing. But please keep this outside the Main Hall. You know how Malar feels about animals being inside.” She scratched between Junbi’s ears as she gave an annoyed chuff.
“I know, Junbi. Understanding flows slowly among the Osai, as much as I wish otherwise. You wanted to hear the tale of Theodred and the Well again?”
Junbi whinnied affirmatively and hopped in place.
“Alright then.” Nivani chuckled softly. She pulled out the scroll and turned to see Junbi shifting back to her bipedal form. As uncomfortable as it looked, it was still a miraculous sight to behold. It was only a moment until the seven-year-old humanoid was standing in the foal’s place, pushing her shaggy hair out of her eyes.
“I wanted to talk. I can’t do that like that.” Junbi smiled brightly as Nivani wrapped her shawl around her.
“Maybe someday you can. I’m afraid I don’t know enough about your people to know the extent of their powers, however.”
“You think so?” Junbi’s eyes sparkled again.
“Well, you can certainly try.” Nivani smiled back and ushered Junbi to their reading spot. Once Junbi was nestled in her lap so she could read along, Nivani began to read to the wonder in her arms.
Hunting Party
by VulpesRose
“Brothers!” Patrik the Red burst into the tavern, damaging the door for at least the sixth time in as many moons. “Rejoice, for I have slain the Great Bear of the Mountain!” He ran a hand through his beard and gave a hearty laugh.
The patrons began to murmur excitedly. The bounty for the beast was well known, but few had dared the treacherous trip into the Black Mountains to face the beast.
“Yes, friends,” Patrik continued as he made his way to the bar, “let your animals graze freely! Reestablish your trade connections! The bounty of the west is open to us again!”
A crowd began to gather around Patrik as he drained a tankard of ale. The celebratory chatter swelled around him.
“You’ll earn a place on the King’s guard for sure!”
“The King should be so lucky. Will you lead your own expedition west?”
“Don’t forget your friends once you’ve drained the King’s treasury, Pat!”
Only a man in a plain green cloak seemed unaffected by the exuberance of the others. “But where is your hunting party? Surely you have not slain the beast alone?”
Patrik was already drunk on praise. “Tynan, you doubt! The beast’s head is outside. See for yourself!”
Everyone rushed to the front to catch a glimpse of the slain foe. Tynan stood calmly and made his way to the edge of the crowd. He gazed out the window above their heads and was still for a moment. Then he returned to his seat and quickly finished his drink.
“There. You see?”
Tynan set down his glass. “Patrik, you know I’ve seen the beast myself?”
“So you claimed. But as you can see, it is not as tall as a church tower! It would have barely filled this room.”
“That,” Tynan motioned toward where the head rested, “is not the Great Bear of the Mountain.” He motioned for the owner to follow him out the back door. “But I imagine you’ll soon have a chance to correct your mistake. You have left a splendid trail of blood for the mother to follow.”
Monster and Mom
By kenzie Goodwin
A slow chill crept over my lips. It was as if Hell chose this little protection I had as its prime location to start freezing over and took particular pleasure in driving an icicle into my pounding heart. Soon saliva will fill my mouth and I will be paralyzed.
Running water fills my ears but it does not mask the thudding that was increasing in intensity as silent tears force their way out. My feet continue to reel back trying to protect my physical self even as I mentally deteriorate. A sharp point touches my back and I wish over and over that it would impale me and make the thudding stop. In that moment, cement could not have held me as still as my feet did in my well-worn sneakers. I wanted to say something, speak up, defend myself, but my mouth clamped shut after a choked sob.
The door burst after an unstoppable pressure was put against what I thought was an immovable object. Doors are hollow, was my only thought. A foot size hole was kicked through and the strike plate ripped from the wall.
A hulking mass of anger shadowed the doorway, violating my safety with unkind words and unyielding hands. My mother sat behind him observing from the couch. She only glanced up to let me know I had this coming so I shouldn’t act surprised.
I pressed myself harder into my imaginary knife, willing it to life. Ending the strife with a small sacrifice.
Mother will protect you
By: Iskritt
Marta nudged the child gently through the hallway, urging him to keep moving despite the pounding sounds coming from many of the doors they passed. The child looked as if he wanted to turn and run back to the entrance from where they came, but Marta ensured they continued moving forward steadily until they finally reached its final door, which Marta opened and entered, bringing her child with her into the bedroom on the other side. As soon as they were safely inside, Marta closed the door behind them, blocking out the chaotic sounds from the hallway.
“What were those sounds mommy?” The child asked. “They were scary.”
Marta moved the child to the bed and sat next to them, smiling warmly to offer comfort.
“Some are scary.” Marta affirmed, “Some of those doors lead to hideous monsters and frightening worlds. But,” She quickly added, seeing terror grow on her child’s face, “Some of those doors lead to paradises, beautiful lands and magical creatures, more wonderful than your wildest dreams!”
“Really?” The child asked, terror now replaced with wonder.
“Of course! There are strong heroes defeating evil, landscapes untouched by corruption, were nature can flourish its most beautiful colors, and rainbows filling every sky night and day!”
“Can I go there?” The child pleaded.
“I’m so sorry, my child.” Marta responded. “But I am afraid it is far too dangerous. I do not know where every door goes, and even one mistake could unleash the worst upon us. You must stay in this room, your room, where it is safe.”
The child looked down sadly, but nodded his head, understanding. “Where will you go?”
“I must go save more children like you.” She smiled and stood up, opening the door and entering the hallway once again. “Sweet dreams.” She said as she closed the door.
The smile on her face relaxed, as she looked down the hallway and listened to the sounds of her children. These doors would never be opened again, for that would endanger them. Behind these doors, her children were safe.
Her children were safe forever.
Caulder’s body tensed as another gale pierced through him. He wished badly that he had more time to grab better clothing for the beyond frigid weather conditions but he knew he needed any lead he could stand to take. If they didn’t notice his absence immediately they would when the next shift of guards went through the barracks and saw missing gear. Even if it was the best course of action it didn’t mean Caulder didn’t complain about it under his breath as he clutched himself to stay warm.
A gust caught Caulder from behind forcing him down and his hands stopped his fall. He winced as the cold enveloped his hands. How could he keep going, it was only getting worse.
As he forced himself up off his hands and knees something illuminated in the dark. What could be out here in the dark, it was long from any roads or from the headquarters. Caulder decided it best to investigate, odds were much more likely that it wasn’t a threat.
Caulder drew closer to the light to discover a large figure illuminated by a large candle sitting on the snow with a thick cloth beneath them. The figure wore a large wide brimmed hat that had a veil which obscured the face. She wore dark clothes that fit her form and her hands rest in her lap
“Darling come here,” in a voice welcoming and comforting, “I have a space for you.”
Caulder hesitantly drew closer. The snow falling stopped a radius around the candle. A warm meal lay on fine dishes in between the two of them. He could feel relief and warmth overflow him.
“Sit my child, and be refilled with life,” The woman said.
“Wh-who are you?” Caulder’s voice shook slightly be it from the cold or from concern.
“Darling, I am Death, and I’m here to make certain you live.”
Old Shuck
By Sniperaxiom
On the battlefield lay mangled disfigured patriots. The valiant souls were broken and gone, their bodies in no man’s land, an area pockmarked with waterlogged shell craters.
I lay among them, though I was not yet dead. The cold mud mingling with my leg wounds. I must have passed out soon after my leg was hit because the thundering gunshots and cries of pain had ceased.
There was no way for me to know in which direction I should head to get back to our trenches. I chose not to attempt to blindly crawl out in either direction, preferring not to fall into some sinkhole or barbed wire. I dared to hope that maybe the night patrol would find me. As I listened to the quiet and attempted to ignore my pain, a story came to mind.
I thought of the HellHounds of Mons to be specific. The phantom that killed small night patrols who timidly emerged from their ditches to scout no man’s land. These patrols would eventually be found, killed not by Jerry bullets but with their throats ripped out. I still thought it would be better to die to the Germans than to that kind of monster.
I then became aware that I could hear the howls of the beast that echoed not too far off. All I could think of besides my pain, was the stories of the Black Shuck that my mother would tell me.
These legends of devilish black dogs with red eyes that would prowl our countryside at night and prey on those walking alone only made me believe more in the HellHound stories.
With great pain I slowly sat up in the filth to listen. I heard heavy breathing accompanied by trudging through the mud approaching toward me.I sat dumb as a rabbit, fully ready to meet my bloody death at the jaws of a beast.
My fears were far off in the end as I would hardly call a fellow Tommy a beast. I guess I escaped old Shuck this time.
Saga The Mother of Myths.
By: MelancholicOtaku
“Greetings, my dear traveler. How was your journey? “Pleasant, I hope.”
“You must be tired after traveling long distances.”
“How about a bedtime story?”
“Don’t worry, I have plenty of them, all from the past, present, and future.”
Taking a good look at your surroundings and wondering where you were, it was nothing like you’d ever seen before. a paradise where all creatures live in harmony.
The most interesting one of all was the giantess towering over you. Her voice had this calming effect on you, and so far, she didn’t seem like a threat.
“W-who are you?” You asked as the giantess chuckled a bit, taking a seat slowly so as not to hurt you or the others below. Taking a good look, she was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen.
“My name is Saga, little one. “I am the mother of all myths, legends, and stories,” she replied.
“Wait, mother of myths?” You asked in awe.
“Why, yes, with my pen, I have written every story known to men, and it will one day be told.” Saga replied, and a bright smile appeared on her face.
Summoning a huge book whose pages seem like they would never end and a pen that never ran out of ink. Saga gently patted your head while opening the book.
“So little one, how about a bedtime story?”
You nodded as Saga picked you up with ease while also being careful not to harm you. On your travels, you have seen many spectacular landscapes and creatures in different shapes and sizes, but this was something entirely different.
“Here’s the place.” Saga said with a huge grin as she placed you in perhaps the softest bed you’ve ever been on.
“T-thanks,” you said, still not being able to process what’s going on, but wow, was this bed comfy.
“Ah well, it looks like someone is ready for the first story.” The giantess spoke, slightly stroking your small body; you couldn’t help but smile as she did so.
“Once upon a time, when the universe was yet to be created,” Saga began.
First Impressions
WriterOfThought
“Mom, how did you and Dad meet?” Grimsley asked as his mother rocked his sister to sleep. Finis looked at her skeletal son as she reminisced on the answer to his question, thinking how much he looked like his father, and not just because they were both Reapers.
Finis laid Agatha in her crib and beckoned her son to her lap. This story usually got mixed results from other people, and it worked so much better when they both told it, but Grimoire was at work late tonight.
“Well,” she began. “I didn’t always work in the potions department. You know that, right?” Grimsley nodded vigorously in response.
“Before that, I worked at the Fly-Thru Apothecary, stocking the shelves. It was very early in the morning, and your dad stopped in to get an Energy Booster Spell.”
Grimsley’s attention was fixed on his mother, trying to imagine what she looked like before he was born. Maybe she had longer hair, maybe she wore different colors.
“Well, I turned and saw a VERY handsome skeleton. But I was shy and my shift was almost over. I was happy to just have seen him between patrols, and never thought I’d see him again, like so many customers.”
Grimsley now tried to imagine his father before he was born. Were his bones whiter? Did his cloak have fewer holes? Did it have any? How do you even tell when a skeleton gets older?
“So, I clocked out, grabbed my broom, and started to fly home. But out of nowhere, I heard a loud voice say ‘YOU THERE, PULL OVER.’ So I did.”
Grimsley was getting fidgety, but Finis was nearing the end of the story. It was her favorite part.
“I pulled over and the same handsome reaper from the store walked up. Apparently, he went back in to try and talk to me, but I had already left.”
“I asked, ‘is there a problem, officer?’ And he said, ‘no, but would you join me for dinner on Friday?’ And we’ve been together ever since.”
The Flame of Ahava
By Strong Berry
Some people have gods for parents. I am not jealous. I was raised by someone much better: My mother. In her heart, lies something more impressive than any god or titan: The Flame of Ahava.
Ahava is a powerful thing that my mother uses to cast incredible miracles. With it, she spreads heat and warmth to her family and with just a hug, The Flame could melt the little icicles in our hearts, heal the wounds on our bodies, and evaporate the tears that followed.
It’s Ahava from which my mother draws her herculean strength and stamina to take care of her family even after a long, hard day at work.
The strength she drew from her Ahava was so great, in fact, it allowed my mother to bend time itself to her will. No matter how busy she got, my mother has always found the time to take care of her family. Be it cooking a delicious meal, driving us to the doctor, or just being there for us.
However, Ahava doesn’t come without a price. The Flame demanded fuel, and my mother threw inside a lot to keep it burning. Her time, sleep and freedom are just some of the sacrifices she made for her children. It burned her from the inside, but my mother bared it all to hold this family, us, on her back like the titan Atlas.
Ahava also isn’t just warmth and light. When us kids would misbehave, my mother would not hesitate to burn us. It would hurt, but looking back I see those burns helped us to grow. Better to learn right from wrong sooner than later, after all. Besides, she only punished us when it was deserved.
My mother is what every child deserves, but unfortunately, not all have: A loving mother. Her love is more powerful and impressive than any god or titan. Now, as an adult, I can now only thank her for passing sparks of The Flame of Ahava to us, her children, that hopefully will give us a fragment of her strength when we need it.
Retracted for possible submission.
A Mother’s Touch
By: Gadrius
Yuserin stepped down from the balcony as the crowds continued to cheer. The applause was deafening, drowning out the sounds of attendants and footmen fussing over his cape or his posture. Being king of the world’s largest empire had its annoyances, but it often couldn’t be helped.
Once behind the relative safety of the palace walls, Yuserin’s mother raced to greet him. She hugged him tightly. “Oh, my son! Another perfect speech.”
Yuserin returned the embrace with enthusiasm. “Thank you, Mother. I must say, the throng was especially rowdy today. It must be due to our victories in the North.” He appreciated that his mother took such concern for his daily affairs. It was nice to have someone to share his stories with.
“Oh, I heard! That was a stroke of genius!”
“Please, mother. It was nothing. Besides, I wouldn’t have considered it had you not mentioned your love of Northern carpentry.”
“My genius little King.”
Yuserin smiled. He always liked when she called him that, though he’d never admit it.
The two moved down the ornate hallways of the palace, their sandals slapping on the polished stone. After a moment, Yuserin’s mother spoke up again, “Actually, Yuserin. I had a request. There has been news of people in the southern regions rioting, causing textile work from that region to stop. No textile shipments means no new rugs.”
Yuserin stopped, looking to his mother. “Are you suggesting we send our tired and wounded soldiers down to quell riots? They need rest.”
“Oh, you’re right. I just thought the rugs would pair so nicely with the armchairs.”
Yuserin eyed his mother. How could she be so focused on trivial matters, when he had a kingdom to run? Did she not understand the importance of his work?
But she was his mother, and he couldn’t let her down.
“Fine,” he relented, “I shall speak to the generals and see what can be done.”
Another smile erupted on her face. “Oh, thank you, my dear boy!”
This smile, though, seemed different. More… sly, perhaps? What did her expression mean?
Yuserin shook his head, expelling the thought. His mother loved him, and she only wanted the best for him. And that was that.
Bedtime Story
By Taja DaLeen
So, you want another story? Haha, ok.
Hmm, what to tell you… oh, I know.
As I already told you, back when the world was still new, with the first forming of life, magic started to exist as well. And with magic, there was Asmodis. They are Magic, and therefore Life itself, after all.
Whether there is something like that God many nonmagicals believe in, no one knows. Well, maybe Asmodis does, but they wouldn’t tell.
But there is one group of beings we do know exists, and whose age even Asmodis doesn’t know.
The Fates.
Nine concepts personified in the forms of ageless women with surreal eyes that look like possibilities; they at least used to control everyone’s destiny.
Nowadays it is said they don’t anymore, only some believe that they still have a say in what happens to the two worlds at large.
After all, there are still some prophecies around. Prophecies spoken by highly powerful mediums.
Yes, exactly, people like us who possess the third eye.
No dear, most don’t use it to find their favorite plushie again.
But well, that magic is said to come from the Fates directly. It would only make sense. But how exactly that happened is only speculation.
Some say it was a gift to those they favored, to reward; but others claim differently.
They say every medium is a descendant of the Fates. That those personified concepts fell so in love with all living, breathing creatures, that they brought forth their own kind, which eventually became one with humankind.
And that is where our powers come from, that is why we can see the past, present and all possibilities the future can bring.
What I do with them? Well, just like you, I sometimes search for things I lost. But usually I guide others to a future they desire, make sure they don’t end up in a scary place.
Yes, the future can be scary…
No, darling, don’t worry. If you don’t want to see it, you don’t have to.
Just close your eyes, and sleep.
I love you too, sweetie.
Missed Opportunity?
By Joe
Hera felt that natural repulsion when she first laid eyes on him as a child. But she fought it, and forced herself to look at him, fully grown and fully aware of her purpose.
“Enjoy looking at your unfinished project?” Hephaestus asked sarcastically.
She let him have that.
“Hephaestus?” she paused, finding the words she practiced.
“Yes, Hera!” he said derisively.
“I’ve realized…that I may have…mistreated you in some way or another.”
“Oh!” He pretended to be shocked. “Really?! In what way do you ponder?” He smiled.
Hera pursed her lips. “Really going to twist me on this, aren’t you?”
“Let’s just say. That I have the opportunity to cast you out?”
Hera was irritated. But she recalled the reason that made her want to do this, and drew a breath. “I got tired of Olympus. Ever since the mortals fended for themselves it meant less work for us, but it also meant less fun. All the entertainment available was the drinking, music and laying around. Eventually, I got bored and went on a journey for more entertainment. It wasn’t hard, but it got old because it was all the same things with a different tune. Just when I thought I’d never end my boredom, I found something else.” She braced herself. “I found a sad, pitiful life. A man crying over his parent’s grave. I heard him ramble about the things they did to him. He longed for one of them to recognize his achievements so that he may be called ‘son’. To admit that they were wrong to raise him with expectations that didn’t belong to them.” Hera looked up into Hephaestus’s slightly surprised eyes. “I knew they wanted power. But I learned that when power is all you have, life is boring.” She put her hands on Hephaestus’s. “They missed the opportunity to be parents. But despite it all, he still cried.” She choked. “Thetis did a wonderful job as a mother. I just wanted you to know that you didn’t deserve me. I’m sorry.”
Hera looked at Hephaestus’s face. He was fully disarmed and…hopeful.
whirlpool mother dearest
by Galer
the young Tania was bored out of her mind, her snake hairs licking the air trying to entertain themselves, she could play with his three-headed brother Alan but apparently, all three heads on his body agree to be busy building that unfinished lego tower they never let her touch.
They still were sore about how she turned the last one into a rock statue went she walked in forgetting she didn’t have her mask up.
She even said sorry that time she didn’t have her second skin on her face geez, say what you will about him he always could carry a fierce grudge even if mother told him to drop it.
Now that she thought of her was she still in the hospital? went what she going to come, she was always obsessed with her work as a nurse.
Tania then hears the sound of a motor and water rushing inside the house garage, the snake in her hair quickly seise in the direction of the sound it was her mother.
She quickly got out of the house her mother going out of the whirlpool water car, she was a beautiful woman though with the difference in that from her waist down she had half of a snake, Tania was always god confused as to why her mother would get annoyed went people say she was a lamia, personally, the gorgon girl and the Cerberus boy thought she looked cool.
“Mommy, Mommy!”Tania exclaimed while jumping up and down enthusiastically
“Yes dear,” Hersalia said her voice like the waves on the sea.
“Can I play with you Alan is obsessed with legos again,” said the Gorgon child
“Sorry dear but mother had too much work today,” Hersalia said her voice similar to lazy winds hitting the coast “I am too tired maybe another day”
“But you always said that every day,” said Tania child disappointed
Hersalia made a bitter expression, if only he was alive.
Yet, she needs to try her best, although at times feels it wasn’t enough for her children.
Just Because
J. J. Peterson
Yes, the book. No, the book. Book. Yes. No.
“Trapped inside a cage of your own making!” The voice booms and echoes.
The book quivers, teeters left and right, front and back.
“Your powers are of no significance here. You have the key, but you’ve tossed it away!”
It falls off the shelf and I just barely catch it before it hits the ground.
“My legions are numerous, and my monsters fierce! Your friends have deserted you and your only hope has run away!”
I lie back on the ground and begin to read, but as I do the world around me begins to change. The secure walls of my room melt away revealing a black void. My warm carpet turns into cold rock. High above me a giant, golden, shimmering cage holds one man, defiant and defeated. On the ground beside me lies a key. In the blackness above me floats a shadow; behind him every foul beast that has been imagined. The shadow speaks.
“Don’t you see? The only choice left to you is to surrender it. Give me the mommy!!”
The defeated man defiantly grips the bars, “You may have won the mommy, but you will never win the world.” He flings an object out into the void. At first it falls like a rock, but as it descends, its downward velocity slows, until it hovers right above my head. A statue of a dove. I grab it, just because, and alligators spew all over, flying on butterflies wings, and breathing bubbles. Soon bubbles fill the void, and whatever they touch, vanishes. The shadow disappears, then the monsters, then the cage. The defeated man defiantly plummets down, only to hit a bubble and disappear. Now it is just me, the key, the alligators, and the bubbles.
With a sigh I close the book and fall asleep as the bubbles begin to turn to rock.
Myths of Madness (Based on a True Story)
By Asher Fable
I remember when I was 14 and my mom told me stories of my dad.
Stories of an infamous hacker group, hired assassins and a second family. ‘Memories’ and ‘deductions’ made that were more myth than reality. I’d sit like a dumb little kid, listening to every word that turned my dad into a demon instead of human. My mom had always been a captivating story teller, if I could convince her to tell me any.
Mom told me about how Dad wasn’t just good with computers, but was secretly a member of Anonymous. How one of his friends from work was too, how they were dangerous people who would do anything for what they wanted. I always tried to get a glimpse of Dad’s computer whenever he thought he was alone, like an audience watching a magician.
She spoke in hushed tones about the assassins that were being sent after her because she had figured out the truth. She would tell me to be quiet when she wasn’t in the living room or attached kitchen, listening to those in the living room as though she expected to overhear plots of murder from the other side of a closed door. I kept quiet, listening in like a kid waiting to hear Santa.
Mom cried about Dad’s secret second family, with a wife and kids that he went to after work. She sobbed and revealed things about their physical relationship, or lack thereof, that a 14 year old never needs to know. I charted when Dad came home every day. I used Google Maps to figure out where he could be going, tried to reverse math a paycheck to see how much he was actually working. Like a reader trying to figure out a mystery novel.
In the end my work was for nothing, all just following hallucinations from an undiagnosed paranoid schizophrenic. Perhaps Mom was the myth all along, frequently disappearing into the night until I was home from school the next day, chased by her own thoughts.
Still Sharks
By: The Missing Link
“Sit still now,” Sandra said, taking the chicken from the oven.
Mary tried to do what her mother said. Unfortunately, sitting still was difficult for her. It wasn’t something she thought about. Moving was just… natural. She had learned in school that sharks die when they stopped moving, and something about that felt right.
The teachers at school scolded her to sit still too, stupid shark killers.
Sandra put the chicken on the table, and slowly portioned it out around the table, “Looks like daddy is late.”
Mary hadn’t called her father that in years. Late, that meant waiting to eat, then waiting for mom to say Grace, all the waiting, all the sitting still. The tiny sharks she imagined ran her brain groaned in protest.
She was utterly failing to sit still.
It felt like hours before Mary’s sharks were allowed to feed. As it turns out, sharks don’t like cold chicken, but she had to hide that. People got mad when she said what she thought, and after all the talk about how important honesty was. It was confusing, so she pretended. She was good at pretending.
Apparently bored of their already cold chicken, Mary’s parents brought up their favorite topic.
“Did you hear what the president said today? Insufferable bastard,” her mother opened up.
Mary had to keep pretending, hide her discomfort at the conversation as it heated up with the colorful words her parents used to describe the people on the other side of politics. She wasn’t a part of it, but they’d be mad if she left the table, but pretending made it hard to keep the sharks happy. Which… led to her parents’ other favorite topic.
“Mary, how many times do I need to tell you to sit fucking still?” her mother shouted across the table before going into her usual speech. Mary ignored it at this point, or well, tried to. At the end it came down to how she was a failure, something about her grades, and how the school system burdened her by making Mary get her MMR vaccine.
Excerpt from Fae Mythology and Oral Traditions, vol. 1 (a tale from Gaea)
by Taehl
Before the world existed, Afa begat the fertile Bina and decaying Canyb. Their intersection created the known universe, which we call Evriwehr. Then the Dead started appearing like so many unmanifest ideas, and when Bina brought them to life they became the first people – the Fae. They needed someplace to live, so Bina created Gaea, and anchored it in the center of Evriwehr with the impossibly vast tree called the Hyst.
Canyb was so jealous of Bina’s creations that it excreted Jyrmungendr to eat the Hyst. Jyrmungendr constricts Evriwehr (the lights gleaming in the sky at night are its scales reflecting the sun), and is said to have discovered mythical tower of I. Since the wyrm was going to take nearly forever to eat the Hyst, Canyb broke off a piece of the tree and bade it break down Gaea, thus degrading the piece to Kelp and eventually becoming all other plant life.
Some of the Dead saw Kelp’s manifestation and wanted to befriend it and learn its secrets. The plants liked them and taught them alchemy and grew bodies for the Dead to inhabit, and these second people called themselves Newt. The third people, who called themselves Lynx, found their own way into the world of the living.
Then Canyb went to Bina and said “We made all these beings and a world for them to live on, but it’s all chaos and noise, one big undifferentiated moment. We should give them some structure so they can interact meaningfully”. Bina was thus convinced by Canyb that they should each remove one of their eyes to complete the world. Their sacrificed eyes are still visible in the sky today as the two Moons, which manifest and regulate time. The blood Bina and Canyb lost fell to Gaea, creating the salty Oceans, which manifest and regulate change. Thus time and change were inextricably linked, ending the Unmeasurable Era and beginning the First Era…
Creative Collision
by Aracnarquista
Do you remember our mother, sister?
I know, I know. We couldn’t really remember her. But I do. You know how it is. I know things I’m not supposed to. The things concealed, hidden… they belong to me. While you have everything else.
Both of these were her gifts.
I know. You are always thankful for father’s gifts. The warmth, the light.
Life.
But without mother, your gift of life wouldn’t be possible.
Her sacrifice shaped us, long ago.
I don’t remember. I just know. It was a different time then. Things were still taking form. None of us were there. Father had somewhat calmed down, and his sons and daughters started coalescing in his light.
You… didn’t really exist. But there was a hint of you. And mother.
She had no name. At that time, no one had names yet. The namers who live in your skin hadn’t been born yet. After all, you weren’t born yet.
But… the Namers call her Theia, after some mythological figure. In their fairy tales, Theia is the mother of Selene, which is a figure they associate with me. And it means “divine”. I think it is fitting.
Anyway, we don’t really know where mother came from. She came, and she made the ultimate sacrifice to give us life. Well, to give you life.
My deal is something else.
As I said, we never met her, but I catch glimpses of her philosophy. Creation comes from chaos. Contrast begets novelty. The new comes from an act of love that implies the end of the giver.
Theia, our mother, launched herself in a crazy descent towards what father dreamed of you… And that dream, born of heat and light, clashed with the strangeness that was our mother, with her desire for something that was not yet possible, and it shaped something incredible.
It shaped us. Her twin daughters.
And she was gone. Yet, she lives in us. And it is what she gave us that shapes us. My vision. Your host of life.
Don’t you remember mother, sister Earth?
The Son From Siren’s Isle
By Norman Gray
I am a Siren’s son. Long ago born in a place that is only found by those well and truly lost.
As a boy, mother sang to me of a man who had once visited our island, and escaped with his life. It was through her melodies that I would come to know of my father, for mother spoke only in song.
And I, knowing naught else, inquired in kind.
She sang of him only as a lover; she knew that he had a stronger will than most mortals. What manner of man was he, to escape from Siren’s Isle? To earn affection where most men weren’t even given mercy?
Mother raised me, cared for me; I believe she saw in me, a part of him. . . But as I grew, we both knew another life awaited me. I was not to live and die in this place.
In my teenage years, she spared another voyager; a fishing boat captain, lost at sea.
For him, her song was a plea:
‘A young boy, born where men come to die.
A grown man awaits him, beyond the tides.’
I went aboard his boat, and bid my mother goodbye, putting my fate firmly in the hands of a stranger.
Our venture across the sea, was long. The captain spoke in a horrid accent; his dialect was without rhyme, without melody! Yet, he was dumbstruck by my voice. . .
My language, though to me it was as natural as breathing, I would come to learn was a tremendous gift among ordinary men. To the mainlanders, it was as if I had the power of the Siren’s themselves. They would gather from far and wide, relishing the opportunity to hear my voice. . .
And so I began my journey; traveling the world, sharing my songs, seizing my destiny, and becoming a man.
And yet, a part of me remained unfulfilled.
It is a Siren’s nature, to anchor men by their own heartstrings. Yet one man escaped mother’s embrace. . .
I looked forward to finding my father, someday. Wherever he was.
Most Hateful To Gods And Men
By Sanguinerus
Jason wandered through the wheat fields outside of Corinth, his face was a picture of grief and his eyes flowed with tears.
“How could you do this?” He cried to a woman not present. “How am I deserving of such wrath? This pain and sorrow is so great I cannot stand it.”
Jason screamed a cry of pure emotion and fell silent in his sorrow for a few moments before voicing his thoughts once more to the wind. “This punishment is so much that neither Sisyphus nor Prometheus could envy me, for I suffer an eternity every second!” He cried.
“To feel as Daedalus did as Icarus fell into the sea as he could do nothing but watch, I feel his pain as my own.” Jason stared into the dirt for a moment.
“I feel as Demeter did when Persephone was taken from her, and she grew cold, as my children were taken from me, I too grow cold.” Jason fell to his knees, cupping his face in his hands.
“Hera herself could cast no greater curse than to deprive me of my Glauce and my children” Jason turned his focus towards the sun and shouted in anger. “Helios! You must not hide her from me! Her actions are not just! I call you out to bring her to me!”
Jason rose to his feet and awaited a response, but nothing came. The wind howled, causing the wheat to sway. “My grief grabs at my throat and labours my breath, how could you do this? To your own children, Medea.”
The Most Enigmatic House of Armitage (Darkspell Universe)
By Alex Nightingale (aka Spectre)
In the small town of Robin’s Grove, a lush village where the forests still sometimes harbour fairy tales, stands a house. It is a big house, a manor house, surrounded by dense shrubs, small trees and red roses, creeping up the walls. The smell of that particular flower emanated through the air around the manor, its garden and its inhabitants.
The name of the manor was Rosewood House. And the name on the letterbox was Armitage.
People often avoided Rosewood House, but that doesn’t mean it was lifeless. Bees and butterflies were flying around the roses, which in turn attracted birds. Animals seemed to lack a certain instinct, which kept people at bay. An instinct, which told anyone that something was going to punish them for everything they did wrong.
The family that inhabited Rosewood House, the Armitages, were avoided at all costs. Some people claimed they saw them wandering around town, but very few believed them. How could they be believed? They were still able to form cohesive thoughts. They say that, if an Armitage knocks on your door with one of their briefcases, your sanity is forfeit.
The children of the Armitages are said to be almost mortal in their behaviour; mortal enough, to hold names at least. Names like Emily or Daniel or Scott. Despite this, their gaze is anything but mortal. Looking into the eyes of an Armitage is like looking into a sun, its glare made up of guilt and the absolute certainty that your sins have just been revealed.
The children, however, have nothing on their mother. The Matron of Rosewood House, simply known as Mrs. Armitage, is as mortal as a deity can be. Her mere presence is enough to send anyone with a soul cowering into a dark corner, hoping that its is not them, that her briefcase is meant for; that the souls contained within are the ones wronged by someone else.
Hardly a name is as equally celebrated and feared than Armitage. They are the children of mortal revenge and Mrs. Armitage is their mother.
Marion’s Mystery (The “Bear”)
by Lee Strangely
As the door flung open, Marion was met by a wall of dust and damp musk. Standing there gagging, she wondered whether Clark was too busy to maintain his own home, or simply didn’t want to. Either way, a living soul clearly hadn’t set foot there in a long time.
Obscured photographs covered the walls, while taxidermied critters stood proud with cobweb cloaks. Dried-up rubber bands held cabinets shut. Glass cases hid beneath white blankets. Out of curiosity, she unveiled one of the cases.
It seemed to be a skull. Quite large. Very long… Lots of teeth…
The sight petrified Marion. So much so that her ringing phone nearly scared her to death.
“H-hi Mom!” she answered while observing the pictures above her.
“How are you?” her mom asked, “how’s everything going?”
“Good. GOOD. Everything’s good… Just settling in at Clark’s house.”
“That’s great! How is he?”
“Fine, I guess…” Marion stared at the images, particularly a photo of her family. The bottom of the worn paper looked uneven… like if it were torn or crumbled. “I don’t know what he’s supposed to be like… I only just met him an hour ago.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll have time to get to know each other.”
The other pictures mostly documented Clark’s travels with other people. Each place they posed in looked more exotic than the last.
“Speaking of your brother,” her mom asked, “is he with you?”
“No, he stayed behind to help transport his ‘pet,’” Marion exclaimed, prying open a nearby cabinet. It was loaded with gear, tools… weapons… Though, she was more drawn to the scratched up, dorky pith helmet with a reddish-brown stain that sat in the middle of it all.
Her mom prattled on, “Aww, Clarks got a furry friend? What is it? A dog? Cat?”
“It-it’s… something…” She felt chills looking back at the photographs. One in particular, looked to be in a jungle. Clark stood in front of a massive crate as a dark paw poked out of it. Alongside was someone else, wearing a pith helmet. Same marks… but no stain…
The Woman, the Myth, the Mother. [Ver.2.0] (Chronicles of The Dragon)
By Makokam
Kat woke up and winced as she uncurled on the cave floor. There was a soft thud and she turned to see a paper bag sitting behind her. She looked up at the silhouette of her father sitting a few yards down the tunnel.
“Eat.”
Though it had been at least a day since her last meal, she had no desire to take anything he offered. Her body had other ideas.
She opened the bag slowly. Inside there was a burger, french fries, and a bag of apple slices. She pulled out the burger and stared at it for a moment before taking a bite.
She stared at her meal, chewing, then looked up at her father.“Why are you doing this?”
“Because you need to eat.”
“Don’t smart-ass me! Why haven’t you just killed me?”
Jonathan sighed and crumpled his food bag. “I want to help you. Your mom wanted to help you. I waited for you to calm down, but then you got married. So I just… kept an eye on you. And then… Well, you went off the deep end and tried to end the world. I wasn’t left with a lot of options.”
Kat fiddled with her burger for a moment. “Tell me about her.” She took a large bite.
Jonathan took a deep breath. “Your mo- Sera’s real passion was fashion design. Almost everything she wore was her own design. She was incredibly smart and could out-negotiate almost anyone. She got better deals than all her competitors and she passed her savings on to her staff. She never missed a business opportunity.” Jonathan chuckled. “Once a guy was caught dealing drugs in her club, and she convinced him to give her a percentage.
“She made a lot of enemies though. There were more than a few attempts on her life. Once I was at her side though, they all but gave up. We were happy.” He paused. He didn’t move. She wasn’t even sure he was breathing. “We got careless. And that’s when…” Kat watched his hands clench.
She didn’t need him to finish.
Are you my mother?
By Sam C.
Yes, My child? What is it? “Am I your mother?” Well, that’s a bit complicated.
Did I give birth to you? Sure I did, but there are more mothers to you than just I.
For you see, there are three mothers to us all, and none can claim all three.
The first mother is the most traditional way to think of it, The Mother of your body. A critical piece of who you are. What you look like, natural advantages and disadvantages, and much of how the world perceives you rely on your body, and the mother who gave it to you. However, this mother is somehow the most superficial one.
Second, you see, is the mother of your… um, well my child, some things are hard to describe even for adults! The closest word I can think of is “virtue,” but that’s not quite right. You see, the mother of this part of you teaches you the lessons the world has to teach you, they show the path, and engineer your destiny. They keep you safe, provide for you, shape your personality, and invent their plan for you.
Finally, my child, you must understand that there is one more mother, one we all share, for she is the mother of all. She is the mother of my spirit, and of yours. She breathed life into all there is, she created all that could be imagined, and she created you. She created the birdsong to lull you to sleep, the sheep for blankets, she made the trees to create your bedframe. She threw bits of the sun to the void to be your nightlight, she made the seasons that pass us by, she gave us everything you could ever need.
I love you, my child, and love the glory of being your mother. I hope beyond all belief that I may be your second mother as well, but unfortunately, Being your mother is a title I may only claim twice, for there is a great mother of all that I will never live up to.
I love you, My Child.
Be my neighbor
By Tamela Redfin
A few weeks passed and then at night Sapphira heard digging. Her little ears listened for where it was coming from.
“Go to sleep.” Zirconia muttered. “Or do you want mom to hit you with a stick?”
“No.” Sapphira squeaked, settling her little head down.
The next morning, they heard a knocking on the door. ‘
“Ugh, who is it?” Reagan snapped. Sapphira ran in front, opening the door to reveal an odd sight.
There was a woman about in her thirties, but her hair was already grey. Her eyes were blue and looked tired. But then there was the very strange part. A cypha about her age was standing there, matching blue eyes but red hair. Cyphas rarely had red hair.
“Hi, mah name’s Jezebel Granite. This is mah son, Mica.”
Mica waved and Sapphira also noticed that his claws were very short.
She coughed before continuing, “We’re new ta here, and I hope ah children can get along…”
“Aren’t you that human fucker?” Reagan spat.
“Pardon?”
“You heard me!” Reagan brushed back her hair. “Sapphira may be subpar but she won’t hang with a half breed.”
Mica ran off crying at her words. While Reagan and Jezebel argued, Sapphira found him.
“Hey.” Sapphira gently rested her hand on his.
“Go away!” Mica sobbed. “I know you hate me.”
“Why? I don’t know what a human fucker is.” Sapphira shrugged.
“It means, according to rumors, my dad is a human.” He hung his head.
“So? We live near humans. The Boyle family. They’re really nice people.”
“Really?” He sniffled. “I don’t believe you, Sapphira. You probably believe what your mom does.”
“Fine then! But go home so your mom isn’t worried sick.”
“Mica! Where did ya go ya little rascal?” Sapphira turned to see Jezebel hug him. “Don’t worry about false myths.”
Fol De Rol And Fiddledy Dee Fiddledy Faddledy Foodle
By Marx
“Okay, child. It’s late. You should sleep now.”
“But… I don’t want to sleep…”
“You are young, child. Sleep is very important at this age.”
“Could you read me a bedtime story?”
“I… suppose I could, but wouldn’t this be something better suited for your mother?”
“But I want YOU to read it. Please? Pleeeeeeeease?”
“You are aware that you won’t always get your way just because you-”
“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!”
“Oh, for the love of-! Fine! I’ll read you a story if you calm down and stop making that face!”
“Yay! The book is over there!”
“…the blue one?”
“Yes! It’s my favorite!”
“What about Snow White? Or… Sleepy Beauty? Or Hansel and Gretel? Thumbelina? The Golden Bird? The Little Mermaid? …Pretty Woman?”
“No! No, no, no, NO! I want Cinderella!”
“You… do know why that story resonates with you so much, yes?”
“Because it’s the best!”
“Because you lived it, child. I… used to be Cinderella. And our souls used to be one. So…”
“…”
“Child? Are you okay? Why have you stopped breathing?”
“I’m a… PRINCESS?!”
“We used to be, yes. Then we became Queen.”
“Princess is better…”
“I disagree. We had much more power as Queen.”
“Princess… is… BETTER!”
“If you say so, child.”
“What was the prince like? Was he dreamy?”
“He was very physically appealing, yes. He was also kind. Compassionate. Rather stupid, but most royals were at that time. And he performed more than adequately in our bedchamber.”
“Performed? Like a play?”
“Oh no, child. I meant his performance as in-…”
“…Cindy?”
“My apologies, child. Your mother is… quite vigorously shaking her head in the doorway. And mouthing… ‘Just… read… the… goddamn… book…’ Oh! I understand! I suppose you are quite young to hear those particular details…”
“…how old is our soul?”
“We are… roughly… four hundred? Give or take a decade or two.”
“Then I’m old enough! Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!”
“I suppose that does make-… No… no, your mother does not agree… And she seems very insistent that I just read the book. I’ve seen less terrifying scowls in Hell, itself.”