Show Them Why It's Yours

[Estimated reading time: 11 minutes]

   It had started from within. Counsellors moving in secret behind the walls of her golden court; faces seen less, yet names heard more often. The queen's ideas were met with more enthusiasm, yet slower action was taken on them. Suspicion soon began creeping up her spine, and she answered it, dispatching her own most trusted to debunk it. But they never returned to her with anything but impassive news.
   Strange shipments began arriving along the diamond roads and opal seas, signed off with her seal, though she had no recollection of doing so. What was in them? The conversation was always changed to something more pressing.
   Then, counsellors began to vanish; her most trusted advisors, loyal men and women, and some who were more quiet and stoic, stopped presenting themselves or attending the meetings. And when she asked why, she was told that they were dealing with things in other states. Which states? They had answers, but again, the situations were unfamiliar.
   Something inside her, an angel or a demon, told her she was being paranoid. She could see that much. Why, after all, would things begin to crumble when her queendom was finally flourishing? When the walls she had built, the people she had welcomed, the skies she had created, were so strong and bright at last? It didn't make sense. She must have been wrong. Looking for problems where none existed, or confusing her reality with dreams once again.
   But with every meeting in the silver council chambers, her glittering court floor, even in her muted private quarters, the ears around her seemed to grow only more deaf, and the voices rose louder over her own. Where before they had listened eagerly, her fair and honest words seemed lost in the wind, as if nothing she said mattered any longer. Or, maybe, she had said them so many times and obtained so little reaction that they had simply stopped listening altogether.
   So she tried a new approach, and she continued to trust, in her own way. She used different words, allowed more emotion to flow through them on some occasions, and none on others. But, in a time far too short for her liking, all words ceased to reach them entirely. Her orders and plans, heartfelt and stern alike, were received as thin as a spider's web.
   A frown creased her bronze brow most days and nights, etching deeper and deeper into her skin. Thoughts began to circle, ideas and stories, truths or lies - she couldn't tell truth from fiction, and her court, bathed in gold, silver, leaves and silk, began to feel unfamiliar. A shadow was moving through it, growing, and it had already crept into her bones.
   Words of counsel seemed less in line with her ideals, less in line with who she was, and in her loneliest moments, it felt as though a fight had begun within her soul. Was she wrong, she wondered? Was she misguided? Was this her doing? Had she become too old, too stagnant, too slow and deluded by her own power to know any longer what was best for her land? Her world? Her people or herself? Had she finally gone completely mad?
   Dissent, dissatisfaction - her walls, her floors, her flower beds, her skies...everything reeked with it. Her subjects beyond the castle continued to smile as she passed in her carriage, but something within their eyes was empty. Desperate. Broken. And she couldn't decide if she was imagining it.
   And so she continued to do as she was expected. She worked harder, faith solid in the certainty of her world as long as she existed and continued to try, and kept a close eye upon herself throughout. She consorted with the correct people, she listened and applied counsel where it fitted, and trusted their good intentions where it did not. She cared for her people, treated her servants with respect, responded to the missives her remaining counsellors brought her from those who had gone abroad. She did all that she could, even while she grew sick and thin and poisoned by her own air.
   And it was then, after too many sleepless nights and vague days to count, that something finally switched.

   The queen had awoken one morning to shouts and clatters in the dusk, and within minutes, civil war had broken out like an unstoppable tide.
   Quickly, she had gotten dressed and attempted to find some way to quell it, but how could she when she couldn't fathom where it had come from? And no one would see her, or hear her? Here, in her own world, it felt as though she suddenly didn't exist. And it was suddenly crashing down around her.
   And so, defeated by her own weariness, she sat upon her diamond throne, her heart weeping, confusion pumping her blood, and cast her bleary gaze out across the barbaric fights inexplicably playing out in her own court. The swords, the blood, the screams, the agony. And she felt every part of it. Every cut, every slip, every stomp, each compressed her soul even smaller inside of her until she was a prisoner in her own bones.
   She had done this. It was her own frailty, unreliability, her constantly getting things wrong. They had seen it, brought on by the musts and needs that she had sworn were correct, and decided that now was the time to enforce their own corrections while her power, worn down by her own servitude, her own madness, her own dedication, was at its weakest.
   But she had trusted them. She knew that her goals and morals were the same as theirs, they must have been; people and life stood at the centre of it. But her ways weren't good enough. They were wrong, in their eyes.
   But...how was this carnage right? Instant solutions, instant change, that was what they wanted, yet time had shown her over and again that that simply wasn't possible, not if that change was to last. Was that really what they expected to happen? Couldn't they see that that was wrong?
   Swords clashed closer. Her guards had been drawn into the scuffle. Fear pierced deeper into her stomach. And yet, amongst it all, she suddenly realised that, somehow, she was untouched.
   A new frown marred her face. No one aimed at her. No one charged her way. It was like a game, somehow; take out as many of the opponent until there were too few left, and claim victory by default of resources. She would have to give up. It was as if she was the prize. She was immune.
   Then the frown fell. The revelation hit and slackened her every muscle.
   Of course she was immune. This queendom, this place, this world and all the people in it...it was all her own creation. She couldn't be destroyed literally here; she wasn't like them. Without her, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Everything they fought for would vanish, and themselves along with it; all they could actually do was darken it. Darken, taint and poison it. And that...that, was far worse than death. Anything they did to her world, they did also directly to her, but neither would be eradicated and put at peace, only broken in suffering; it was hers to rule, hers to feel, hers to protect and nurture, and right now, right before her pathetically tired eyes, they were poisoning it with no means to truly take it away from her.
   Because, without her, there was nothing.
   And with her, there was everything.
   Her fingers tightened into the arm rests, and her jaw clenched, paining her teeth. But she felt it.
   Glory. Satisfaction. That was the point of all of this. To make real an idea that she could be broken by their hands, in a world she had created. In a world where she was immune, a world where she belonged, utterly, truly, and fundamentally. Just to prove that they could.
   Unbidden, her sharpening gaze dropped to the floor. She saw, beneath the skirmish, the stone chips fallen from the ceiling. She saw the flakes of tarnished gold, the dried leaves and those wilted along the walls. And through the murky windows, the cotton clouds darkening and fraying around the dripping light of the morning sun.
   No. This was not her doing. This could never be her doing.
   'Why now, when the queendom was finally flourishing?'
   'Because,' the thought sent a bitter grin across her glistening lips, 'it is simply ripe for the picking.'
   They had succeeded in making her believe she was insane. But that was as far as they would get. And they would learn why she had the power to build this, where they had merely leeched.
   She would remind them exactly why this world was hers.

   The piercing song of axe and sword rang among the columns. Blood sprayed. Yells and cries of pain and fury ricocheted hollow across the walls. And her glittering eyes had turned black.
   The queen rose from her throne as the walls crumbled behind her, her gossamer dress full and glistening, and barely noted that the dizziness of the last weeks had vanished from her body.
   She raised a slender hand from her side, and flicked it lazily. Lightning froze the hall. All descended to silence beneath the deafening, godly crack of thunder but for the thuds of collapsing bodies, and nothing but the flashes of light moved jagged across the walls. Not a sound came, not a flinch made. Like statues of flesh, every soul within her sight and beyond lay pinned to the ground by wrath.
   With haunting grace, she moved forwards and down the dais, her slow steps ringing maliciously, and cast a vague eye across them all. She knew who to look for. She knew where this had started. She had always known: with those she had given a chance to, and had abused it. Abused it, and her, in her own world. And made her feel like she was going mad.
   On she strode, past the pinned guards and attackers alike, until the odd flick of her hand raised one robed man limply to his hips, and dragged him across the floor behind her.
   Then another followed from an alcove. Then another from near the door. Then another from the balcony above, tumbling silently over the balistrade like a ragdoll to half-drift along with the rest.
   Bones cracked as she walked. Fingers broke. Jaws dislocated. Knees cracked. And not a peep of pain. No hands, voices or manners would ever be raised against her here again.
   Broken, the betrayers flowed out from the court in her furious wake, through the halls, through the doors, and out into the sun-dripped city. She didn't look back at them. They were there. She looked instead at the people and carnage that had spread out across the city. Not a soul had been spared from her mistake. And this, she would remember.
   Fires, frozen, reversed themselves and shrank to smouldering husks as she passed them. Fallen stones rose and returned themselves to their places in walls and gardens. By her will alone, the city rebuilt itself, just as it had in the Beginning, while the ones who had refused her, had overlooked her, had tried to twist and steal away the world and life she had created, were dragged roughly through it, witnessed silently by the civilians, soldiers and misinformed alike as they lay paralyzed and fixed to the ground.
   Hours she marched and endured, punishing herself with the images, holding her heartbroken tears back in her eyes to take in as much of the destruction as she could, voice and self pity restrained in her throat.
   Then, finally, the grand city gates rose into view.
   They swung open at her arrival, and here, decisively, she stopped. But the choice few she had dragged along with her did not. Floating on past her, she watched them go, tracking every micrometre they made clear from the city until, with another final, bitter gesture of her hand, force collected and thrust them mercilessly out into the dark and tangled wilderness.
   Without a word, she turned her back to their colliding bodies. The gate closed firmly, and she marched again, back to her shattered home.

   Slowly, her world returned to life; the flames died, the buildings stood solid, and the people, wide-eyed in awe, rose wearily to their feet. Not a sound was uttered for days, by them nor herself.
   Weakness had come from within. And she had let it happen. She had let her world, her morals, her ideas, and her identity fall to influence that even she believed had known better.
   But that would never happen again. For when her world was invaded, she had not run. She'd reminded them of why it was hers.

 

This story is not to be copied or reproduced without my written permission. Copyright © 2025 Kim Wedlock

Two Chairs

[Estimated reading time: 4 minutes]

   The night had shrunk. The crackling snaps of the fire were all there was to break the smothering void, and the world around had vanished beyond the reach of the flickering light. Even the constant chirp of crickets had died back. For all she knew, the very earth itself had crumbled behind her. In an uncomfortable way, it felt almost safe. Nothing else existed. Nothing else but them.

   "The two of us, again," she said quietly, without peeling her stare from the flames.

   "Is that a problem?" The other asked, easily.

   She shook her head. Poking at the fire, a fresh wave of heat prickled her skin. The smoke, at least, had the decency to rise, but the lack of wind made the camp feel even smaller. Even more displaced.

   She lowered the stick to her side and continued gazing into the chaotic orange dance. "It's always going to be like this, isn't it." It wasn't a question. And she received no answer.

   Finally, she dragged herself from the hypnosis and on instead to the cloaked figure sitting on the other side. "Why did you show yourself to me?"

   "I didn't," he replied from within his hood, any movement hidden beneath his dark, cascading robes. "You looked at me."

   She knew he was right.

   The need to disconnect herself from that fact put the poker back in her hand. Silence wove through the crackles. Still the man didn't move.

   "Loosen it."

   She relaxed her jaw at the gentle command. "So, you were always there?" She already knew the answer.

   "Yes," he replied anyway, just as easily as before.

   A nod. "...And now..."

   "I always will be."

   Her nod turned to a bitter shake, her lip curled caustically, and her voice suddenly thickened in her throat. "You have changed...everything."

   No remark came. She continued.

   "I see your shadow everywhere. The sun is shining, yours is the longest. I read a book, it falls over the pages. I paint, you darken the palette. I walk in the woods, your shadow moves between the trees. I lie in bed, and your shadow persists even in the dark, blacker than night. Even sitting in good company, your shadow still falls over a chair! In a crowd of people, at a crossroads, in a list of options..." her lip curled further, "there you are."

   Again, no remark.

   "And now," she continued acridly, "while I am alone, with the world shut out, even in peace, you sit there in front of me, staring me in the face."

   "I am not staring."

   She shook her head again. His lack of emotion or shame or anything felt like a hot knife peeling her chest open. "You have changed everything."

   And his lack of response to that boiled her blood hotter.

   Her fists clenched on her knees before she pulled her arms about herself. Closing her eyes, she could pretend for a moment that not even he was there, if she tried hard enough.

   Then his hollow voice spoke up, shattering any attempt. "Time," he offered, "also changes everything."

   "What does that mean?" She asked from behind her arms.

   "Those forests you walk in, they weren't always there. The night used to be darker. Books never used to exist."

   "Mhm. And what are you saying?"

   "That you will learn to stop looking for me."

   "Looking for you?!"

   "Looking for me. Then," his voice almost seemed to rise, but she conceded that she probably imagined the tone, "once again, things will change. On a scale far smaller than the rest, but one that matters far, far more."

   She peered over her arms. "...And until then?"

   He didn't move. It seemed it was his hood that was speaking. "Until then, you try. You acknowledge that I exist and make peace with it, rather than fight against yourself. The first step to change is realising the root of the problem. And I," the hood tilted slightly, "am not that root."

   Then he moved. It startled her, but she didn't react, even as his long, bony finger moved smoothly through the flames. "Remember: you invited me to your fire."

   "I did no such thing," she spat, then black, hollow eye-sockets turned up at her from beneath the hood.

   "There are two chairs."

 

This story is not to be copied or reproduced without my written permission. Copyright © 2025 Kim Wedlock

Isn't Folklore Interesting?

   I certainly think so.

   Mythology is popular. Filled with magic, gods that walk the earth, virtuous death and grisly fates for slighting the gods in the meagerest way. We think of ancient Greece, Egypt, Norse mythology, and so on. And they're all super interesting.
   But mythology is, basically, religon. The scales and tales are on par with Hinduism, Christianity, Buddhism and so on; grand stories of people, mighty unearthly magics, punishments and ideology. The only difference is that these three belong to existing cultures, while ancient Greek, Egyptian, Norse etc have long been pushed out, and some others have survived longer than all where others did not, usually due to geographical location. The sea and wind currents, after all, kept Japan basically a secret to the wider world until the 15/1600s. These mythologies dictated the values and the laws and the ideas of entire cultures of people.

   Folkore, on the other hand, is limited instead to regions, not countries - areas as small as villages - and deal with fear and safety and explaining away strange phenomena.

Strange creatures in the forests?

   This was the case before science was wide-spread. What could a Leshy have been? Or Wendigo? Someone goes missing in the forest at night, or comes home injured - physically or mentally - and stories form of what was to blame. Great beasts that roam, a single creature, that didn't seem like anything they'd seen before. What could it have been?

1: a creature lesser seen, new to the science of the time, whose path happened to be crossed, or perhaps wandered into new territory as their species expanded, or human settlements did.
2: a bear, a wolf, a stag, larger than average or more aggressive than usual. A large bear; a lone wolf, a stag with mature antlers, rearing on its hind legs against the moonlight.
3: injured or deformed creatures. A three-legged bear. Or a 5-legged, maybe. A deer with deformed antlers. A wolf with a tumor. An albino. Something that survived when nature would usually dictate otherwise, keeping it from wider sight and knowledge.
4: the night, and the forest, playing tricks on a tired mind, or one frantic by displacement.
5: human pride - jumped by bandits and ashamed of it, or fled the area for a better life somewhere else, or perhaps even committed suicide and their remains were lost in the forest, reclaimed by nature.
6: nothing was seen, but something was heard. Back then, the sound of a fox would have been known, but even then, under the right conditions, it would still have been chilling. Imagine one now with a more unique, signature call, like a cat with a raspy voice. But, keeping to foxes, most people today don't know what a fox call sounds like, it's been lost in our industrial world, and stories have popped back up about demons in cityscapes where foxes are domesticating themselves.

   Regardless of the actual reason, the stories persist in those areas and keep people out of the forests after dark, both keeping people safe, but also keeping the actual creature - if there was one - a mystery.

Explanations of natural phenomena

   A castle in Germany, for example, filled with insects one day a year that then die shortly afterwards. Folklore and legend dictate the actions of a knight that covered a man in honey to encourage insects to eat him alive, because he lured the knight's wife away with romantic words. Every year hence, the insects reappear, and a storm follows. Is it possible that the story came after repeated sightings but set far enough into the past to explain it? And, more to the point, why are they actually appearing?

1: nature. There's something on that sight that draws them in. A scent for insects, or built upon a migratory route for butterflies, or a bright light in an otherwise dark place pulling moths in.
2: a safe space for a breeding boom. We know that flying ants appear usually one day a year. How do they co-ordinate that? Natural pressures and movements within weather.

   And why does the storm come? Because the same meteorological pressures and changes that lure these animals in also herald the coming of a storm. A natural barometer.

   And why the same day every year? Well, is it the same day? Or were the calendars poorly kept by the locals, on was their sense of time dictated other details? We have an astrological and meteorological beginning of the seasons, usually 3 weeks apart, but we are often heard to say even now that "summer came early" or "winter has come late" or even "we didn't get spring this year." These remain valid points and feelings to this day.

Witches?

   For single women who never got the plague, witchcraft was the only feasible explanation back then. Women were possessions, and if one was single, "unowned", and not suffering where men and families were, they must have been up to something. Witches. Witches, with cats.

1: the plague is widely believed to have come from the black rat flea. Cat = no rats. No rats = no fleas. No fleas = no bites. No bites = no plague.
2: it has also been suggested, with good evidence, that the Black Plague was airborne. The black rat was run out of Europe after the Black Death by the Norwegian brown rat. Black rats are rare to non-existent in the wilds of Europe. They all fled onto ships and went to the Americas and the fleas went with them. But the Black Death was over. So how would single women be immune to that if it was airborne? Cats can't do much to help with that. But it's just as simple: strange women, as a single woman was considered back then, would have been avoided by society, and the idea that she was a witch would have helped keep people away if just to save their own social status. Nobles would have needed to maintain their standing and outward appearance, and lower castes wouldn't have wanted to risk losing what little they had by consorting with her either. No visitors, no plague.

   And outside of the plague, a woman with knowledge of healing - because women did more in the garden and the kitchen - was considered a witch also. First a healer, most likely, until the wrong person had adverse effects. Allergies, misunderstood instructions, an unfortunate combination of things, and of course the fact that plants can't reverse tumours, all of this could put the healer in bad favour and turn her reputation in a heartbeat.

   It was also a pretty good way to destroy the reputation of a woman who spurned a conceited man.

Ghosts

   This is an interesting one. Haunted houses are everywhere, but have you noticed that they are always old houses? Old by European standards are centuries. Old by American standards is a century. And why is the age important? Because of history. The older the building, the more feet have tread its floors, the more voices have filled the rooms, and the more scenes the walls have witnessed. The more hardship, the more abuse, the more regret, and the more murder. It makes sense.
   But there is an additional detail within old buildings, and the clue is in the phrase. Building. The structures, the foundations, the joints, the walls.

   It just so happens that old buildings vibrate. Many do, regardless of age: minor adjustments to temperature and movement within and without, such as along the roads outside, hot water running through pipes, doors closing, etc. But older houses wear down. And different cultures build in different ways. Many American houses are built from wood, for example, while European are built from stone. This is why American old and European old present the same things, but within a different time frame.

   The vibrations are important. Older buildings in both senses tend to vibrate at a frequency similar to our ocular muscles - it's called Infrasound. This leads to extra activity in our vision centres that lead to seeing things, especially in our peripheral vision. So we imagine we see something just at the edge of our sight. But equally as interesting, is that infrasound is also the same frequency of vibration in the air as thunderstorms and tornadoes - things that fill us with fear even now, and to a greater degree in our primal ages. So these frequencies also trigger a fear and, more notably, a flight response, telling our bodies to leave and find shelter elsewhere away from the vibrations, because we sure as hell can't fight a tornado.

   So, infrasound, of 20Hz or lower, is caused by vibrations found in old houses and storms, causes us to see things at the edge of our vision, and fills us with fear and flight despite nothing tangible being there. It's a trained response in our safety. And old American houses and old European houses, though different ages, all deteriorate to the same thing. And, equally, when that starts to happen, the houses also need to be better maintained. But, as is human nature, when we learn that a building is haunted, even once those structural issues are addressed, that "knowledge" will override the lack of infrasound and keep that fear alive by imagination alone. And so the haunted house persists. Even if you knock the building down and rebuild on that same site, the history and stories will continue.
   This can also contribute to haunted locations where nothing still stands.

   It's also a good fear to feed on for people who are up to no good: claim an area is haunted by a ghost to keep people away while you conduct underhand business. It's also a good, fool-proof way to keep people away from a location known for bandits and such. It's scarier, just in case the truth isn't enough to put people off. It also comes from religious ideas of spirits lingering on. If someone has a bad death, their ghost is said to continue to roam in that location. It may or may not be true, but it would keep people away from that spot in case they, too, fall victim to murder.

   Our brains are also not wired for the night. When melatonin production increases in the dark, our ability to regulate cortisol, the stress hormone, decreases, leaving us more prone to fear while our brains get tired. This is why nightmares can be so chilling, and why, at night, we become more jumpy. We aren't able to rationalise things as easily when we are tired, and when we are flooded with cortisol and don't have the necessary resources to process it, our fear gets higher. And so, though a rational mind would know as a fact that that is a pile of clothes on your bedroom chair, or the shadow of a tree from outside the window, our tired, cortisol-filled minds convince us that it's a monster, and that sleeping with your foot hanging over the edge of your bed is a risk.

Fear of the unknown.

   This is self-explanatory. It's human nature to fear what we don't understand, and human nature also to look for something to blame when bad things befall us. Sometimes the most obvious answer is the correct one, but equally the most outlandish and horrific is the most favoured, just the same as "you hear what you want to hear" even though what we imagine hearing is usually an insult. If we can blame a ghost or a demon for cancer, then it's someone's fault, but still nothing we can do anything about. And that can also be easier to accept than the fact of a poor lifestyle, bad luck, and the Universe simply being unfair. We do it today with astrology. If we can't explain something, some people blame a planet just to have something to blame, or perhaps to deflect from our own bad choices, but all the same feeling some semblence of control or victimisation.

All of this, pulled together, gives us folklore.

   It explains strange things, keeps people safe, protects our pride, and offers reason where there is none. And the interesting thing, also, is that I could easily offend someone today with what I've written. Suggesting that Christianity is mythology, or that astrology is just looking for something to blame, while the same people offended would agree that Egyptian mythology is just colourful stories and that wendigos aren't real. Why? Because Christianity and astrology are still in favour today, while we know that there aren't any monsters in the forest. Probably.

   It all comes down to finding a way to survive in our communities, to stay safe, to stay sane, and to find some comfort behind closed doors and, in some cases, comfort in things we can't control. And that is the role that folklore has always filled: stay away from the danger, even if that danger is misunderstood, ill-conceived, or completely imaginary as a threat. It's about fear for one's personal safety, not about faith or conduct. Folklore is humanity, perfectly imperfect.

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Disclaimer: Believe what you want to believe. I believe in spirits. I believe in luck. And I believe that, until science can debunk things, everyone is free to believe whatever they want. Arthur Conan Doyle, writer and physician, author of Sherlock Holmes, believed in fairies. We have no proof that they are real, but equally we have no proof they aren't. If it makes your life brighter, follow it. Just don't hurt anyone in the process.

 

This essay is not to be copied or reproduced without my written permission. Copyright © 2025 Kim Wedlock

Poison

[Estimated reading time: 6 minutes]

   Grey. There wasn't much else to see; shadows and shapes tangled in amongst themselves without depth or rationality. A fog hung, perhaps – real or insinuated – and the smell of rot clung to the dirt walls. Insects skittered, chittering cold through the sick air, but not even they thrived. Only the thick, knotted roots of an ancient tree seemed to survive the unnatural miasma.
   The sharp, weak whine of an agonised wolf cut white through the darkness in testament. But the cold-skinned crone ignored it.
   Red eyes stared from beneath a carapace hood, and no expression creased her face as she forced the smoking poison into the wolf's mouth. Only the marks on her skin glowed blacker. From one beast to another she moved, unnoticed by the pack even as she gripped their muzzles in her claws, until the whining faded to a suffering whimper.
   Then she rose, turned, and left the tainted den without a backward glance.
   But though the sun blinded her exit, setting a harsh cast through the forest, it wasn't the light that held her steps. It was the stare of the thriving tree, boring into her back. Now, at this, she turned.
   Silver leaves waved in a breeze that didn't touch her skin, and the branches seemed to move, reaching towards her in anger. Imposing. Condemning. It watched her, absorbed and marked her presence and intention as much as she did, it.
   Then, coldly, the crone turned her back and walked away.
   The forest didn't move for her, and no animal crossed her path. No bird sang nearby, and no tree swayed. But her eyes didn't see the woods as they did, and her split ears didn't hear the wind; other sounds and lights guided her, leading her gliding footsteps through the mottled shadows, roots, fungus, until she reached at last her tidy, secreted garden.
   Stepping over the low stone boundaries, she moved through the pockets of displaced plants with spots, spines and dusty coloured leaves, eyeing them critically with belt knife in hand. A select few she harvested while the forest turned a blind eye; orange thistle leaves, oleander stems, datura root and morble, while ignoring the corpse of a greedy rabbit which would go on to nurture her toxic garden.
   Again, the forest shied from her as she ventured on with her cuttings, until a crooked old pigeon tower emerged from the trees.
   The door didn't whine as she stepped inside, and neither did the floorboards creak. But the cauldron she hung immediately over the fireplace began its hiss and bubble before the flames were truly alive, hungrily eating away all the silence. And so it continued for three sleepless days and nights while the crone steamed, smoked, crushed and bled the herbs, distilling and concentrating the brew until it changed from black to red to purple, and coughed its smoky haze that even the soaked cloth over her sharp-toothed mouth could barely filter out.
   And after those three days, when the poison had settled, out into the forest she trekked again.
   She felt the cave before she saw it, and between those two moments, the silver tree's stare. It found her quickly, as though it had been waiting, and its animosity, if not its strength, had intensified.
   The crone didn't spare it or its protective aura a look. She stooped again into the familiar shadows below, and grey, tangled shapes rose around her once more. But, this time, silence. Not a whine or whimper stained the dark.
   Relief seeped into her blood and slowed her heart, and her grip on the newest batch of poison loosened. 'It's done,' her long tongue clicked as a sigh eased through her nose. There was no need to dose the wolves again. It was over. She had won.
   She turned and stalked back to the bright mouth of the forest, heart beating a little slower, to wander again and see where else the colours and lights would guide her hand.
   Then a sudden lash snatched itself around her throat.
   Cold rushed through her veins as her hand thrust down to her belt knife before thought could install itself. The root tightened just as fast while her fingers fumbled for the handle, their tips stabbing at her skin in search of the heat coursing beneath it. Too many clumsy hacks it took while the grey became pierced by flashing pinpricks before she freed herself of its leeching grip.
   Then the ground rushed towards her.
   She hacked again at the tightening grip on her ankle, breath barely returning to her lungs as she kicked and pulled herself backwards, more reaching towards her, snaking around her wrists and waist. The knife was jerked hard from her hand, black blood streaming from her lashed fingers.
   She found the poison instead.
   The roots fought against her, but only helped to unstopper the glass. The purple fluid spilled over both her hand and the tendrils, black smoke darkening the haze around them. Her flesh burned, but the roots blanched. A crackling scream filled the den, woody skin flaking from the rapidly retreating roots as they shook and flailed like warring snakes.
   The crone stole her chance, stumbling and clawing her way out of the cave.
   The screaming waned as the forest blinded her, and the flood of fresh air forced her panic to a stop. With a heaving breath, she leaned wearily against the mouth of the cave and sank down to the moss. The tree, she felt, heard, tasted, as she rubbed her burned hand, was dying. And as she witnessed the last of its force flee, fatigue and relief overcame her.

   She woke only at the tug on her hood and warm, heavy breath on her face. Red eyes winced open until a sudden wet lash across her face forced them shut. Then another. Then the sound of soft, affectionate whining eased the muscles in her face.
   The wolves sniffed around her, nudging her shoulder, licking the blood from her hands, the sweat from her face, and she saw, as she looked again, the changes to their bodies. Some now had bony ridges protruding along their spines; others grew what looked like antlers from the tops and sides of their heads, and another peered at her along a line of thorns and spikes rising evenly down its nose and muzzle. Tumours, their shapes and natures transformed into something benign. A sickness turned to strength.
   Her lips curled into a sharp-toothed smile and she ruffled their fur with her claws, until drifting, silver leaves drew all eyes back up to the tree.
   The evil had fled. But, she knew all too well, it would invade something else soon enough. Darkness like that wasn't destroyed in one strike. It grew. It thought. It planned. With every infection defeated, its power fell weaker, but it was not finished yet. Still it survived. In time, yes, it would be captured and banished...
   A sharp tooth pierced her lip.
   Assuming, of course, she could find its new host again...

 

This story is not to be copied or reproduced without my written permission. Copyright © 2025 Kim Wedlock

I'm Here!

   Been a while, right? Life has been a lot. I'll update in a second, but first, I just wanted to say thank you all for waiting for me.

   Depression has been a lot. I've been incredibly drained, and it's taken me about 3 years to get to the point of having the energy to venture back into my biggest passion. I've had to rebuild myself, find my triggers, work through them, balance my energy and try to find my way back into normal life alongside it. Fortunately, despite the frequent bouts of intense darkness, it is going well. I see it, others see it, and it feels amazing to be beating it into submission like this.

   I'm back to working frequently on writing.

   Book planning is going well and is almost finished, it's just the last few details that keep tripping me up. As soon as I think I'm almost ready to start writing, something else pops up. Details that need establishing so I know where their markers are in the story. I could start without them and hope they fall into place, but my mind doesn't work that way, and given how tired I am and how short my attention span is, I can't take that chance. So I need the plan, in full, before I could begin. The bright side there, though, is that when I do start writing, it should happen quickly and I'll have a big elaborate story to share with you all in a much shorter span of time.
   I'm also getting ideas again for short stories. I've written a couple of origin stories, and others are fleshed out enough in my mind that I can work on as if they had also been written (they haven't yet, and will have to be, but I'm in a good spot with them). Other, unrelated short stories are also coming out, and that is a wonderful feeling. I've not lost my touch, though I am a little rusty, so I apologise if the standard is lower for a little while.

   In case you forgot, here is the link to my short story archive, with disclaimers for the years I did minimal.

   As for the rest:

   The past 3 years have been rough. I left my husband, worked through the trauma of his abuse and control, am still working through it and especially through depression.
   I lost my mother to MS a year ago, which wasn't unexpected but that didn't change how much it hurts. I'm proud to say that I spoke at her funeral, and I know I did her proud.
   I also lost my emotional support hamster, Elk, a few months ago, and while you can argue that that loss doesn't compare, it also hurts, especially so soon after. This has left me feeling lost and far too close to Death's shadow. But we go on. And I'm fortunate that I have an incredible support network around me.

   I'm also looking to move out from my little student room - it's not much, I'm tired of not having my own bathroom and feeling unwelcome in my own kitchen, but I can't deny that I'm grateful to have my own refuge without the hand of control over me. So while I have outgrown it, it remains important, safe, and mine. And that is invaluable.
   Work is going well, I'm enjoying it enormously, and I'm lucky additionally to be working with such kind, compassionate, silly and authentic people.
   Health remains a question, and sciatica challenges me daily, but, again, I get by.
   I'm focusing on self-acceptance and the self-love that comes after that, and I think it's going better.

   The horrors persist, but so do I. And they should be more scared of me.

 

Copyright © 2023 Kim Wedlock