The Fate of Glory

[Estimated reading time: 17 minutes]

   The storyteller frowned. "What do you mean?"
   "Then what happened?" The girl asked again with no change at all in her enthusiasm, as though simply repeating the question would clarify the matter.
   The storyteller looked bemused across the gathered children while nearby adults chuckled and shook their heads, and those further out continued their merry dance to the tavern's music, oblivious to the scrutiny happening by the fireplace.
   He ended up shaking his own head and helplessly repeating his own question. "What do you mean?"
   "What happened then?" Another child asked. "Did he go home? Get married? Or was he already married?"
   "Was his wife beautiful?" A girl asked, one of the youngest, climbing up onto a table behind the old man. "Did she make him go to work after he did all the heroic stuff or did he get given lots and lots of gold from the king?"
   "Is being a hero a job?" A boy asked.
   "Heroism," the storyteller cried over the continuing onslaught of questions, more than a little exasperated and twitchingly aware of the young girl behind him, "is its own reward...little one."
   "So that means being a hero makes you rich?"
   "No, no, my dear, it means that good deeds make you rich in spirit."
   "So," the little girl was lying upside down on the table now, "his ghost was rich? What about when he was alive though? Or did he die?!"
   "Eventually, y-yes, he di--"
   "What about Frederick of Morne or the Emerald Skyhawk? Did they die from being heroes and have rich ghosts?"
   A wasting sigh heaved from the storyteller, and the adults that had been enjoying the poor man's suffering began shouting support towards him. But it was a young guardsman that finally saved the night.
   "Come on you lot," he called, rising from his seat and waving for the girl to climb down off the table, tossing a wink to the old man as he went, "it's after hours and you've exhausted this poor fellow. Head on home. We'll have to pay him double now to compensate him for your trouble. And you two," he squeezed the shoulders of the two oldest as they gathered themselves beneath a cloud of complaints but followed obediently to the door, "you're both on thin ice with your masters as it is."
   "We just want to know what happened to the hero after his story," the youngest complained again, even as she skipped off ahead of him.
   "And there's plenty of time to find out, but not tonight. Go on, get!"
   The children were herded out through the door to the cold, fireless night, and as it swung closed behind them, the warmest corner of the tavern breathed a sigh of relief. None so heavy as the storyteller, and he wondered, with that breath, if he had made the right career choice. Perhaps he should have found a new field to tend when the last went up in flames...
   An old woman began chuckling next to him. He glanced her way. "You might want to devise some answers for the next time this happens," she smiled. "Children are insightful and curious. They ask the questions adults would rather avoid."
   "Yes," he sighed again, "you're right of course, ma'am. I'll make it a priority. They won't catch me out again."
   "I'm sure they won't. For the moment though, you look far too exhausted."
   "It's the weather, ma'am. The chill is in my bones."
   "Then to bed with a hot sack of oats, perhaps? That, I'm afraid, is all that will help you, because no matter how long you eye the barmaid," she cocked a grey eyebrow as he looked guiltily back at her, "she has neither the time nor the obligation. A sack of oats is easier."
   He rose to his feet, nodding his agreement, took a deep breath--
   "And," she added sharply, "stop sighing so much. You'll blow the fire out with any more of that."
   --He breathed back out in a laugh instead, bowed slightly, and walked away to the tavern keep to make his request, leaving the older patrons to listen to the calm crackle of the surviving fire in his place. The silence was comfortable for a while - at least, she had felt it was - but something in the air had disturbed a few of the others.
   Cautiously, one man lowered his voice and spoke. "What do you think did happen to them?" He asked, looking across his friends. "The heroes I mean, when their job was done?"
   "Oh," the old woman shook her head, reaching then for her tankard. "I don't suspect anything good, do you? Not in the end. No, heroes are just men after all, and most die like the rest of us." She gestured to the fire, though didn't look up from the table. "Bright flames burn the fastest. They either get snuffed out, or snuff themselves out."
   "Yeah, but...they're heroes..."
   She shrugged, a bewildered frown slowly creeping across her face. "So? Their stories aren't letters of immunity, you know, least of all to Death and Misfortune. If anything, they are invitations. You surely can't believe otherwise..."
   "N-no, ma'am," another spoke up, "with all due respect, I believe you might be misunderstanding us. We don't mean heroes in stories, we mean real her--"
   "Yes," she leaned forwards and lowered her voice, her stare rising from the tabletop to look openly across the numerous eyes that had turned her way, "and I'm speaking of real heroes. These 'heroes in stories' - first, well, I ask you: where did the story come from? From the hero's actions, of course! There is no story without the hero. Heroism, victory, or even defeat with morals left in tact - all of these things require a hero first, and they are told on. And secondly, why are they told on?"
   "To inspire?" Someone offered.
   "For history?" Another spoke up.
   "Lessons." Said a third, a younger guard that had been sitting with the children's escort. His eyes were hard. Purposeful.
   The old woman looked at him a fraction longer than the rest, and smiled. "Yes. Lessons. But," she raised a finger, "even beneath the obvious lessons told within the distraction of heroes are others that go untold, ones of equal or perhaps even greater importance. Those of the Person beyond the People, of the unfortunate soul who tasted that fame - willingly or not.
   "But!" She raised her tankard and sat back, noticing the frown that passed across the guard's brow at her words, "these are not the stories anyone really wishes to hear. And answers the questions that we don't really want to ask. And yet...here we are, asking them..."
   All gathered glanced warily to their neighbours. A weight had settled in the room, though the gleeful music, dancers and drinkers a short distance away from their circle seemed somehow oblivious to it. But to those involved, it was demanding, demanding of many things, but of two above all: to be stared directly into, and avoided at all costs.
   For a long while, no one spoke. No one could choose which demand to answer. But the old woman soon spoke again anyway, and no one tried to silence her.
   "How many heroes," she began offhandedly, addressing the low level of ale in her tankard rather than anyone else, "do you think, live on past their moment and still manage to die a heroic, meaningful death? And how many, do you think, go on to live humbly, content and accepting of the fact that their role has been fulfilled?" She looked up. No one answered. The number of listeners had grown from nine to twelve. "And how many, do you think, are honestly beyond the rigours and weaknesses of the rest of us?" She took a mouthful as she waited, then set the tankard down. "I'm asking."
   "...None." One man answered cautiously, at which the weight in the air grew somehow darker and even more dismal. "It's none, isn't it?"
   The old woman nodded slowly. "The actions of heroes are intense, are they not? And what healthy mind would stare death in the face to save others? A valiant one, yes, and so few of us possess that. But what's beneath that valiance? It's a strain of madness, for sure, and it manifests afterwards in vicious ways. Ways unbefitting of how we deem a hero to behave.
   "Many can't help but chase the high when it's over. Others grow embittered by the loss of the fame they had earned, or more nobly angered by the necessity of what they had to do and what they became in doing it. Some grow deluded. And the unlucky few, well...they turn mad, haunted in life by the spirits of those they were unable to save, and in death by those who died as collateral to the hubris of their actions. Actions that shouldn't have been necessary. And that's to say nothing of the would-be heroes that died before they could address the matters first. They're the lucky ones, really...
   "But," she sipped again, then gestured to the barmaid for another, "I digress. Heroism is a young man's game. Swords and armour are heavy, and the stress of sneaking beneath a sorcerer's notice to unravel his plans is crippling. So what happens to those soft, malleable minds and strong bodies? Hmm? Ageing and infirmity is rarely met gracefully by the best of us, after all.
   "A hero complex is, at its core, a sickness. And what happens when they do what they cannot for others purely - whether they know it or not - to feed it? To stay needed, to stay relevant, their whole sense of identity and worth hingeing so delicately on their heroism? They run themselves to the ground. They make mistakes. Become hysterical, obsessive, until they inevitably drive themselves to a struggling death at their own hands and bring others down with them in their decaying attempts to continue to help. Because, rather than let them turn to others who could help more effectively with various skills, the hero jumps in first. It's like he tries to take that barmaid's tray, the mop over there, light these candles and turn the straw on the floor all by himself in a single moment because he can't admit that others could be better suited for a particular task, and has decided that, if he doesn't do it all himself, it won't get done and people, somehow, will suffer for it.
   "And that's just one example. Say the hero complex doesn't take, and they can accept the loss of their fame. What would most likely move in next? Hmm?" She looked across them all, then settled on the farrier. "Farley. Say all the horses in the world were going to be culled, and the only way to prevent it was to kill five horses in every village, but you had to do it yourself. You could get help, but you want to make sure it's done right, that they don't suffer, and that it's done quickly. So, you don't ask for help, you do it alone, then, matter taken care of, the majority of horses live on, never to be culled. You saved an entire species, single-handedly." She cocked her head. "And then, when that fact has settled and the silver on the imaginary reward has dulled and tarnished...what will stay with you? The memory of the glory? Or the memories of those many, many horses dying at your hands?"
   The farrier's hands were already balled into white fists. "I see your point."
   "Say it out loud, for everyone," she replied, softly. "It's important."
   "The horses. The blood. Those are the memories that would stay with me."
   She nodded, and offered him an apologetic smile. The man's fondness for his horses and trade was well-known. "A hero loves his people just as much. So what does anger at one's self or at the very nature of the world do to someone when they are left with time to think after the fact? It erodes both the mind and the ability to feel joy, if they can even remember what that feels like, until they turn upon themselves or upon the very people they had once fought to save. And gods forbid that the cost they paid to achieve their goal was the life of someone they loved. There is no saving the heart of someone who believes themselves the murderer of it.
   "Now," she smiled and thanked the barmaid as she set down a fresh tankard in front of her, and noted both with sympathy and mild amusement the disquiet in her face as she entered and left their moody bubble, "this is by no means to say that heroes are destined to become villains, or to die miserably - though they are certainly mentally afflicted, to a degree. But it is to say that even heroes are subject to our weaknesses, and that the ones we so idolise have paid for their names in ways unimaginable. And those are lessons that, I think at least, are worth telling. They should be respected beyond solely their heroism." She sipped from her tankard. "This isn't ale."
   The men looked at each other. They numbered thirteen now.
   "Did...did that happen to Frederick of Morne?" One asked carefully, as though his heart didn't truly want to know, but his soul needed the closure. "Did he go mad? Did he hate the world?"
   She swallowed the third mouthful of mead, spread her hands and sat back. "I couldn't tell you, honestly. Another thing about heroes is that, after their glory, many of them have a habit of disappearing from the public eye."
   "Hang on..." the second guard piped up, the chair beside him still empty. Law dictated that he should have left with his partner, but instead he'd stayed to listen to her, the intensity in his eyes now even more piercing and his previously proud bearing now insulted. Personally, it seemed. "That means that everything you just said could so easily be untrue... If most of them vanish, how could anyone truly know how they turned out?"
   And there it was. She watched suspicion enter the eyes of half of her audience, and relief enter the rest. Plausible deniability.
   She kept her sigh to herself. "You can decide that for yourselves," she replied coolly instead, "if that makes it easier for you. This isn't something people generally want to be aware of, so I wouldn't blame you. Though," she added offhandedly, "their spirits might."
   "And how many heroes have you known, to be so certain of so dark a thing?" He demanded.
   "Ohhhh many," she smiled. "Heroes of all shapes and calibres."
   Just as the young guard gathered himself to fire another challenge, the music came to a flourishing stop, and the closing bell rang any words into oblivion.
   Her audience rose, Suddenly eager to be away from her, muttering "it's not true"s and "mad old cow"s beneath their breath, yet not too low as to go unheard. But, as she obediently pulled her cloak back around her body, the soldier stormed towards her. She met his eyes calmly, and for a moment the anger in them wavered. She smiled as it returned. "Your training is going well?" She asked before he could find the sharp tip of his own tongue.
   He cocked a bitter smile instead. "Very."
   "Good."
   Surprise collapsed his face as he realised she had moved at incredible speed for his sword, and he grasped for it in an attempt to keep it, but succeeded only in brushing its shadow. She was already turning it over in her hands.
   "And how confident do you feel now?"
   "Give it back," he barked, snatching for it, but she deftly wove it from his grip.
   "Answer the question."
   His eyes narrowed. "...Less..."
   "As I thought." She gave it back. "Work to balance that confidence. The sword isn't the protector. You are."
   He took it back quickly and returned it to its sheath. The movement wasn't as smooth as he had probably hoped, but she turned her attention to the door to spare him.
   "Who are you?" He asked.
   And she smiled easily. "Gladelyn the Reaper Moth."
   He cocked a slender eyebrow. "Oh?"
   "Don't believe me?" She smirked. "How about Eregelda Titanstone?"
   "Ma'am, please--"
   "Enterilngana of the Netherroads?"
   He sighed and rolled his eyes. His anger was gone. 'Mad old woman' indeed.
   She chuckled, then, and patted him firmly on the shoulder. "I apologise. Forgive an old woman her fun."
   Then another bell chimed, this one further away, somewhere out in the western side of the city. The tavern's bell likely drowned out the first ring.
   The soldier's face hardened at the sound of it, and his wearied eyes sharpened.
   "Well," the old woman sighed, "it looks like you had better head back to the Tower. The monks will be out to hunt soon, and if they catch you--"
   "They won't catch me. They'll be in smouldering pieces before I am."
   "Hmm...it must be nice to be so young. Fare well, young master. May your wits be as sharp as your blade, but always in your hands."
   He bowed, briefly, perhaps automatically, perhaps because of her age, or perhaps because a mad old woman was best respected if just to keep her calm, and as he turned and darted out of the door, she wandered for the staircase, took a lantern, and continued up to her quarters.

   The room was small, leaving the shadows little space to dance, but it was enough. It was a temporary stop on her way to the east, and needed only house herself and two trunks.
   She set the lantern on the single flat surface in the room, a small table near the bed as opposed to next to it, knelt down at the foot, and unlocked one of the trunks.
   The hinges didn't squeak, she took far too good care of it for that, and she pulled her night clothes from the selection of cloth-wrapped bundles. They gave a slight clatter as they moved, a sound that, even though muffled, still managed to hurt her heart. There wasn't another quite like it to a trained ear, and nothing that could draw up so many memories and emotions from the past.
   She reached out and rearranged what had slipped, pulling the cloth back over the glint of steel on the long and narrow bundle, and positioned it diagonally from corner to corner, the only way it would fit. The wide, flat oval too needed to be placed just so. And once they were back where they belonged, she closed the trunk tight and locked it again without a second's hesitation.
   It was more than a little unpleasant to disrobe from her travelling clothes in the cold, but she longed to be rid of the way they clung to her and feel just vaguely more comfortable for the night, even if it were only a few hours. She had earned that much of a luxury, if nothing else.
   And so she removed her cloak, untied her blouse, and peeled away the leggings, exposing her scarred skin only as long as necessary to the chill night air, before diving into the night clothes and the bed in one frantic movement. No sooner was she in it than she pulled the covers straight up to her chin. The bed, somehow, was colder than the air. Maybe she should have requested herself a sack of warm oats...
   She sighed - her turn, now - rolled over and closed her eyes, waiting for the bed to warm up with her. But she knew it wouldn't be quick. In fact, she knew it would get colder first. She knew that, within a few minutes, the temperature would drop further, something in the air would change, and she would open her eyes and find herself staring into the ghostly face of her lover, lying in the bed beside her.
   And like clockwork, within the passage of nine minutes, there he was. And he stayed, smiling softly, as her eyes filled with tears, until she finally wished him a good night and he vanished just as he did every other time.
   She closed tear-brimmed eyes.
   "And when a hero fails," she muttered to herself, "the cost feels so much higher..."

 

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

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The Ferryman

[Estimated reading time: 6 minutes]

   The small boat drifted calmly across the sea. Moon and stars danced across the rippling water, and there was nothing else to see or hear. It was a tranquil desert out there that night.
   Manannán would have sat at peace as he drifted, but something tugged at his weathered brow.
   Peering over the edge of the boat, he looked down into his water, and saw only his reflection. And he felt more from it than he should have.
   He sat back down and looked out again into the night. "Come up," he said to the air, and with a soft disturbance of the water, the reflection rose. "Get in." And, duly, it climbed into the boat.
   Dripping wet, it sat down on the seat opposite him. It didn't speak, and neither did he say another word
   The boat drifted on, adjusting course without oar or sail, despite the lack of wind, and Manannán stood and turned his back to his guest, looking off to one side. He was fixated on something unseen that apparently drifted by them - or they drifted by it.
   But the reflection continued to watch him, gaze fixed instead to the back of his head. And when he turned to face it, it had changed. A woman, with golden hair, an ethereal, otherworldly face, elegant in a dress gilded with swan feathers, and he felt his heart twitch at the sight of her. But something about it was wrong. His eyes narrowed.
   The woman changed again, to a younger man, dark of hair with a heavy torc around his neck, kingly in bearing, and sea-weathered. This earned less of a reaction. And when it changed again, to a meek, skeletal child, he turned, sat back down to face her, and sighed. With that sigh, he, too, changed. His hardened, muscular appearance took on a younger, feminine form, with grey skin, pure white eyes, hair of either black or silver, it was impossible to tell, and an otherworldly charm.
   The child didn't react.
   He changed again, to an elderly man with some resemblance to the previous, then an elderly woman who could have been her mother. Then he turned back to the first.
   Still the child didn't react, even as those eerie white eyes stared into her soul.
   What is your name?" He asked once the silence failed to intimidate either of them. But he already knew. The child knew that. It was a test.
   She changed then to mirror his grey-skinned form, and smiled with small teeth. "Nothing that can be pronounced in this realm," she replied.
   Her reflection nodded slowly, but continued to stare. Manannán soon returned to his true form. She didn't change again.
   "You have a painful heart," he told matter-of-factly, but she didn't respond. "And a dangerous road." He sat forwards. "While I appreciate the game with such a worthy player, why have you come to me? What is it that you want?"
   "Your boat." She didn't hesitate.
   He nodded slowly again, and sat back on his seat. The vessel barely rocked with the motion. "Most are after the sword," he muttered, then spoke up. "The boat's not for hire, I'm afraid. I have a job to do, just as you do. Souls won't find their way to Tír Tairngire without us." He spread his hands, as though it was out of his power, then dropped them back to his lap. "You need to cross water?"
   "I do. Alone."
   "No ships. No crew." He cocked his head in thought. "Would the horse do? She's not as swift as the boat, and she will need to stop from time to time, but she can cover the seas just as well."
   The realm-walker smiled. "Aonbharr?"
   "Who else?"
   "Yes," she nodded, her smile widening. "Aonbharr would do."
   He raised his hand to his mouth and unleashed a powerful, echoing call unlike anything she had ever heard, and an answering neigh resounded from the distance. Then he turned back to her with authority in his ancient eyes. "And I'm lending her to you, you understand? I expect to have her back."
   "I am not a thief, Manannán. I will return all that I've borrowed."
   "'Borrowed' is an interesting term," he muttered, though without a scoff. "You stole from Hekate."
   The grey woman waved her hand carelessly. "I borrowed without asking. The keys will be returned."
   "And will Jack O'Lantern be given back to himself?"
   At this, she hesitated.
   "As much so as he can be, I suppose."
   The horse appeared - a horse it was, though there was something different about it that she couldn't quite put her finger on, aside from the fact that it was standing quite easily upon the water's surface, as white as the foam itself.
   "Why did you not fight me?"
   She looked back to him. "For her? I didn't need to. The others were beings of...chaos, really. You are one of balance. I treat everyone accordingly."
   "You did try to trick me, though," he pointed out. Then added: "unsuccessfully."
   She smiled coyly. "Did I try to trick you, though? Or did I just need your attention?"
   He couldn't seem to help smiling at that, but it soon saddened. "Have you never considered just speaking?"
   "Too easy."
   Again he stared at her, and his smile wilted. "You have a painful heart."
   "You've said that already."
   He nodded. "It's worth saying it again."
   A frown flickered across her face at the weight of those words. Then he rose to his feet and held out his hand, which she took and rose after him, and allowed him to lead and help her up onto his horse, which he patted and muttered to all the while.
   "What are you saying to her?" She asked sceptically as she found her seating.
   "That you will be looking after her for now, and that you can be trusted." He glanced up at her deliberately at this point. "To a degree."
   A slender eyebrow cocked. "To a degree?"
   "You have a--"
   "Painful heart, yes, you've said." She sighed and adjusted herself upon the creature's bare back. She'd never ridden without a saddle before, and it was distinctly less comfortable. But if the horse preferred it, so be it. She wasn't about to offend it, nor especially its owner. She looked back down at him and smiled. "Thank you."
   He raised wrinkled hands. "Don't thank me yet. If she doesn't return to me healthy and happy, there will be a price."
   "Somehow I don't think you're talking about money."
   A crooked smile moved across his face. "What use would the king of the Otherworld have for that?"
   "King of the Otherworld," she nodded to herself. "Yes, that's fair. A price. Got it."
   "Good." He patted the horse's rear, spoke in clicks, and off it moved, carrying her across the water. "Now go, with my luck. You will need it."
   "And don't I know it," she muttered to herself, steering the horse towards the nearest shore who knew how far away.

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