venusmantrap

My mother mourns every time I leave, they say. The ground is dead and frozen and no new life emerges from it until spring, when I am reunited with her. This is not true. My mother has long lost the ability to give life, if she ever had it truly. It is my life's blood that fuels earth anew each spring, and from my heart does the power pour. I miss my husband and his realm; I miss the calm and quiet, the sweet pomegranates that stain our fingers and the bed. I miss the soft songs of the dead.   I would stay with him forever, where it does not hurt, and where his gentle touch heals the wounds of the harvest, but a promise is a promise, and e

There once was a tribe who believed the touch of their old  would steal the youth from the young and shorten their life. No grandmother ever held their grandchild in their arms, no grandfather ever hugged their child's child. Every precaution was taken so no accidental touch would occur, until their lives became a strange dance, punctuated by the bells they wore on their ankles; silvery, tiny ones for the youth, and deep, sombre ones for the old. With each step the bells would sound, warning, cautioning, and the rhythm of them paced their lives. But that was a long time ago, and far away, and the tribe is no more. This story was told to m