She enjoyed watching the group in the scrying pool. This group was far more interesting than any of the other ones. Though this one had the potential to give her an heir, she knew that she could do this with the next group as well. Could they actually figure out how to get the wish undone? None have in the last two centuries, not since the small German writer. She thought back on him almost fondly for a second.
The witch had not set any major restrictions on the pregnant one. She was not really worried about the group being together. It was amusing to see how scared they were. Immortality was a lonely existence and groups like this gave her something to think about. Maybe if they were successful she would seek a true option for a child to raise. She did not normally seek the interaction with people, as it lessened the ache when they died. There was ways to grant the immortality but she always felt like it was a curse. Retaining just enough humanity to make it unbearable to put another person through the curse she was under meant that she interacted when someone bothered her.
She cursed mildly under her breath about the german who wrote the fairy tale almost two centuries prior. It meant that there was an answer available to be found for those curious. Not that she minded truthfully but it kind of made her feel better to curse at things she couldn’t change. She still felt a fondness for his memory and reached out to carress the hand bound original copies he had given her of each of the volumes he wrote. The problem was that the story was now in the hands of her playthings. She sighed at her own silliness.
She debated if she should try to prevent them from finding her name. Technically according to the rules that bound her magic she could not stop the attempt to undo the wishes….but she could make it harder for them to find the answers. She just debated whether she was wanting to interfere at all. Dwelling on that might make it no longer fun to watch. She looked at the fish tank and wondered if her toy there had been forgotten. A game of wits was only fun if the opponent had some ammo to work with .
watch here for more details about the book as I get closer to its release…
The world seems to be a place where myths are taken for granted. Everyone knows the myth of the pilot of the River Styx. The Ferryman who ferries souls over to the afterlife for a cost. They all have it wrong though. The Reaper doesn’t want coin. They are an immortal being. Such creatures have no need for money. The ferry driver instead takes the best story each soul has to tell. Sometimes just the telling of the story is too much for a soul to bear. Words carry weight. They are the most painful things in existence. They can also be the most gratifying things that life has to offer.
The ferryman has so many names, and most of them are just the myths coming to signify the way the mortal beings see them. For me, they are my creator. I guess you could call me the reaper’s child. It is not exactly correct, but it is the closest term for what I am. I am a story that became too much for even an immortal mind to bear. So, I grew sentience. Now I search the world for the others like myself, dark stories and memories that weigh heavy on mortality. Stories of killers, and crime, heartache, and such twisted thoughts that they are relegated to impossible fiction. That is the sort of thing that I collect. Like the ferryman I take these weights from the ones who cannot bear them any longer. I think of it as saving those souls who would break under such terrible weights.
I save each story in a notebook, lovingly hand written. My creator kept the stories told to them in perfect memory…I am not quite that blessed. Instead I will keep my notebooks…Stacked full of nightmares. The only story I have been able to remember without writing it down is the one that caused my creation. Perhaps someday I will meet the snowman…I would love to collect all of Frosty’s stories. I can only imagine what notebooks I could fill with that.
I have collected the tale of a vampire that would use it’s victims for the creation of art.
And the tale of the ghost who used to be a mercenary in a rainforest expedition that went badly. He was a wealth of stories. He gave me my own nightmares for weeks after taking his stories.
I collected the story of the nun who was cursed with immortality. It drove her mad. She spoke of becoming a killer, and how it was a kindness to save the women from the hands of the priests.
Each tale has it’s own power to describe a different aspect of life, a different aspect of death.
The story of the woman who went back after she died to steal away the child that her husband loved more than he loved her…She sang it sweet lullabies as she took it to the edge of the River Styx.
I could easily entertain so many with my tales. Which story should I share? Perhaps about the creature named Harvey? The flesh-eater that enjoyed driving it’s meals mad first?
I have considered passing myself off as a horror writer. Telling my tales as if they were fiction to see if anyone would recognize. It is not as if I do not have thousands of dark and dismal tales.
There is the one about the three ghosts who tried to get a rich man to change his ways before it was too late. Or the one about the Witch who gave five teens their wish…but at what cost?
My notebooks are a treasure. I do not write the story whilst the teller yet lives. I make sure to leave them a tale to pay the ferry with. I can at least be that kind. Though I have considered what would happen in this world if there where not enough stories left to pay the ferry. Would all of the storytellers end up stuck here? And if they did would that just create more interesting tales?
I don’t dare allow myself to consider it too closely. I might just decide that I want all of the stories.
so I announced that she will be releasing a kids book for kids week…because Dante Elliott requested it…guess what…he asked her to do another. so she did. It still has to be illustrated and put together but she wrote it for Dante.
Serena Mossgraves was not supposed to be writing kids books but she has a real soft spot where Dante is concerned. She doesn’t want anyone to know that she is a softie but I personally don’t know how she’s going to hide it with her second kids book being announced..,lol
I live in a world where biography's Indicate fictional characters Which apparently means there is naught That we in the real world could learn from them...
History is become the darkness that clouds what lay ahead of us, Instead of shedding light on where we have been.
And as I struggle to light the path for those around me Feeling as though this might just be a war I cannot win...
I realize that even if I am becoming fiction... I still will never be the person that they want in the end....
I was watching a video of The North Omaha Cat Lady. Incredible creator. She was reacting to a comment claiming Anne Frank was a fictional character. Admittedly that inspired Serena’s Poem, and broke my heart. Anne Frank was an incredible young lady. There have been very few biographical books I have enjoyed over the course of time I have been a reader, and her diary was one. The other that stands out was the nine days queen…the story of Lady Jane Grey.
Please if all of the best historical people are to become fiction…then let us still learn from their example. Just because something is fiction does not stop the truth behind it. We can learn from history, from fiction and from each other if we just open our hearts and our minds.
Right now is a scary time to be alive, especially if you live anywhere in the USA. I really try not to be too political on here as I don’t feel like that is what most people come to my blog for. However, having said that…Sometimes it hurts to be self aware in a time of political turmoil and unrest.
Pattimouse 