News on Goddess

Learning so much as I gain progress through my Historic Fiction: So much in fact, I am really dreading the second draft, as I will have to alter many entries and facts that I only knew very little about when I first went into this project. It was expected however, and I already have an alternative path prepared for my characters that which runs in parallel with the original outline. Working with such a vast world has proven quite the task when combining fantasy with reality. Especially when you are juggling so much information around—both fact and fiction—trying to hit all of the vital bullet-points of history, while at the same time trying to successfully tell a compelling story about characters that never existed. The Witchcraze period at its worst was a time of reform, war, and economical struggle, and there were a lot of factors that played into these developments, which must be explained. Not to mention that most of what we know about ancient cultures as such comes to us from surviving texts that were written by the winners: i.e- The Christian scholars who cataloged these activities before proselytizing them all. So too is it that most of what modern-day NeoPagans practice is naught but a combination of surviving traditions, originating from many different cultures that span all across the globe. We owe most of that knowledge to the Wiccan movement, which was first brought into public light by the venerable Gerald Gardner in the early 50's, who was too himself a radical idealist, but an honorable soul nevertheless, for being so brave to take his views and beliefs as far as he had during a still dangerous time to do so. Therefore, targeting the specifics in this topic has been quite the challenge for me, especially since this is my first literature venture in years, as so it is the very first historic fiction I have ever written in my life. One day I may write a full bio on this piece, detailing the trials and tribulations I was forced to undergo in the process, because It really is quite an epic adventure recreating this world. But until then, I need to just get it done and over with, and move on to the next great-pain-in-the-ass assignment. God, I love this stuff.

Preview to The Eyes of Awen

Heres a look at my new short story, Dreams: The Eyes of Awen. Ebook now available on Kindle.

The loss of her beloved husband has left her in a state of despair, spawning a hatred that would raze an entire kingdom of Men. Ceridwen—a magician of shapes, resurrection, and magical potions—condemns the lands of her king, blaming him for the death of her valiant consort. Her curses turn on her threefold, as her last seed is born of an awful deformity, her daughter of light and beauty is rendered blind of sight, and a plague is fallen upon her house at the call of a mischievous beast long forgotten from time. She looks to an ancient power to answer for her sins. However, her quest to summon forth a prophetic potion called The Awen, only paves yet a darker road for her kin to follow: a road blanketed with tinder that would give rise to the flames of deceit.

(Excerpt)

The screams that came of Mother Ceridwen during her contractions were nothing to match her cries of woe when Gwion Bach had presented to her the abomination she had birthed. The child she was to name Morfran was born of skin as black as coal, of limbs as twisted as the roots of a great oak, and of a face so ghastly it scarred the minds of eyes with sight. Creirwy would never forget the first she saw of him: sharp teeth protruded from his swollen lips; flesh layered with scales like that of a serpent; and eyes as white as death. He lived only to wheeze a single muffled shriek, and then he was no more. Mother held the lifeless child in her arms, the last of her lover’s seed, and wailed with dolor.

Creirwy ran from her home, and fled to the trees, the glow of her scintillating skin lighting her way. Fraught terror in her eyes, she ran until she could go no further. She collapsed into a pile of crisp, dry, autumn leaves, and cried.

She strained her neck to peer into the night’s sky. “Why?” She asked, expecting nothing in return, the glory of the celestial bodies mocking her sorrow.

“She wished for death, and so her prayer is answered.” A strange whispery voice answered.

Startled, Creirwy gasped. “Who said that? Who’s there?”  

     A hooting came from a lone naked branch above. She looked and found a snowy white owl staring down at her with fiery eyes. “Who?” The voice laughed. “Who, indeed.”

     The owl spoke to her without moving her beak, the words coming to her ears alone; menacing words. “Your mother has killed your brother. Her hate, her woe: it has poisoned her womb.”

     The girl sat up, pondering her words. “Can he be saved?”

     “No…” the voice answered. “She must learn to love again, or death will forever follow her.”

     Thinking of the boy and his repulsive disfigurement, the girl gave the owl a disgusted grin and said, “He was so horrible… so, hideous.”

     “If you could only had seen him as he truly was,” the owl insisted. “You would find that it is not he that is so hideous. Your vanity blinds you, dear Creirwy. If you could look upon him with your heart… ahhh!” The voice stopped short, intrigued.

Spreading her dabbled wings she glided down toward the girl. Creirwy moved clear of her path as the owl swooped by and flew around her. Circling round and round, sending up loose leaves in her wake she said, “There is perhaps another way your brother would breathe the breath of life once more.”

“How?” she asked.

“Sacrifice.”

The word came with a chill that ran down her spine like prickling needles. The brushes that surrounded her stirred, and an ominous cold wind came against her luminous skin. Still she pressed, piqued with curiosity, “What sort of sacrifice?”

A cackling echoed from the trees as the bird answered, “Your eyes…”