“Ten points if you can touch the door.” “You think I’m stupid? No way I’m getting that close.” “Chicken.” “Well, you touch it if you’re so brave.” “No way. She prefers boys. She’d smell me for sure if I got that close.” “Yeah, right.” “It’s true! Everyone says so. She’ll take a girl if she’s hungry enough but it’s the boys she really wants. More meat on their bones, I guess.” “You’re lying. You’re just too scared.” “Whatever; believe what you want. I ain’t touching that door.” “Well, neither am I.” The children both shifted position, as much to mask their mounting nerves as to ease the pins and needles snaking up their legs. Half an hour is a long time for a pair of eight-year-olds to have been crouching in the undergrowth, after all, but such is the power of the rumour mill when its spoils reach the malleable minds of young boys and girls with hot summer days to fill. The object of their fascination? A single house on the outskirts of town, built to shun the bustle of the streets beyond and cloak itself in the dappled shade of towering oak trees. More specifically, they hoped (and feared) that they would catch a glimpse of its supposed inhabitant; the old hag said to snatch wayward children and make a meal of the naughtiest amongst them. Some towns have the Bogeyman; others the Chupacabra; some have been touched by enough real-world tragedy to not have need of fairy tales. This town, however, has the wicked witch in her run-down cabin in the woods. There are those who say she is wholly fictional, nothing but the product of a sleepy village mentality in a place with little else to occupy the starring role in its campfire tales; others who claim to have seen her as she pulled back the curtain to peek out at the world, throwing open the door to give chase to any curious children who dared to venture close enough, her hair frazzled and her shrieks piercing; others still who shrug off the rumours as malicious slander, certain they have served this so-called witch in the local shop when she wandered in to town to buy bread, milk and raspberry bonbons; just a regular old woman who prefers a slower pace of life. “Find some more stones,” said the boy. “Bigger ones this time. We gotta make sure she hears us.” The girl turned away from the house and began gathering the stones she could find without leaving easy eye-shot of her brother. Once her puppy-fat arms were full, she resumed her position and shared out the plunder. “Okay,” said the boy, “remember to aim for the window. It’ll be louder, and if she comes to check out the noise we’ll get a good look at her.” “I still don’t think this is such a good idea.” “Come on, just imagine how much everyone at school will freak if we can say we saw her with our own eyes.” “That’s if they even believe us.” “Don’t be such a spoil sport. We can’t back out now, chicken.” The girl pulled her arm back and launched a stone in an arc that ended with a smack against the window, splinters of glass raining to the ground and a spider’s web of cracks fanning out from the centre towards the worm-eaten frame. “Stop calling me that,” she said, face flushed blood-red. “Jeez, I didn’t mean you to hit it that hard.” “You shouldn’t have made me angry.” “You’re angry? How do you think the witch is gonna feel when she sees that?” There was a pause. “Maybe we should get out of here,” said the girl, dragging her hands down her dress to wipe away the film of mud and sweat that ran along the pathways of her palms. “… Well, Dad will be wondering where we are by now.” “Exactly. We’re not giving up…” “Yeah, we just don’t wanna get in trouble. I mean, we can’t come back tomorrow if we’re grounded.” “Mm-hm.” “Let’s go.” The children scrambled to their feet, discarded stones tumbling down the banking towards the house. Both stole hurried glances at the broken window as they hurried home, each careful not to let the other see the furrows that wrinkled their brow. “Are we really gonna come back tomorrow?” asked the girl. “I dunno. I think I might be bored of the house now.” “Yeah, me too. Let’s do something else tomorrow.” The whistle of the breeze through the trees at their back swallowed up the sound of their sighs, thick with candy-sweet relief. *** Nestled amongst the wool of a cushion torn open in curiosity, a mouse prepares to welcome her first litter. The sound of fragmented glass settling upon the floor like scattered stardust worried her. After all, she chose this place for its stillness, all previous semblance of life having fled the confines of these four walls long ago. Shredded newspaper clippings foraged from the cabin made ideal insulation for her new home; her babies soon to be cradled by crisp slivers adorned with whispers of a story long forgotten in a town left many miles and many years ago: ‘FIRE’… ‘CHILDREN’… ‘DEATH’… ‘MOTHER’… ‘HEARTBREAK’. She luxuriates in this fragile sanctuary, her heartbeat slowing as peace resettles like a downy blanket once more; a near silence broken only by the creak of old rope and the brush of tiptoes against cold, hard floor. About Callum McLaughlinCallum McLaughlin is a passionate bookworm, crazy-cat-person in training, and freelance writer based in Scotland. If he isn’t writing his own works of fiction and poetry, he will most likely be found reading someone else’s.
Blog: https://callummclaughlin.wordpress.com/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/Callum_M1
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i was always told i was destined for greatness so i am here to stand before you now you thought i was slain but the ravens, swans, and horses sewed me together with the hands of both the sun and moon every tree, every flower, every ocean knows my name and my purpose; i am a warrior of love and light the queen of the dreamers who will never be vanquished especially not by the hands of any nightmare perhaps your monsters should've done their homework i will etch you so far deep into the underworld that you will not be found by the caretaker of the deepest pit of hell whose agony will surrender you to the eternity of time. About Linda M. CrateLinda M. Crate's works have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines both online and in print. She is a two-time pushcart nominee and the author of the Magic Series. She has four published chapbooks the latest of which is My Wings Were Made To Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017).
You can find her on: https://twitter.com/thysilverdoe https://www.instagram.com/authorlindamcrate/ https://www.facebook.com/Linda-M-Crate-129813357119547/ horse, swan, raven, i have felt these all were my spirit so i know i am a valkyrie dreamer and giver of hope, light, and magic i will forever shine; no man will ever take away my luster i mistook you for a hero but you were a villain that will be lost in the last battle no one will mourn your passing even the father of lies will be happy to see his son is no longer breathing when your heart stops beating you will look into my eyes begging for mercy i will only give you the coldness you gave when you broke my heart forcing me to rise upon the wings of phoenixes as i reconstructed from the ashes. About Linda M. CrateLinda M. Crate's works have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines both online and in print. She is a two-time pushcart nominee and the author of the Magic Series. She has four published chapbooks the latest of which is My Wings Were Made To Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017).
You can find her on: https://twitter.com/thysilverdoe https://www.instagram.com/authorlindamcrate/ https://www.facebook.com/Linda-M-Crate-129813357119547/ i am a raven they chose me my humanity is different than your own magic and light are woven in my bones in this battle you may survive, but only until it is over; then your greed will be the noose that snares you to the darkest underworld you will not be kissed by the lips of freya or odin even loki will scorn your presence the goddess of the underworld won't look your way but in contempt and disgust that ever such a woeful creature was born inhabiting the realm of earth from which he sorely didn't deserve. About Linda M. CrateLinda M. Crate's works have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines both online and in print. She is a two-time pushcart nominee and the author of the Magic Series. She has four published chapbooks the latest of which is My Wings Were Made To Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017).
You can find her on: https://twitter.com/thysilverdoe https://www.instagram.com/authorlindamcrate/ https://www.facebook.com/Linda-M-Crate-129813357119547/ i choose for you to live, but a life of fear in the shadows and every corner of misery you've etched for others every nightmare will consume you until you are no more; and no one will hear your cries for help or mercy-- you can have meals with the other monsters gnawing on bones and imitations of light, but you will never find anything that heals you; i promise that vengeance will be taken for me by the anger of the moon and stars i am the daughter of the moon with claws and wings they call me valkyrie life and death are held in my palms i give you life but a cursed one for everything you broke in me that you promised that you wouldn't-- you may have broken my rose tinted glasses, but you didn't choose me in this battle between nightmares and dreams the light shall be the one that strangles life from your bones and renders you into the hand of the underworld. About Linda M. CrateLinda M. Crate's works have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines both online and in print. She is a two-time pushcart nominee and the author of the Magic Series. She has four published chapbooks the latest of which is My Wings Were Made To Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017).
You can find her on: https://twitter.com/thysilverdoe https://www.instagram.com/authorlindamcrate/ https://www.facebook.com/Linda-M-Crate-129813357119547/ Angels of Death, Angels of Valhalla.Valkyries are more-or-less the Norse version of angels of death, except significantly more badass in their job description, in their physical aspect, and in what they represent. According to the Encyclopedia Britannica, they are the maidens of Odin who walk along the battlefields of men and choose from the slain those who are worthy to enter into Valhalla.
It is interesting to me that Odin does not do the choosing himself, but rather he entrusts this job – a job that means the difference between eternal joy and misery for the dying – to women. Unlike the angel of death from Christian mythology who seems to follow the directions of a higher being, the Valkyries are allowed to do as they want, killing and denying rewards to those they dislike while protecting and rewarding those they do. And so these maidens decide the eternal fates of men. Valkyries appear in mythology both as purely supernatural beings and also at times as some demigods, and so I frequently imagine something that looks less like an angle more akin to a Viking shield maiden, specifically Lagertha from the History Channel TV series Vikings. She is a fierce fighter, a loving mother, and one of the most fantastic female warriors ever seen on television. She protects those she loves like a mother bear, she is unfazed by adversity of any kind – whether it be the near-starvation of their city or the betrayal of her trusted friend – and rains havoc down on those who wrong her and hers. If I ever had a Guardian angel looking over my shoulder, I would want it to be her. Valkyries – due to their half or full supernatural powers and their serving of Odin – represent both the power of a god and of women. Unlike in Christian mythology which tends to gender both God and the angels as male and gives the powers of life and death to their god, in Norse mythology Odin gives the power of deciding who dies and who lives to his women warriors, as if he knows they have better instincts about who is worthy of Valhalla. This seems to me to be an empowering image, and reminds me of the Amazonian warriors, who need no men to organize and order them around. Valkyries are the embodiment of life and death in the beauty of the female form without any allegiance either to men or any god. They are the ultimate warriors, and they will take you to Valhalla. If you've been looking at our website today you might have noticed that we no longer have an essay editor. Shari Marshall had to step down this week, we are all very sad to see her go. Please be sure to follow her writing as she continues it elsewhere. She blogs and is also on twitter.
We here at Cauldron Anthology want to thank Shari for all that's she's done for our magazine. She was invaluable as a team member. Thank you! Birth Is A War StoryBirth is a war story. There are few things more powerful than birth. In the myths Izanami gave birth to nine children, and she created even more gods and goddesses. I was in my early teens the first time I saw a child born into this world. I've seen this cataclysmic event nine times now. I believe that birth isn't just about the creation of children. I believe you are giving birth when you bring anything creative into the world. It is a war to be female. It is a war to give life. Weave you stories and send them to us. We can't wait to read, or listen or see your work.
She Who InvitesIzanami—one of the first divine beings summoned in Japanese myth—sways hips and spear to create an island, speaks first during her wedding ceremony, propriety be damned, births devils and fiery children. Breaking from tradition, reacting in both self-preservation and indomitable persistence with no recompense for the men who continually push her to the underworld, to the cave in which she is buried. Housing a dichotomy of life and death in her palm, Izanami, “she who invites,” peels herself free, resisting at every turn the story laid out for her. These peels exist in women—the will survive in terrifying times, the knowledge of creation and destruction, the resistance of stories we’re fed time and again; we all know some facsimile of these truths. Never be fooled into thinking the narrative written by yourself is not an act of revolution. Izanami wills herself into any place she wishes, fighting to be heard by all. Izanami's invitation is for you. We know this fight. We know it well.
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