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Writing Experiment: Tears of the Long-Mothers

This is an experiment of sorts, I was trying to get a better feel for Norse mythology, I guess you could say from the inside.

The skeins of our lives are woven by the fates, but the threads of our being are spun by the long-mothers, our mothers and grandmothers back through eternity. They place their full love and hope into each strand for the joy and happiness of each that shall follow them, and prayerfully the tears of the Long-Mothers flow.

Loki is the trickster and his minions spin threads of their own and the fates are blind to the colors that they add to the skeins of life they spin and back from the skeins the colors seep to stain the brightest. Some to be washed away and others hopelessly set, and in love and lament the tears of the Long-Mothers flow.

All begin golden but in the fullness of time colors and hues find their way into their threads, black bitterness, crimson rage and blue despair tarnish the gold, and many lament the gold that they spin is wound with strife and travail, and to wash away the tints and hues of Loki the tears of the Long-Mothers flow.

Smooth strands of woven gold, dark angry threads, dull hazy threads of doubt, black threads of despair wound together by hands unguided by sight and perhaps they too lament as they blindly mix the threads of lives and joys and despair. And in hope the tears of the Long-Mothers flow.

But the fates are oft guided by loving hands that push aside Loki’s lots, and gold be mixed with gold and friends and loves are bound together by the hands of sightless fate, for gold to gold fuses eternal, and in deepest joy for those that stand in the light of the sun do the tears of the Long-Mothers flow.

© 2009 – 2020, Tim Boothby. All rights reserved.

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Short Story: The Scales of Baldamar

And it came to pass one day that a girl came unto her father and said that she had fallen in love with the helper to the village blacksmith. “Father,” said she, “he is all I wish a man to be, fair of face and soothing voice and a manner as sweet as clover honey.”

© 2009 – 2020, Tim Boothby. All rights reserved.

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Very Short Story: A Mother will Fight…

This is less of a very short story than an snippet of an idea. Too often people make the mistake of assuming that heroes must be great muscle-bound knights, or look like Tarna on Heavy Metal. Heroes can be, and usually are, everyday people placed in extraordinary circumstances. When your get right down to it, the fury of a mother protecting her young is legendary in the animal kingdom, but is all too often overlooked among people. Let any idiot that tries to get between a mother and her child take what they deserve.

Hope you Enjoy!

© 2009 – 2020, Tim Boothby. All rights reserved.

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Short Story: A sharp Rebuke

Endless, mind-numbing miles behind him and no reprieve in sight for the naked man staggering behind the irritably tireless horse. He wasn’t quite sure what woman had placed him in this particular predicament, there were so many after all. It would be his vanity that caused his downfall, he always knew this, but he expected this fall to be quick and painless, the sword to the chest or axe to the neck, not pulled on shaking legs behind these two poorly-armored cretins.

© 2009 – 2020, Tim Boothby. All rights reserved.

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Short Story: Devil’s Dance Floor

“Well swing a little more, little more o’er the merry-o
Swing a little more, a little more next to me
Swing a little more, little more o’er the merry-o
Swing a little more, on the Devil’s Dance Floor”

Devil’s Dance Floor © Flogging Molly

© 2009 – 2020, Tim Boothby. All rights reserved.

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Stories

Short Story: Wisdom of the Father

A son went unto his father early one morn and met his eye manfully and spoke proudly to his sire. “I have met the one woman, father,” said he proudly. “I love her with my whole heart, she is strong and wise and fair, and with your blessing shall I seek to wed.”

© 2009 – 2020, Tim Boothby. All rights reserved.