In the Heart of A Star

Yet another text in response to a writing prompt. You can also find an audio version of this story here. Feel free to leave a comment!


She stepped over broken and rusty things as she made her way through the old and forgotten room. She had followed him here, where he had obviously come to lick the wounds they had inflicted on him. The bloody trace of her terrible, cold creation had led her across the world. Now she had finally found him.

The light from the single window fell upon him where he lay in the rubble, almost possible to mistake for part of the rubble himself. For several heartbeats she just looked at him in silence. Though broken, he was still beautiful, just as she had made him. But the beauty was deceiving – she knew that now. His heart was cold as the distant stars, and he had not been the loving remedy for her immortal solitude that she had wished for him to be.

”I did not make you for this”, she said coldly.

The cogs in his head were rusty and chipped, but tried their best to turn. “You’re my mother?” The voice was cracked and discordant; the steel wires in his throat had slackened and worn down.

”There was a time when I would that you be my timeless companion, my sole comfort, my immortal lover. And yes, it was I who once made you. Thus I am your mother.” She knelt beside him and took his once so flawless face between her hands.

His one remaining eye met hers and she almost drowned in it. When he blinked a single, oily tear rolled down his cheek, leaving a black trail in its wake. ”…lover?”, he rasped. It pained her that a voice once made for singing now derided the art with its very sound.

”Yes, lover”, she whispered. ”I have searched for you, followed in your steps, traveled the world in quest for you. But you are broken now, my love, and you have done terrible things. The time has come for you to rest.”

His porcelain face contorted in fear, but there was no strength left in his body. With strong arms she cradled his upper body close to her. He tried to struggle as he saw her removing the chain with the little key from around her neck, but she held him firmly and began singing to him softly the tunes she had once learned from the sky.

”Hush, hush”, she whispered gently. ”I’m sorry for everything. I was just so lonely, drifting through the endless ages with no one by my side. But I know now that stars were never meant to walk the Earth.”

She put the small silver key into the hole in his chest, just as she had done that night so many years ago when she had first brought him to life. As she turned the key the little door in his chest opened, revealing the still pulsing piece of eternity that shone there. Its light illuminated the cluttered room and painted flowing nebulas upon the slanted ceiling.

”Please, don’t do it”, he said. It was barely more than a whisper. ”I’ll be anyone you want me to, just let me keep it. Please.”

Deep in his bottomless eye she could see the galaxies and suns of yore slowly spinning around the black void of his pupil.

”I wanted to love you”, she whispered and closed her hand around his borrowed heart, the heart of a fallen star. He tried to grab her wrist, but she was stronger and pushed his hand away. She never let go of his gaze, her sorrow meeting his fear for the very last time.

When she removed the pulsing star from his chest, all lights of nebulas and novas instantly left his staring eye and the broken chords of his voice silenced. His limp, lifeless body collapsed in her cradling arms and she was again alone in the world.

In her hand the fallen star still pulsed with all its secret life, shifting in its searing light that was too strong for all but another star to look at. She turned it between her fingers, allowed herself to bask in its familiar light one last time. She had been desperate for a companion, but a heart like this was a heart destined to grow cold and cruel. It had been a dream, but now she must wake up.

With tears streaming down her face she lifted the little lump of stardust to her lips and gently blew it out, extinguished it with her breath. Its light went out, its warmth slowly faded in her hand. The room went dark again, no universes painted on the slanted ceiling and no secret life in the eye of the clockwork lover in her arms. Just her, alone, as it had always been. Stars were never meant to walk the Earth, and still she remained.

And outside the small, broken window the distant and unblinking lights looked down at her and continued singing the ageless, soundless tunes of the cold and uncaring sky. She closed her eyes, clutched the dead stone in her hand and silently sang along.

The Giant

This is another of my older texts. I wrote it back in 2007, and I think it was the first semi-long text I ever wrote in English. It inspired me to continue working on a short story collection on the same theme, and to be honest I’m still working on that project. I still like it, and I hope you will as well. Feel free to comment!


He could not tell from where the light really came; was it from the starry sky, barely visible through the semi transparent veil of clouds? Was it from the wet rocks, ever glittering by the force of the recently fallen rain? Or was it, by some ancient magic, the silvery autumn branches high above, with their last stubbornly clinging silver leafs, that cast off the fairy illumination? He could not tell, and he guessed that it was just as good he didn’t, as the question, unimportant as it might be, helped him greatly by keeping his thoughts off more important and frightening matters.

He struggled to stay in line; it was hard as the others, his captors, were so much smaller than he ever was, and saw a grave trespassing in every small inch he happened to move outside the given route. The dark forest was full of eyes watching, but it was the wrong kind of eyes; nowhere did he ever glimpse the lilac radiant glimmer in the night that he so wished to see, and thus he understood that he should harbor no hopes of rescue from these fierce monsters that kept him stumbling down the narrow trail in the middle of this godforsaken night.

He understood, as he had done from the beginning, that the puny magic of his people, wonderful though it was, could put up no threat to these villains. He had beheld his family getting brought down on the cold forest floor with blows of ugly dark weapons and spells of a kind he never saw before, when they refused to give him up without a fight. He had no idea of their fate now – if they were still alive and if the village had survived the fire that he had seen licking at it when he was carried away, half conscious, into the unknown darkness.

He had been very much beautiful to them, his people, in the same way that they were beautiful to him. He could vaguely remember a time in his life, distant from now in the past, when he had not been so much bigger than them as he was now. His memory did not, however, cover any time at all when he had been just as small as them.

But he was well aware that memory could be a tricky thing (he even had, laughably enough, some silly imaginary memories from long ago when the world around him had not been only trees and trees), so he understood clearly that he must have forgotten about the time when he, also, had been small and feline. Just like he had forgotten totally about the incident which his people had been so reluctant to tell him about until this very night; the incident (or accident, for that matter) that had in some magical way caused him to start growing in size to such a degree that he was now some kind of giant of the woods.

He wondered now whether he would grow even more, maybe to the tallness of the trees, so that he in time would be able to look down from the drifting clouds and see all the forest of the wide world. He hoped not, because then he might accidentally happen to step on some animal or friend of his, and that wouldn’t be very nice, would it now? Anyway, he thought, his people had accepted, loved and adored him (even though they had had to fly up to the first branches of the leaf carrying trees to look him in the eye) and they had thought him beautiful.

These misshaped creatures, on the other hand, did not love him and to them he was most certainly not beautiful. This they let him know through kicks and blows whenever they got the chance, and through yelling at him in a language that was not of the forest and which he did not understand. Every now and then, though, they assured him of their standpoint towards him by throwing into their hysterical shouting some occasional word in his own language, the language of his people, with the general meaning of “ugly” or “giant”. So if he in the past had been a creature of wonder and beauty, that was no longer the case. In this twilight world which he had now been robbed into, he was no more than a freak show, and to his captors he was no more than an ugly giant.

They kept their pace for all of the night, never stopping to let him catch his breath or offering him to drink from their bottles. When they stopped to rest every morning, just before the hour when the horizon would turn red had they been able to see it through the trees, he was tied to the ground by the use of some evil magic, and forced into an uneasy sleep by some strong liquid they made him drink against his will. He never woke before the twilight hour, and thus his world became one of night. He did not see the sun for many days.

In his restless sleep, forced upon him by the witchcraft of these fiends, he again and again relived the night when he had been snatched from his peaceful life among his people. The colors of the dream were always distorted, as is the case when you sleep with a heavy fever upon you, and the voices of everyone, friend and monster, were warped and twisted and he was always afraid during those dreams.

He again and again experienced the hour just before twilight, the night of the autumn feast in the village. He again and again looked out through the little window in the small cottage they had built for him (which was just big enough for him but already starting to feel a bit narrow as he continued to grow with the changing of each season), to see his pretty little family and his friends hurrying this way and that, trying to get the banquet ready before sundown when the festivity would begin. They called to him and smiled, and asked him to put the decorations on the taller branches which they themselves could not reach easily. He smiled back at them and climbed out of his little house, ready to assist. His little sister was on his shoulder now, and whispering told him a secret he had now forgotten; something about the way the birds fly when the winter is nearing, and why they do that. He walked up to one of the trees surrounding their glade village, about to braid into its lowest branches a garland of tiny, glittering sparks made by his cousin.

Now time slowed down and the fever dream made him relive these last moments of sense in some kind of slow moving pace, at the same time as reality shifted colors and every sound was stretched, as if to mimic some infernal singing of the fish in the brook.

From every direction now, surrounding the glade, crawled dark shapes out of the descending twilight. The creatures had teeth just like the predatory, four legged animals of the woods that his people so shunned and feared, and dark red, cunning eyes.

They carried iron rods, sharpened and darkened by night, and chanted in low voices an evil rhyme the words of which he had never heard before. His people started in horror at this sudden attack, and gathered around him in the middle of the glade, fearfully gazing in each direction and singing protective spell songs to ward off the approaching demons (if this was to protect him or seek shelter in his presence, he could not know).

But the fiends had stronger magic, even though they were no larger in size than the forest people, and continued to approach until they had closed in and surrounded the circle.
One of them started to speak to the forest people in his strange language, and the chanting grew louder. This part was always cloudy in the dream, and he had a hard time remembering what happened afterwards. Through a dreamy haze he could see his people trying to fight back the intruders, using sticks and magic. He felt himself starting to fall, as if some evil spell of sleep had been cast upon him, and as he lay there on the ground he could do nothing but hope that he had not fallen on some of his friends. He could not move anymore, and his vision grew blurrier every split second.
The last thing he saw though the descending fog was fire; fire everywhere. And his brothers and sisters, all his people, fighting the demons and failing. He could not help them, he could not protect them. And so utter darkness engulfed him, and he knew nothing.

He could not remember awaking from that darkness. The only thing he could recall was that suddenly he was striding along this row of foes, the dark forest the only thing around and no familiar stone or landmark anywhere. Thus he had no idea how long had passed since this terrible incident that was maybe the end of his village, and fierce beating was the only answer he got, did he dare to ask his captors.
Every night when he awoke from his spellbound sleep he cried bitterly. At first he had refused to stand up and obey when they beckoned him to rise each night. This had resulted in a lot of pain, both from their weapons and from their spells. They had shouted at him and beat him until he was covered in blood and he could take it no more. Then he must struggle on through the night with aching limbs and bleeding scars all over, until next morning when he was finally allowed to lie down again. When again he woke, some magic had always caused his wounds to heal – uselessly, since his refusal to cooperate at once made them bear down on him again as soon as he started to strain.

After a while, though, he grew numb.He no longer fought them and no longer cared. His soul he hid deep within his weary body, and he no longer thought of anything but where he put his feet. They still beat him all the time (even more and even harder when they, to their frustration, noticed his lack of concern), but he didn’t notice it much. He felt the pain in his body, but his soul was out of reach.

Many, many nights after this they wandered. The landscape grew sparse of vegetation and finally no moss or twigs longer covered the ground. They passed over a fence made out of silver thread, and after walking some distance everything was changed. The rocks that he knew to always be round and uneven now spread out before him in a strange flat kind of way; the ground was covered with them, and they were no longer round or raw but square and very much flat under his sore feet. Wherever he looked were strange, heaven high buildings with sharp corners made out of both wood and stone, and they had glittering squares of light fastened to their every side.
He was totally unprepared of this powerful vision of strange wonders, and his wall of protection crumbled to nothing; he let out a gasp of awe, and stood as bewitched gazing up towards the towers of light that stretched endlessly before him.

The demons that held him captive glared at him and dragged him down on the ground so that he was at their level. Evil eyes were fixed at him from all directions, and then they spoke. He was amazed beyond words as they did so, for suddenly and without any further explanation, he understood them!

“Don’t try to find your way back over the silvery fence”, they growled hatefully. “You will never find it again from this side of the world. And even if you did you would not be able to find the trail we walked. You are changed now. Changed back, from what you should never have been in the first place.”

And with those last words they turned their backs on him and started back the way that they had come. He rose to his feet to hurry after them before his road was closed forever, but lots of new noises surrounded him and he was no longer sure of what it was that he had to return to so much. He stood a second in confusion, and when he again came to his senses, they were gone without a trace. It was as if they were never there in the first place, and surely they did not fit into this gleaming world of fast passing, bright colored vehicles and burning sunset towers of the whitest marble. After a while he was not even sure that they had really been there.

Then he saw the creatures of this magical city of light, and he almost fainted from the realization; they were like him! He was not taller than most of them, and they were of all kinds. Some where smooth and vigorous, while others had skin like crumbled fruit in the autumn and walked leaning on sticks or other strange apparatuses. No one looked twice upon him.

He was totally at loss with this situation. His memory of where he had come from was slipping from his grasp even now, and he was surprised that he understood everything these creatures, so alike him it was almost frightening, said to each other. He looked around for somewhere to go, somewhere to hide – and his gaze fell upon a lightning square, a window, where he suddenly laid eyes upon the most wondrous and beautiful sight he had ever beheld in his whole life. More beautiful was it than the golden leafs of autumn, or the gentle crystals in the air at winter. More wonderful a sight than the wild and musical swirling of the brook at spring, or the flight of the most daring of blue birds in the time of summer was it. Much more than all of that.

It was a girl. She was slowly and carefully combing out her golden hair, sitting at the window but not looking out. Her curls gleamed beautifully in the last light of the dying sun, and she was dressed for the night in the whitest silk, decorated only at the edges with purple lace ribbons. Her skin was white and smooth, and he in some strange way knew that she was very much like him. Her window was far above him, and even then he could behold all this.

After that he knew nothing before he stood in front of her door, in an echoing stairwell, reading the small letters printed at a pretty, decorated sign in the level of his eyes (and yes, he really could read them). She had such a wonderful name!
He carefully pushed the white little button next to the door, and a melodious ringing sprang forth inside the closed door. Footsteps fell on some soft surface inside, and soon she stood there, right in front of him, and looked into his eyes. She truly was beautiful, more beautiful than he had thought when he stood in the darkening street gazing up at her.
He thought for a second of how her eyes had something slightly familiar about them; something in their color reminded him of birds and magic. They twinkled like radiantly lilac little stars, and for a moment he was utterly confused and taken aback.

She smiled in a way that somehow indicated recognition, and then a name came to him. His name. And it was not a fairy name or a giant name, but a human name. The name of one of these creatures that were his size. His kind. He spoke his newfound and newly re-remembered name out loud, and she smiled again and thought that it was the most wonderful name.

He still stands in front of that door now and then, but now he has the key and does not have to press the doorbell, and the decorative sight in level with his eyes contains now not only her beautiful name, but his as well.
He is happy together with the girl with the radiant eyes, who knows not more than him about the forest and small villages with tiny people, or dark demons from the night.

But sometimes, at the end of summer when twilight comes earlier with each passing day and the shadows grow longer, he finds himself waking screaming and crying from a restless, sweat drenched dream where small, pretty figures stand around him in a darkening glade, speaking words of strangeness to menacing creatures with dark red eyes,
who answer them in a language that he can now understand clearly.

He always stays in the dream just long enough to hear one of the demons speak to the pretty people: “We are here on behalf of the Agency of Switch-cases. Hand us the changeling! He is not of yours; he is to be taken back to where he came from! Give in freely or we shall take him by force, with no concern of the consequences!”
And as the devilish voice of the imp-creature dies away, leaving not complete silence but the din of battle and death in its wake, the dream vision fades away and he feels himself falling down, down into a deep foggy darkness.

It is after such autumn dreams of another world that he wakes crying and twisting in his bed, without knowing where he is or why, half expecting the agony of sharpened iron rods brought down on him any second. But then her hand is on him, reassuring him and loving him, and he is again who he is; a human creature just like her, completely safe in her embrace from all the horrors of the dark.

They are very happy together, and soon she is to tell him that they are expecting a little one of their own into the world, and he will be so filled with joy. And as time goes by, as it inevitable does, memory of past lives grow bleacher and bleacher, until nothing remains but now and then a dream about a clear autumn evening ending in tragedy. Just a dream.

But once a year, on the day that he eventually guessed to be the day of his birth or the day of some other important event in his life, he finds on the hallway carpet, infallibly, a card decorated with golden leafs and strangely twinkling sparks, covered with words written in a language he can no longer understand.

But he nevertheless keeps them close at heart and stores them carefully in a beautifully decorated wooden box that he has made himself, and takes them out every now and then to look at them and try to remember.
And even though he forever fails to do that, he is very, very happy.

The City

This very short story was written in response to a writing prompt that said “Begin and end your story with this sentence: ‘And yet, the city remained.'” I wanted to make something else of it than the apocalyptic theme that immediately came to mind, and decided to write it more like a fairy tale. Feel free to tell me what you think!


And yet, the city remained.

I sighed, rolling my eyes as I did so. This was getting troublesome. I drew in a deep breath and let it out in a gust of wind so strong as to make birds fall out of the sky – and they did. The spires and towers, however, swayed back and forth but seemed to be constructed to hold through storms. And the city remained.

I resolved to try the trusted old rock throwing method. I scooped up some promising boulders and hauled them at the congregated buildings. Windows shattered, walls broke down, but by and large nothing much was affected. And the city remained.

Growing increasingly frustrated by the minute I lowered my hand into the ocean and sent a gigantic tidal wave crashing into this man built atrocity. Streets were flooded, people were carried away. But more remained, and these quickly repaired what had been broken. And the city remained.

There was only one thing left to be done. I set fire to it. Searing flames were sent dancing through the streets, eating away at the buildings and the people inhabiting them. Screams of terror and pain drifted through the air and I smiled contentedly. Finally there would be peace. I didn’t even mind the fact that I burned myself slightly in the process, this was for the greater good.

I was just about to roll over and bask in my success, when the screams changed into something else. Song; the people of the city were singing. I turned my eyes back to the burning inferno, just to realize that it was not burning anymore. The flames had been put out, and the songs were those of victory. I stared. Nothing I had thrown at it had made the city go away. I had ravaged it with storms. I had flooded it. I had crushed it and I had burned it. And still it stood.

Slowly did it dawn on me that nothing in my power would make it go away. The buildings and the people in them were just too stubborn. I was spent, tired and burnt. I had to rest, and was there really no way for me to get rid of the uncomfortable buildings that littered my side, then so be it. The ground rumbled and shook as I, the huge mountain, adjusted myself to enter the sleep of stones. And yet, the city remained.

2015-10-15

Queen Mother

Golden walls in this palace, perpetual twilight atmosphere. Countless hexagonal windows overlooking the grand hall, overlooking the Queen’s court. Patrolling this place are the young maidens, armed with black swords, dressed to kill in the name of their mistress. They have yet to see the introduction of the male knights, but rumors abound.

In the great throne room sits the Queen Mother, goddess and matron of all. She knows them all by name, because they share one and are one. She expects them to serve, just as they expect her to ensure their survival. It is not protection they need; in the way of the sword they all by far exceed her. But she carries a divine endowment that none of them share. The spell of life’s creation.

Audience in the throne hall. The walls shiny with hard earned glory, the throne a monument to all the courtiers have ever known and worshiped. Mistress of all, queen and mother. The goddess speaks to them, beckons them closer. Black swords sheeted, heads bowed in silent reverence.

They all see the signs, and know a brooding yet inexplicable sensation of impending doom. The voice in their heads. The goddess is expecting, what joy. But there is foreboding in her ageless eyes, she knows the truth as well.

Sun in their faces as they move out, wind under their crystalline wings. Is the air colder now? Death and violence to all they encounter. Where they just recently dug for gold in the name of their Queen, they are now murdering and abducting in the name of her coming children. Word spreads like wildfire. Their prey, the commoners, try to hide, try to run. But they are the royal guard, the shield maidens of the Golden Palace. Nobody escapes their fury. And in their wrath, somewhere deep inside, they harbor a vain hope that somehow these horrible deeds will keep their mistress from dying.

Returning to the Palace, this castle they themselves helped build in their youth, the army carries with it not gold but living and breathing game. Merciless slaughter next, pouring blood in the sacred halls. No remorse in their hearts, only the Queen’s voice in their minds singing the song of righteous deeds. This will surely save her.

The screams have long since died out, no echoes between the mute castle walls. Only the Queen herself voicing her woe as she walks from room to room, preparing and reviewing each and every recess before the birth of her children. Her guards waiting silently, anxiously, for the point of no return. They cannot know what it means; they have never been through this part of the cycle. But they can feel it in their hearts, the truth of generations come before, the truth of the beginning of the end.

Queen, goddess, mistress, mother. Their sacred divinity is dying. Attending her night and day the honor guard stand helpless before the cold reality. Come autumn, the subject of their devotion will be no more.

Hate in their hearts for the new brood, princes and princesses young enough to be eligible of no odium. Nevertheless sorrow did not enter the palace until in company with them. Feasting day and night upon the carcasses brought from out this secluded haven they grow stronger and stronger. And the thing most vexing to the knightesses, apart from the explicit order not to harm the young ones, is the unignorable fact of the heirs’ beauty. Never, apart from in the presence of their matron, have they seen creatures so fair as these. Their golden hair lush with life, their dark eyes filled with death.

Time and summer passes. One little princess, randomly chosen from the lot, wanders alone in her mother’s castle. Guards everywhere, jealous, spiteful glances in the eyes of many. But the princess has grown. She is not a child anymore. She knows her mother will not outlive the sun, but who will take her place?

On the balcony, feeling the wind in her golden hair, almost blowing her away. Soldiers here, too, but no men. Why is that? Only her brothers, but they are acting strangely. Always striving to leave the palace. Not old enough yet, though. Her sisters just like her, longing for safety. But are they not safe in the palace? Something telling her it is not so. A red leaf blowing past…

Another sunrise, another dawn closer to the fall. One little prince has taken off. Just as well, says the Captain. Only misfortune in their wake. More will go soon. The little princess stands on the balcony, watching him leave. Maybe he will find what he is looking for. Will she?

Colder days, longer nights. The Queen has not much time left, they all know it. The Captain chases the remaining princes away. Some of the young princesses leave, too. One little princess goes to see her mother, but is not let in. Filth, she is, death for the Mother. The little princess runs away, crying.

Out of the palace, over the fields. The Captain said she would be killed did she remain. No wish to die, has she. Safety gone, no home and no Mother. Only the black sword that is her inheritance. An old tree gives her shelter for the rain and the darkness. Wild animals in the night, and angry spirits who wish her harm for what has been done in her mother’s name. The little princess does not remember eating all that flesh.

Dawn upon the dew coated world. Or is it maybe melted frost? A voice on the wind, singing her name. Does she really have a name? Now she does. A young man, not much older than her, climbing onto her branch. Beautiful eyes, fair hair. She sings, too. Gives him a name. A prince from a faraway land he is, and in accordance with all princes’ vows of love he bears no sword on his golden armor. Still he knows her pain. The song goes on and on; the day and summer ends.

All the way back, hastily. Time passes in a rush in the eye of bliss, almost no leaves remaining. Joy and excitement, Mother will surely want to know. The prince, the prince, has gone away. The little princess wonders where. But somehow it does not matter. In some way she feels complete now. A destiny fulfilled.

The Golden Palace ahead, but a darkness brooding. Was it this way when she left? Dark windows, dark clouds. No guards at the gate. Anxiety rising inside her.
She enters. The gold is gone, the first thing she notices. The second, the guards not on their posts. Noises. Screaming. Crying. Further inside, fear getting a grip. Now she sees it. Madness, madness. The guards have gone mad. Crying, screaming, tearing down the walls. Hatred as they look at her, hatred that she is the one responsible.

Confusion, fear. She reaches the throne room. Mother? But woe, Mother does not answer. Lying on her throne, in the golden room. Countless windows overlooking. The little princes approaches her Queen, goddess, mistress, mother. Time stops. The Queen’s eyes are empty, her body devoid of all divine spark. Tears for the princess, the mother is dead.

The guards reach the throne room, start tearing down the walls. Gold falling everywhere. They reach the throne, tearing it down as well. Princess crying, screaming, pulling, fighting. No avail. They refuse to see her, hear her. The roof is coming down. Flight.

Hearing the mad screams of the guards dying in the Palace, a little princess flies across the fields. Sun is setting on this first day of fall. Where to hide? Where to break? The sound of crumbling gold far behind her. The prince, where is he? Calling, singing, searching.

She finds him on the ground, under the tree where they first sang. Cold, dead, already partly eaten by smaller creatures. Shock, tears. The breaking has begun. Did he lie here all the time, fallen from the branch as she slept? Dead all the time after their coming together in the canopy? Could she have saved him? Selfish, selfish princess. No mother, no lover. Only one princess with a terrible, joyful secret. Nightfall.

A tree becomes her shelter as the first heavy flakes of white start to fall from the heavens. Winter, the season of death and hiding for creatures like her. Tired she is, tired of it all. Once loved, once hated. Now, no one remains to grant her those feelings. Death all around. Only sleep remains.

One little princess, randomly chosen from a brood of many, sleeps silently inside a hollow tree as the world turns white and quiet. She is not found by hostile beasts, but her dreams are troubled. In time, though, they give way for other dreams as the smaller lives inside her grow and take hold. The new dreams are of spring, of awakening to a world newly born. Of rippling creeks and sprouting seeds, of a sun returning at last to it’s rightful realm.

And on that first day of spring awakening, she dreams, a little wasp princess, hair golden and eyes black, will crawl out of her tree. She will fly high in the warming sunshine, heavy with the seeds of new beginnings given her by a dead prince, looking for a place suitable for the building of her own Golden Hive Palace.
And there, finally, she will find peace and safety – Queen, goddess, mistress, mother.