by Mary Tidbury – with gratitude to the Mabinogion
For long ages past the bards have sung and recited the story of Blodeuwedd, little Flowerface. What a poor job they have made of it – here is the real version.
by Carolyn Lee Boyd
I was reborn on the mountain whose seasons I had loved for the fifty years of life I had lived so long ago. I knelt on its breast and breathed in the black, musky, fertile soil, tasted its bitter groundwater and sweet stream nectar, rubbed its skin into mine. Then, when I was ready, I washed it off my body, but not my soul, and walked into the village square whose sights and sounds I still remembered from 500 years before.
During my centuries as a spirit I had chosen to stay near where I had lived, still surrounded by those I had loved. The people had since turned to dust, but I could see their features in the faces of their great-great-grandchildren’s great-great-grandchildren. I sat with them, unseen, under the same trees, turned their eyes with my thoughts to the same herbs I had given their ancestors so many years ago to make them well, witnessed the wars and movements that came and went in the outside world and saw how they touched the village, and mourned and rejoiced with each new generation. Read More...
by Carolyn Lee Boyd
For one glorious week each year, the rose and white-showered magnolia trees lining Main Street transformed the potholed, two-lane road into a processional as elegant in its own simple way as any gracing a medieval European or an ancient city. The town did festoon the street with flags and balloons for parades with the Mayor and town council, high school band, and Boy and Girl Scouts on special occasions. “But, it goes nowhere,” Mary reflected as she drove home on a Friday evening during that magnificent week one year, and, indeed, it ended in an empty concrete courtyard of buildings long since abandoned.
As the sun warmed her arm through the car window for the first time that spring, an unexpected memory came to her of summer Saturdays when she and her mother would gather in her grandmother’s kitchen to make jellies and jams from the fruits of her grandmother’s farm. The thought “I’m almost the age my mother was then. She had my grandmother and me. How did I get to be so old and end up so alone?” came into Mary’s mind unbidden.
Tucked into a strip mall at the corner where Mary waited for a green light was Demeter’s Supermarket, a small grocery that had been established by Greek immigrants decades ago when the neighborhood was mostly families who had immigrated from there. Their children had moved out a generation ago, but a few of the original businesses still served the surviving elders. Read More...
by Carolyn Lee Boyd
In the garden of She Who Creates, tucked into a very remote corner, grows a small, water-blue planet whose inhabitants call it “Earth.” The soil is rich but most of what grows there appears on the surface to be only straggly stems fighting each other for a place near the dim light. But yet, somehow the most spectacular blooms emerge from the planet by the billions every day.
She Who Creates has planted Earth’s patch of the garden so that the breeze will catch its blossoms and carry them to the farthest reaches of all that is. “Like seeds on the wind,” she whispers as a cloud of them rises from the Earth to make their way across the cosmos.
Everyone elsewhere in the universe waits anxiously for Earth’s exquisite blossoms to drift for eons to come to their planet. When each one lands, it is enshrined and lovingly cared for, each drop of sap savored, every molecule doled out so that it will do the most good. Read More...
A Short Story by Carolyn Lee Boyd
While Penelope was being born in a small fishing village in the far north, a storm ascended from the surface of the ocean herself. Howling, raging, cursing, the relentless waves scattered the frail fishing boats that had sailed out on what had that morning been a fine summer day. From that day forward, water turned her wrath on Penelope's life. The roof over her bed always seemed to leak constant drips onto her face, whether she was at home or visiting, until water became to her a terrifying living being full of unknowable motives. More than once she tumbled out of the family fishing boat and had to be rescued, though this impelled her to learn to be a strong swimmer. Finally, as a young woman she won a scholarship to a university in the south but a month before she was to leave, a hurricane ravaged the campus and it closed indefinitely. "The ocean claimed you as a baby," her great-aunt told her, "and she will never let you go."
by Helen Carmichael
The first time our fingers touched it was like butterflies – profound. I was busy crawling towards something, a new job…or something irretrievably forgotten on the shopping list in my jacket pocket in the lockers that sweat behind the fake palm trees near the lifeguard.
And she came through. Feet churning, hips like a belly dancer, face alabaster, a trail of flames for hair and bubbles streaming from her mouth – five beautiful elements in the fast lane. I was disconcerted, floundering slightly and swallowed a little chlorinated water, enhanced with the sweat of my community and the faint odour of cheap perfume perpetrated by a plump lady keeping her chin well above water to safeguard her permanent wave. I’m always impressed by anyone who puts on mascara before entering the water.
by Claire Hamilton
My festival is Imbolc ‘in womb’ time, so besides being the Maiden, I am also the Mother who bears the burden of the coming spring.
This is my lineage. I am the daughter of the Dagda, the Good God, king of the Tuatha de Danaan, the faerie people. With them I came, blown in a magic mist across the sea to Erin . But the mist was the far-furled smoke of our ships as we burned them on the western shores of Connemara . For we pledged ourselves to that land and swore we would never turn our faces towards the sea again. And so we shared that land with the Fomorians, the ancient giant race who lived there.
By Carolyn Lee Boyd
In Joan’s time, tranquility, prosperity and contentment were as newly abundant as the ocean while kindness and compassion were as commonplace as air. Still, Joan dreamt over and over of a tormented woman staring through hazy torchlight into the sanctuary of a cave held deep inside a mountain. Painted horses raced around the walls, unchained from the stone, while Paleolithic dancers circled round and round an altar in the center, their heels pounding grooves into the stone floor.
The woman stood apart from them and wept, her hands covering her face, holding herself back from running into the realm of the ecstatic celebrants. Finally, the woman faded into nonexistence, the horses leapt back onto the wall, and the people’s dance unwound until they, too, dissipated. As the last dancer dissolved into invisibility, she revealed someone else in the cave, a woman shaman who was just finishing a painting of a female figure whose radiant eyes knew the beginning of human time. When the cave was empty, Joan awoke.
Joan knew from the standing woman’s clothing that she was from the dreaded, revered, almost mythical 21st century and she shared her consciousness, as one sometimes does in a dream. When the woman’s adrenaline spiked in Joan’s veins, Joan understood that the woman’s distress was not simply a momentary anomaly, as it most often was in her own time, but rather was a constant layered state of being suffered by everyone all the time in that era of the past. Violence, repression, environmental disaster, disease, and hunger were always only a few steps away in the woman’s everyday life, so present that she was usually not aware of her constant anxiety. The woman did not yet know that her generations’ vision and courage had won the people of Joan’s century a lifetime of waking up each morning knowing that today everyone would be safe, fed, sheltered, and free. Read More...