You see the great titian had three Sons, indeed.
The three mighty forces; rulers of the Sky, Earth and Sea.
Little did they know there was another.
Not a God, but a Goddess like no other!
Aliana, a breathtaking, enchanting vision to behold A raven hair beauty with skin so white it seemed to glow.
Eyes of ember that burned like hot coals.
One that controls the fires of the depths below.
She soon was discovered by the powers that be.
Their rage could be felt throughout the Sky, Earth and Sea.
Four elements collided; this was never meant to be The intension for the four was to create harmony.
Poseidon, being the worst of the three
In a fit of anger, he commanded the seas,
“Swallow both magnificent cities.”
He buried her city under his own
Now hidden many leagues below,
it lies under his mighty golden throne.
Trapped there, she must now wait until,
that day when she makes her escape…
A Pleasant Surprise
Nicole Daffurn
Echo
*This story is written in UK English*
NC Thomas
Echo listens to the soft crunch of the freshly fallen leaves under her feet as she wills herself to the edge of her forest at the base of Mount Olympus. Though she knows the forest as her only home, she never tires of it. She is a Dryad, a woodland Nymph, born from the roots of a tree. The forest is not just her home, but her life force. It is the mountain, with its sharp rocks digging into her soft feet and making them bleed, that fills her heart with sorrow. Oriads are the Nymphs of the mountains, but they do not reside on Mount Olympus. The Gods have claimed the rock as their own.
The cold air of the mountain makes its presence known on the edge of the forest, and soon, she reaches its foot. Stopping for a moment, as she always does when she comes to this point, she sighs. She remembers the day she became bound to this obligation. It is an invisible chain around her neck, and each time the chain seems to become heavier.
Since the forest had sprouted to life, men had wandered in, looking for proof of the legend of the Nymphs. This discovery had brought both joy and sorrow. Nymphs were beautiful in the stories and reality, and it was a blessed curse. The men received their carnal pleasures, and what once had been a curiosity, became obsession. Until the forest took their soul and poured it into the river that gave it life.
The man who came that fateful day looked no different than any other, except he appeared to be much older than the men Echo was used to. It was not wisdom brought on by age that made this so, but rather, the journey was too much for those who had seen more years than most. It made no matter to the Dryads—human bodies aged, but their souls never did. The man told them he was fleeing his wife; that his old ears could no longer listen to her incessant nagging about his comings and goings. Echo felt a twinge of pity for the man and listened to his woes as her kin attended to his needs. For an old man, his appetite was large and he kept going through the night—sometimes with more than three Nymphs at a time. Echo still thought nothing of it.
He has probably been starved of any affection by his wife for some time, she thought. Besides he is old, why shouldn’t he go with ecstasy running through his veins?
Once he had finally been sated, he asked Echo to sit with him and tell him tales of the forest. She gladly did, never tiring of her home. He spoke little, except to tell her, as so many had before, that her voice was like the tinkling of bells, a sweet music to his ears. Then the footsteps came crashing down on the forest floor like thunder.
“My wife!” the man said with panic in his eyes. “She has found me. Please, you must help me!”
“How?” Echo asked.
“With your voice,” was his response.
Echo agreed, not knowing how much it was to her and the other Nymph’s detriment. She followed the sound of the footsteps warily. Nymphs didn’t usually show themselves to women; they had no need to. However, not only did Echo want to help the old man; she wanted to see the face of the woman whose anger could be felt in the soil. When she came face to face with her, Echo held her breath in surprise.
She had expected an old crone of a woman: aged, ugly and stooped. Instead, she faced a woman of exquisite beauty, with large, dark, oval eyes, large lashes that reached her brow, and milky white skin. Her black hair moved as if a gale wind rushed through the forest, but the air was quite still. Echo fulfilled her promise and distracted the woman with tales of the forest until she was calm again.
As the woman made to leave, she turned to Echo. “Yours is a voice that soothes. My husband and my responsibilities give me nothing but grief. I shall speak with you again.”
Echo said nothing, a rare occurrence for her, as she was so very fond of speaking. She did not want to agree and willingly welcome a woman into a forest that only looked to entertain men. Her silence seemed to speak volumes and that angered the woman.
With a thunderous look in her eyes, her voice filled the silent forest when she exclaimed, “Do you know who I am child? Do you know who my husband is? I am the daughter of Cronos and Rhea, mother of war, sister and wife to the supreme God Zeus. When I ask a question it is answered.”
Sorrow and dread suddenly filled Echo’s heart, and the forest seemed to quiver in fear upon the realisation of what had entered it. The woman was not a woman, but a Goddess from Olympus. Not only a Goddess, but Hera, the Queen of the Gods and patroness of marriage and fidelity. She was known for her jealousy and vicious nature, which drove towards a never-ending lineage of revenge. It could only mean the old man, who Echo had welcomed and the Nymphs of the forest had pleasured, was none other than Zeus, supreme ruler of Olympus.
Echo could do nothing but agree to the demands of the deity. Hearing what she wanted, Hera left and Echo returned from whence she came upon first hearing the footsteps. The old man had disappeared, and instead, there stood a mighty figure with an aura of blue that seemed to crackle.
“You must leave this forest, King Zeus, and never return,” Echo declared. “Your lies and deceit have brought danger to us all.”
“I shall leave,” Zeus solemnly replied, but a menacing look crossed his face as he added, “but I will return.”
“You are not welcome.”
“The forest does not refuse any man.”
“But you are not a man, you are a God, and a God with a vengeful wife known for hating my kind who serve the pleasures of man.”
Zeus smiled. “And what would my vengeful wife do when she finds out that, not only did I have all of your kind in one night, but that you also tricked her with your voice?”
Echo stood rigid in shock at the realisation of what he was saying.
“Hera knows of all my infidelities, and still welcomes me back with open arms of forgiveness each time. Yes, there is a period where her hate runs so cold that I sometimes wonder who the supreme God is, but time means nothing to Immortals. We know eternity together means so much more than a fleeting moment with a lesser creature.”
And that was how Echo ended up climbing the craggy rocks of Mount Olympus over and over to distract Hera while Zeus had his way with the Nymphs—without ever having to pay the forest back. Time passed and seasons changed, but still he didn’t tire. Like all other males, he became obsessed with the Nymphs, but they couldn’t bring an end to it. The forest began to wither, and the legend of the Nymphs slowly became only legend. Men were able to pass through without ever looking upon one of the woodland sirens, who were always attending to Zeus or exhausted from it. There were times Echo would begin the climb, resolving to tell Hera of the trickery and falsehood of her visits. However, once she reached the top, she was once again fearful of what would happen to her kin and the forest, and thought better of it.
She reaches the peak and stops for breath.
Her feet are blistered and cracked, with ripped and torn toenails. She dares not put her feet into the healing waters of the forest river, for fear that she will take any of the energy from it. The other Nymphs who Zeus uses, no longer bathe in it either, even though they are sore and raw from the physical violations. Echo, with her sweet voice, is the only one who lifts their spirits, telling them their suffering is worth the saving of the forest, and Hera’s wrath will be much worse if she finds out.
The top of the mountain is shrouded in thick clouds that make it impossible to even see her hand in front of her face. These clouds serve as the gates of Olympus and will only disperse when the Horae, daughters of Zeus, deem she can enter. Echo waits as she always does, for the collective voice of the Horae, who always speak in chorus.
She waits and waits, but still the voices don’t come. Echo calls out into the thick mist of clouds, “I am here to speak with Hera.” The silence is deafening. Echo, lover of words, finds that silence seems to say more than speech. In her heart, she knows something is terribly wrong.
Her descent down the mountain seems longer and more painful than the climb up. She screams aloud in pain as the rocks dig into the raw cuts on her feet. When she nears the bottom, she leaps off to land on the soft grass at the edge of the forest, unable to take the pain any longer. When her feet touch her home, she feels its tremors vibrate through her feet and legs. The forest is fearful.
She feels a presence waiting in the trees, one she knows all too well, but wishes she didn’t. She could walk the other way—around the mountain to another forest, or perhaps to the sea where she could join the Nereids—the sea-nymphs. But her place is here, in the forest, which she knows as her home. She can’t abandon that which she has risked everything to keep safe.
She makes to walk amongst the trees, when Hera appears at the edge.
Terrifying and beautiful at the same time, her eyes hold storms that are waiting to be unleashed. “And now I know the truth, grass wench. Now I know why you visit me with your voice of liquid silver and tales of your wretched and adulterous forest.”
Echo, like the first time she met the Queen of the Gods, is unable to speak. However, it is not for want of speech. She wants to tell Hera of how her husband tricked the Dryads, and she had only gone along with it out of fear for the forest and her kind, but the words will not come out. It is as though they are trapped in her throat, and when she can no longer hold them in, she splutters, and a sort of hissing noise falls out her mouth.
Hera smiled and circled around Echo as the nymph holds her throat. “As a rule, I do not care for your kind, whilst my husband is the apparent opposite. Oh you are not the first, harlot of green. I know my husband well, and he thinks he can trick me with these diversions of his. Do you know the story of Io?”
Echo has not, but she can’t answer to say so.
“Io was a beloved priestess of mine who I grew to love like a daughter. My husband coveted her and took her maidenhood whilst he covered the sky with black clouds so I couldn’t see. But I always know. To cover his cheat, he turned Io into a cow to hide her from me. I called his bluff and demanded her as a gift, mine to torture for eternity. She is still mine, and I never tire of her pain. You see little Nymph, you are against everything I stand for and more. Whilst wives lie on their backs in duty towards their husband, your kind doesn’t just lie, but straddle in rapture. I will not allow it.”
“It!” Echo screams, and her voice bounces off the sides of the mountain as though it is rising into the sky. She wants to say something, but she has lost control of her voice. She looks to the forest and wills for Zeus to appear, to put a stop to all of it.
Surely he will come; surely he will see that it isn’t fair.
He doesn’t come. Slowly, figures begin to appear, kicking and thrashing their legs wildly. They dangle by their necks from the branches of trees, clutching at their throats.
Echo’s eyes widen as she recognises each of the figures as the Dryads. She turns to Hera, pleading with her eyes as she has no other way to beg.
“You have a choice, root slut,” Hera says gravely. “Either they die, or you become my new Io, my new toy to punish as I see fit. Choose now.”
For Echo, there is no choice. Above everything, she loves the forest. Without the Dryads, there won’t be one. She tries to nod, but Hera stands stone faced, wanting her to make a reply.
Echo wretches at first, and her throat burns as she bellows, “Take… me.” Her voice is no longer like the tingling of bells, but hollow and cold. Again it bounces off the mountain, over and over.
Hera looks up at the mountain as though she is following the direction of the voice. “It would seem, I have found my justice. No longer will you be Echo, speaker of words and tales. Men will never bask in the sound of your voice like it is music to their ears. Forever more, you will be known as Echo, repeater of words. You will never make a sound of your own ever again, wood whore.”
The other nymphs are free of both Zeus’s insatiable appetite and Hera’s vengeance, but the damage has been done. The forest remains, but alas, it is too late. The Dryad nymphs haveturned to legend, and men merely stumble on the place by accident rather than with intent. Forevermore, Echo’s beautiful voice will never be heard again. Instead, she is trapped to repeat the last sound of those around—never the first to speak.
My suffering is nothing, she thinks to herself, so long as the forest survives.
Run, Boy, Run
Nicole Daffurn
*This story is written in Uk English*
Hansel watched from the confines of his cage as the old witch took her carving knife from the aged wooden kitchen block and moved slowly towards his sister, Gretel. Gretel was tied up tight to the shining silver island in the middle of the room, and from his vantage point, Hansel could see her struggling. He could see the tears that had gathered in the corner of her eyes, and were teetering on the edge of flowing over the sides of her face.
He closed his eyes, his breathing becoming more and more rapid with each breath. His sister’s screams pierced the air as the witch cut her, and his eyes flew open at the sound. Gretel’s leg had been sliced open, the gaping wound gushed with blood. Hansel watched as the witch slowly but surely brought the piece of missing flesh from Gretel’s thigh directly to her lips. He watched in horror as her warped humanlike face gave way to something that resembled a crow. And he watched, and retched as she devoured the limp piece of his sister’s leg.
“Gretel!” he screamed, agony tearing through his vocal chords and escaping his mouth in a high pitched shriek of his sister’s name.
“Get away from her, you old hag!” he screamed, as he rattled the bars on his cage, determined one way or another to get free—to save his sister.
“Hansel…please.”
The words were all Gretel needed to whisper for his anger to flare into rage. He extended his arms through the bars, almost dislocating his shoulder with the effort. He could see the keys he so desired hanging from the back pocket of the witches robe. The shiny metal bundle of keys was only inches away from his fingertips, if he could just stretch that little bit farther.
There! He had them, but he was too loud, too slow. The witch turned on him, and he was trapped. Hansel fumbled with the keys, trying desperately to get them in the lock before she had a chance to snatch them back from his bony fingers. She had almost starved him to death in that God awful cage, all the while fattening his sister up to satisfy her sadistic, disgusting cravings.
He was out of the cage before the podgy witch had a chance to steal the keys from him. Hansel allowed his rage to take over. He felt himself transform into something that he had never imagined he could have. Something evil.
Fifteen years later.
Gretel wiped the sweat from her palms as she entered the desolate town. The perspiration had nothing to do with the weather, though. As she had walked into the town a cool breeze swept across her body, making her pull her coat in closer
to her skin. No, the sweat that she was emitting was a sign that she was in the right place.
She knew with just one look at the town that her brother would be there. For starters, there was no one around. Not a single soul in sight. In the distance, she could see buildings overtaken by nature, a Ferris wheel stationary against a grey sky, wild animal prints in the snow around her feet, and artificial lighting was non-existent. The town had long ago succumbed to the effects of neglect.
She walked up to the old ‘Welcome’ sign that symbolised the entry of the town. It was rusted out, a gaping hole opened up in the middle that she could see straight through. Blood smeared around the edges caused Gretel to swallow a mouth full of bile that had risen from her stomach.
Something had happened to Hansel that day in the woods. She had known it the moment he had escaped his cage. His eyes changed first, the iris’s consumed with darkness. It had been then that she had realised what he was about to do. Strapped to the kitchen island she was useless to do anything but watch her brother carve the old witch into scraps of dog food. She hadn’t stood a chance once he had been set free from his cage—even if he had still been of a tender age.
The sight of the blood upon the sign conjured up some of the deepest memories Gretel had pushed away since that day, but now…now they were beginning to surface again. Shaking her head and wiping the images from her mind, she sighed heavily before setting out once again to enter the town and find her brother.
Unnatural sounds filled Gretel’s ears, and fear filled her entire body as she walked over the soft ground. Upon hearing what she could only describe as a woman screaming, she raised her eyebrows, a feeling of unease settling over her stomach. Her desire to save her brother, of course outweighed the uneasy feeling, and she proceeded forward into the untouched territory.
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