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Mothering

 The mother screamed. This surprised exactly no one. It was a thing mothers did, from time to time. As long as it was at the sky, particularly if the sky was midnight black, there was no harm done.

    'Oh God,' she cried.

    This was acceptable, too. Who else was there to cry to? Who else might listen? 

    She shouted at the sky. There was nothing shrill about it; the sound was dark and deep and haunting.

    Nothing unexpected there. It was the kind of call that was built on trials of the soul. What else did a mother have? It was an offering people could relate to.

    Then she laid down on the ground and stared at the stars. Sometimes she traced them with her finger. Sometimes she sat in silence. Sometimes her eyes were opened as wide as they could go. Sometimes her eyes were closed. Always, her heartbeat slowed. Always, her body rooted in the deep ground. Always, her mind rested.

    This was unexpected.

    A secret. She told no one, lest they take it away.

    Then she rose. 

    And returned.

A Life

 The knife twists slowly. She sees beautiful things under it's pain. She doesn't stop it. And she is not surprised; it twists because it must.      She knows that to stop it would be a fool's errand.      To hurry it up would be to miss its beauty.      It is a knife, nothing more and nothing less. The twist is what makes it interesting.      She is interested. Absorbingly so. Yet, from time to time, she stops, takes a moment to watch. Those moments are agony — unbearable and wretched. Best to ignore; best to take the pain and live.      All too soon the twist halts. The pain is over. And so, she thinks, is the beauty.       But she has had beauty enough; she can give it up.     Save,  something beautiful comes. That is indeed a surprise. She smiles.      She goes on then, as though she never was.       Except... except, the scar show...
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ADHD

 The girl was fickle. All full of desires she didn't want. Plans in which she had no interest. Thoughts that had nothing to do with what she was thinking. And a heart that kept a beat akin to a gallop.      It was enough to make anyone want to move to the middle of a wood alone.      But a hermitage does not a calmer heart make. It does not, necessarily, change the pattern of the mind. It can, however, from time to time, result in magic. The magic of the not-so-carefully contained. The kind of magic that draws attention.      When the sparks flew, and the forest began to flicker with flames, and the inhabitants were smoked out into the open, the girl stilled.       She knew what she wanted, a true plan, clear thoughts.      She didn't want the forest to burn.      So she saved it.      Not so fickle, after all. 
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The Rain Came Down

 Once, the rain came down. It was the enchanted forest, so it was enchanted rain. And it made everything it touched gleam vibrant.     Once, the rain came down. It wasn't in the enchanted forest, so it was just ordinary rain. Still, the clean up job wasn't too shabby; things looked... nice.     Once, a child watched the rain come down, and couldn't tell the difference.
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At that, at last, she smiled...

 Once upon a time, there was a patch of earth that began to cry. The tears welled until they became a puddle. Then a stream. Then a river.     The river's tears grew.       Until the river was mighty.     And out of it came a woman, with claw marks on her back, from where the river's rocks had dashed her, and bruises round her eyes, from where she had cried in her making. Tears came from her eyes still.     Until she saw the world.     Her tears stopped.     All remained sad, and full of pain, she knew. But the river would cry for her.      A thought came then: there was work to be done.      At that, at last, she smiled.     
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