M.M. Schreier's Blog, page 10

Duality

I watch myself in the looking glass, hand moving in practiced rote. A hundred strokes through inky locks, as if ordering my glossy waves can transform me into a goddess deserving of adoration. My father disavows my obsession with skin cremes and face paints. He knows nothing of what it is like to live as half blushing maiden and half rotting corpse. Being the daughter of The Trickster is a bad pun.

Lining my lids with kohl, I trace dark wings that accentuate the fathomless divinity in my eyes, one a verdant green, the other a dead, smokey-grey. Should a mortal meet my gaze, my duality will flay spirit from flesh. Even immortals’ eyes slide from my face. It’s impolite to stare and the Nordic pantheon is nothing, if not proper. I wonder how the Christians would react to my twisted visage?

Smoothing on a crimson “all day” lip stain proves more difficult than the eye makeup. My upper lip oozes with putrid decay. The lower wrinkles, dry as ancient parchment, exposing snow white teeth and a wide expanse of jawbone. Above, cheeks glow pink with bright vitality. 

I scowl at the mirror. Were that I was born male. My brother––Serpent and Wolf––feel no need to masquerade behind such warpaint. 

A knock comes at the door.

“Mistress Hel?” The handmaiden stares at her feet. “Odin awaits.”

I nod, then snort in frustration, realizing she’s unwilling to dare even a glimpse of my reflection. “I come.”

The girl hesitates, feet shuffling. “Joyous Nameday, Mistress.” She slips away without another word.

My hundredth Nameday. I press trembling hands to my stomach. Tradition dictates that on this day, Odin, the great, one eyed Allfather, would grant a young immortal a boon. My own father has spent countless seasons whispering in the old man’s ear. Slyly bending him to The Trickster’s charlatan will, so that I might be granted my heart’s desire. To be whole and beautiful.

I slip into a silken gown and twirl in front of the mirror. Childish, perhaps, but the decadent cloth is a black so deep that it devours the light. I ignore the waxy sheen of my bare shoulders, for soon enough Odin’s gift will imbue a long awaited, rosy hue. 

Giggling in anticipation, I make for the Great Hall. In the corridors, servants cower. They avert their eyes and twist their fingers into complicated sigils, warding against evil. I pretend not to notice.

The herald announces me: “All hail, the Lady Hel! Daughter of Loki, the Cunning, Shapeshifter of the Aesir, child of the giantess Angrboda!”

The court murmurs in greeting, but does not look at me. I forgive them, for when Odin grants my boon, they will be bedazzled. This is their final moment of rejection. I am charitable and will forgive them when I claim my beauty. 

I glance around, eyes drawn to the margins of dark and light. Loki twines in an unnoticed corner, merged with the undulating shadows. He winks. I smile in return, a lopsided grin, stymied by rigor mortis. I offer him a silent prayer: thank you for this, father.

“Hel.” Odin’s voice sounds like thunder. I kneel, the velveteen night of my dress pooling like an infinite void as I await his benediction. “Joyous Nameday, child. Before this court, I deem to grant you your hundred year boon.”

Palms sweaty, I bite back a goofy grin. This is my moment.

The room falls silent, gods and demigods, nisse and huldra, await the Allfather’s decree.

Odin swells, magnanimous. “Hel. Creature of ultimate duality, neither alive nor dead, but a magnificent blending of the two. I bestow upon you a crown of Niflheim. Rule the underworld with pride. I name your kingdom, Hel, in your image. The spirits of the dead are in your keeping.”

For a sliver of eternity, I stare dumbfounded. The immortal court explodes in applause. It shatters my soul. 

Fucking sycophants. 

The desperate syncopation of my breath suffocates and I fight back a tidal wave of white hot rage. In the shadows, my father cackles. I seeth. Another of Loki’s depraved tricks.

Deep in my chest, my heart frosts over––fire turned to ice. If they desire a goddess of death, I will deliver. 

My cruelty will be legendary. 

I’ll await Ragnarok, when all will be rent asunder and Fate will deliver my ultimate retribution.

Writers’ Workout Interview

Hey readers! Remember when I said that I won the Writers’ Workout’s Writers Games?

Well, here’s a little bonus: an interview with moi! Enjoy.

CLICK HERE! RIGHT HERE I SAY!

 

 

A gift for you…

Happy holidays, friends! Here’s a little flash fiction gift for you. Enjoy the season! 

 

The Controversial Invention

by MM Schreier

 

Alabaster Snowball knocked and poked his head into the workshop. “Bushy Evergreen? Are you in?” His voice cut through the air, squeakier than his normal cheery tone. “I brought you the latest list.” Spotting the chief toy engineer hard at work, the list maker crossed the room and dropped a stack of computer printouts on the workbench. “According to my analytics program, there’s been a two point one percent shift from Naughty to Nice. Geez terwilligers! We’ll need more gifts than anticipated.”

Bushy didn’t glance up from what he was working on. Wood shavings drifted in piles on the floor like snow. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s another load in the hall for Misfit Island.” He sighed and shook his head. “More and more broken toys returned every year. Such a shame.”

“Bushy, please.” Alabaster shoved his candy cane striped spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “It’s a week before Christmas and we need new toys. The returns can wait until after the New Year.” He gestured at the empty shelves that should have been filled with dolls and trains and roaring dinosaurs. Bushy’s Toy Making Thingamajig (patent pending) sat lifeless and gathering dust in the corner. 

Alabaster marched across the room, the merry jingling of the bells on his shoes contrasted the worried expression on the elf’s face. He sidled up to the behemoth contraption. “Why don’t we just get things moving along?” He reached for the ‘on’ button.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Bushy mumbled, still engrossed in his project.

Too late. Alabaster jabbed the button. Gears whired. Lights blinked in a chaotic pattern, and the machine shuddered and groaned. A tremor ran through the floor. Wide-eyed, the elf inched back. With a clap of thunder, a cloud belched out, raining glitter down on everything. 

The Thingamajig fell silent.

“Good gumdrops, Bushy!” Alabaster brushed rainbow sparkles from his hair. 

“I told you not to do it.” Bushy added a part, fitting it in place with intense concentration. “I had to pull a couple of doohickies from the Thingamajig in order to get the transmographer to work properly.” He clucked his tongue and rotated the thing he was working on ninety degrees. The complicated gadget let out a gentle hum.

Alabaster stomped his foot and huffed. “Listen. I know you love to tinker, but this is getting out of hand. If you don’t fix the Thingamajig right now and start filling the Christmas orders, I’ll have no choice but to call security and have them make you.”

  Bushy set his project on the table and looked up, a steely glint in his eyes. “You’d sick Pepper Minstix on me?” He crossed his arms over his chest and smirked. “Go ahead and try. Pep and I have an agreement. He leaves me alone and I don’t tell the Big Guy that he’s fraternizing with Sugarplum Mary.”

Alabaster’s jaw dropped.

“That’s right. I caught them in the kitchens sampling the bonbons together.”

Face flushed pink, Alabaster shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Brushed more glitter from his coat.

On the workbench, the gadget chirruped. 

Alabaster jumped. “Fiddlesticks! What is that thing?”

A wide grin split Bushy’s face. “It’s the thing that will revolutionize the toy industry.” He picked up a small square and held it out for the other elf to examine. Made from wood, twisted copper, and bits of colored glass, it strangely appeared to be a single piece without seams or joints.

Alabaster raised an eyebrow. “But what is it?”

“It’s nothing. But it becomes everything.” Bushy winked. “When held in the hand, it automatically turns into the exact thing a person wants.” He held it out. “Go ahead, old friend. Give it a try!”

Alabaster gingerly took the square and held it in his palm. In a puff of strawberry flavored smoke it transformed into a sleek new cell phone. “Holy banana shenanigans! This model isn’t slated to be released until next year!”

Bushy clapped and danced around the workshop in a victory jig. “Oh, Al. It gets so much better!” He squealed and grabbed a cup off a desk and took a swig. He grimaced and spit, spraying chocolate on his friend’s glittery coat. “Blech. Cold.” 

He set the cup down and wiped his mouth, his expression turning serious. “You know how I feel about broken toys, right?”

Alabaster nodded. Everyone had heard Bushy’s long lectures about overcrowding on the Island of Misfit Toys. Handwritten flyers were found slipped under doors and rolled up, stuffed into stockings—-multicolored sheafs of propaganda detailing the evils of programmed obsolescence, consumerism, and the woeful state of toy longevity.

“Well, no longer.” Bushy pointed to the cell phone. “I found the secret to make the gifts indestructible. Forget everlasting gobstoppers. Think trains whose wheels never come off and dolls with button eyes that stay put no matter what kind of adventures little Suzy drags them on. No more bears leaking stuffing or dinosaurs that lose their roar. It’s spectacular!”

Alabaster cleared his throat. “So you’re saying that no toy would ever break? The kids would be able to keep them forever? Never need new ones?”

“Exactly!”

Alabaster slumped into a chair, his face in his hands. For a long moment he sat there. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded muffled. “Dammit Bushy. You just put us out of a job!”

Publication Alert!

Closing out the year with a bang, I’m very pleased to announce that I have two short stories live at different lit mags.

The first entitled, “The Children of Gods,” is in the Winter Solstice issue of All Worlds Wayfarer.  I’m linking you to the issue, not directly to the story here, in case you want to peruse the content warning first. This story, while not horribly graphic, does explore the complicated theme of humanity–making it a perfect tale for a Solstice issue. A metaphysical discussion of dark vs light, if you will. It’s one of my favorite pieces of flash from this year, so I hope you enjoy it.

The second piece, “Fate at the Fluff-n-Fold,” is featured in The Writers’ Cafe Magazine. The theme of this issue is fairy tales, and mine is a very lighthearted take in a modern setting. While very different from my usual fare, it was fun to write and is a quick and easy read. Make sure to check out the Asian inspired fairy tale by my friend Myna Chang, that is also in this issue. (You do have to scroll down through the site, past the poetry entries in order to get to the short stories, but I promise it is worth it!)

Thanks for reading and looking forward to seeing what 2020 will bring!

Writer’s Games!

I found out last week that I came in first place in the Writer’s Workout Writer’s Games.

This is a a pretty intense contest. For five consecutive weekends, competitors are under a seventy-two hour deadline to produce a polished short story within the confines of a prompt. The competition is stiff. (I know, as I’m friendly with a number of folks who landed top ten spots!) While I’ve participated before I’ve never managed to push into that coveted first place position, so it felt good to finally do it!

Towards the end of the year, keep your eyes peeled for the anthology announcement. I’ll have two pieces included: a humorous, if dark, SciFi about first contact with aliens and a heart wrenching drama about a difficult decision.

Many congratulations to my writing pals who also earned top ten placements. Well done!

8th Place, Haley M Hwang

7th Place, Renee Boyer

5th Place, Shelby Van Pelt

4th Place, Rachael Clarke

3rd Place, Janna Miller

 

Publication Alert: Dream of Shadows

Need a quick, weird little read to combat the Monday blues?

Check out my piece at Dream of Shadows magazine!

Publication Alert: 72 Hours of Insanity V6

Looking for an entertaining group of short stories to read? Check out this exciting new anthology from the good folks at The Writer’s Workout. This book is a compilation of winning pieces from a prompted short fiction competition. It holds a wide range of genres and voices; there’s sure to be something for everyone!

The anthology includes two stories from yours truly–a fun little SciFi piece, as well as a Historical Fiction inspired by the launch of Sputnik.

 

 

Publication Alert: Youth Imagination

Hello friends!

Interested in A SciFi? Well I have a treat for you. Today, live at Youth Imagination magazine you can read another short story by yours truly.

I adore this journal. This is the second time I’ve published with them and I’ve never worked with another group that has paired my work with such perfect imagery.

I hope you enjoy my piece: Tradition.

Happy reading!

Conditioning

It’s early, as you stand alone drinking coffee out of a to-go cup at the bus stop. I frown. Your shorts are too skimpy. No, that’s conditioning. Wear whatever you want, girlfriend. It’s muggy and I wish I were brave enough for my hemlines to climb higher. To hell with my jiggly thighs. Even when I was your age, more limber and svelte, I was too ashamed of my body to sport the comfortable clothes I wanted to wear.

You keep a wary eye on my dog, and I shorten his leash. We’re thirty feet away and he’s friendly, but I can tell you’re nervous. He stops to sniff a tree. We’re supposed to exercising, not pausing every five steps. Still, I indulge him and take the opportunity to peel my sticky shirt from my back.

The roar of a diesel engine fractures the silence. I glance up to see a shiny silver pickup zooming up the otherwise deserted street. Chrome sparkles in the sunlight and black smoke belches from the exhaust pipe. The driver—a middle-aged man in a crisp polo shirt—stares out the window. He doesn’t notice me and the dog in the shade of the tree. His eyes fix on you.

The vehicle slows and worms wriggle in my stomach as I see his face. He’s handsome, but his expression is ugly. Your shoulders stiffen as you see it too. He lets out a piercing wolf whistle, then guns the engine, squealing around the corner.

You slump down on the bench, knees shaking. I can imagine your thoughts. We’ve all been there. We tell ourselves, it could have been worse.

I tug the dog’s leash. Move along, nothing to see here, mind your own business. More conditioning. When I pass by your bench, our eyes meet. You’re young and thin, with dark skin and hair. I’m the opposite of all those things. Still, we’re the same. I squash down the introvert in me.

“Do you know that man?”

You shake your head. A shadow flickers across your face.

“Would you like me to wait with you until the bus comes?”

You explain in broken English that you don’t want to hold me up. That it’s nothing to worry about. That you’re ok. Since we’re the same, I recognize that ‘ok.’ It’s a lie. I mention that I could use a rest anyway. You screw up the courage to pat my dog and I decide you’re younger than I first thought. Nineteen? Twenty? I could almost be your mother.

When the truck spins back around the block for a second drive-by, you shrink behind my shoulder. I squeeze your hand and the dog, sensing the tension, tries to crawl into your lap. Seventy-five pounds of hair and slobber is enough to draw your attention from the driver. You don’t see the daggers that shoot at me when he meets my gaze. I offer him my best fuck you look, and he peels away.

By the time the bus comes, you and the dog are best friends. You smile and wave, and I head off down the sidewalk. On the mile walk home, I keep listening for the sound of a diesel engine. All is quiet. At least until the dog sees a squirrel. He lets out an exuberant, carefree bark as it scurries up the tall maple in front of our house.

Inside, I lock the door behind me and shiver. My arms pebble with gooseflesh in the sudden blast of air conditioning. Settling the dog with a bone, I shower, but no matter how hard I scrub, I don’t feel clean.

In the safety of my bathroom, I realize you never told me your name. I wonder, who will wait at the bus stop with you tomorrow? I crank up the hot water. My fingers prune and the mirror steams up, but I can’t seem to thaw the ice in my veins.

Divine Hunger

A forked tongue whipped out to taste the evening air. The potent scent of infidelity made Nithögg’s head swim—a cloying honeysuckle that almost masked an undertone of rotten meat. An icy breeze chilled her sleek coils, and her heart struggled to pump sluggish blood. The great serpent longed to return to her cozy den, nestled beneath the roots of an ancient, gnarled tree, but the aroma drew her onward. Dried leaves scraped her sensitive underbelly and she lashed her tail but continued down the path, compelled by a gnawing hunger.

 

Ahead, the trees opened to a small clearing, housing a rustic hut. Nithögg swiveled her arrow-shaped head, hunting for the source of the delectable fragrance. The Betrayer was closed inside the dwelling. Windows and doors shuttered, she surveyed the yard, contemplating how best to stalk her prey. A jag of firewood caught her eye. She grinned, wicked fangs glistening in the dying light. The human would need to stoke the fire as the night grew colder. She slithered onto the woodpile and settled in to wait.

 

The sky darkened. Ice chips dotted the heavens—celestial pinpricks that cast a dappled light across the clearing. A rime of hoarfrost clung to Nithögg’s scales. Despite the cold, a fire burned in her belly. Famished, she craved the delicious wisp of treachery that seeped from the cabin. The perfume intensified as the door creaked open. Heavy footsteps crossed the yard. As the viper readied herself, she tasted the air and images filled her mind’s eye.

 

Bodies clashed and writhed, in an illicit dance. Sweat trickled down the warrior’s back. He threw back his head and roared. When it was over, his brother’s tousled wife wrapped her homespun dress around her and slipped into the night.

 

A flash of silver changed hands from within an inky shadow. Urgent whispers spoke of nefarious deeds. An oath to be broken.

 

Blond braids fell across the warrior’s face as he washed in the stream. The water ran crimson.

 

Nithögg drank in the feast of scents. A knife-edged hunger sawed at her, the god cursed need to gorge on darkness and deceit. The warrior halted his progression. Draped in shadow, the serpent trembled. Patience.

 

The man stared up at the sky, a look of enchantment on his face as he studied the stars. A flash of irritation stabbed at Nithögg. The grandeur of Asgard was not for philanderers and oath breakers. A cloud swept over the sky and obscured the speckled lights, as if the gods had heard the serpent’s thought and agreed.

 

The tall warrior shivered and stepped closer to the stack of firewood. In the darkness, he reached out blindly.

 

With divine grace and demonic speed, Nithögg struck. She launched herself from her perch on a rough-barked log, fangs sinking into the warrior’s neck. Muscular coils wound around the man’s body, crushing his arms to his chest. He struggled, his screams echoing in the night, as Nithögg fed on the darkness in his soul.

 

When she was finished sucking the sweet vitriol from his life force, nothing remained. Too far gone down the path of evil, no spark of goodness remained to sustain him. Eyes hooded, Nithögg the Devourer let the warrior’s lifeless body slump to the ground. Sated, she wriggled back to her den beneath the World Tree to sleep off her gluttony. If she was lucky, when the cursed hunger drove her to the surface once more, it would be spring.