The three fates are women that reflect all aspects of womanhood. The maiden spins the thread of life, the matron measures out its length, and lastly the crone clips it with her shears. Every woman contains all three within the confines of her psyche, from the bloom and innocence of youth, through the years she guides those younger than herself, to end her days as the crone – experienced enough to know that nothing lasts forever and wise enough not to fear it.
The woman grips the twisted branch with one gnarled hand, thick nails scraping against her own wrist as she leans upon her walking stick. The years have increased her troubles, whitening her hair which has fallen out in patches, leaving other pieces of scalp covered by long stringy locks. The flesh of her youth now sags about her body, her breasts hang like deflated water-skins from her shriveled frame. No more would men beg to be loved by one such as she. Youth changed places with experience, and what she lacks in beauty she makes up for in wisdom. The men of the land still flock to her, not for the fleeting facade of her body, decaying even its younger days, but for her counsel. The mind is more permanent and powerful. We are born to die, but not all are born to truly live. She has done so, throwing aside the restrictions laid upon her by a society that does not understand and now she is ready to rest.
The woman grips her belly, already she senses its swollen distended shape shrinking with the absence of its precious cargo, but experience has taught her feelings do not mirror truth. She cradles the child, squalling and protesting against the trauma of its sudden change. He finds her breast, quieting his outrage and fear by suckling greedily from her body’s provision. The first bloom of her youth changed places with the grace and the glow of new motherhood. The act of creation, performed by two but carried to fruition by one, finds its culmination in the new life that now nuzzles at her breast, seeking sustenance from the one who bore him. For now, the woman is content to hold the babe and comfort him with song. Her past has taught her patience. The years stretch before her like a great road, and she is anxious to guide this new life along its path.
The woman grips the floral wreath, the white veil billowing out as she wraps it around the edges. She pricks one thin, delicate finger on a thorn and sucks the blood, tasting the salt upon her tongue. The men she has known have not known her, not until this one man stole her heart along with her promise to live by his side always. She knows not what the years before her hold, she has not experienced the pain of a love lost or a body broken, but the strength she carries within will carry her through. She is not protected from life’s twists and turns, she knows not where she is going, but whatever challenges life puts in her path she knows she has the strength to face them. Wisdom will come with experience, and she turns her face to the sun. The dawning of the new day warms her, and she steps out to meet it.
Certainly all women do not realize the fateful power they hold within themselves. Too often they allow others to rule over them, victims of an unholy union or their own bad judgment. But the potential lives inside every woman – from the foolish maid who lusts and thinks not of the consequences to the old woman who regrets too much the life she failed to live. Kindness and foresight live side by side with the fickleness and cruelty of the Fates. For every good there is a corresponding evil, but it lies in woman to cultivate her own higher qualities.
Zeus himself dares not cross the Fates, could not even if he wished, and begs of them for favors.
The maid, the matron, and the crone live in all women, who overrule the will of men and gods.
*The above is a bit experimental for me. I just got to thinking about the commons themes of different mythologies, and this is what came out. I actually looked up the term ‘Experimental fiction’ recently, which (boiled down) said that it’s usually more about word choice and as a result will have little or no discernible plot. I think this may fit that. And even if it doesn’t, it’s my experiment since I don’t usually write this sort of thing. I hope you enjoyed it.
In other news, my newest 52/250 story, Brothers, is up today also. I almost posted it as my #FridayFlash instead, because I really liked how it came out. I’d be thrilled if you read that as well. The theme for this week is The Brutality of Friends.
Last, but not least, I plan to post another episode of my new podcast, My Writing Niche, before Midnight on Sunday in time for Spoken Sunday. After reading my short story, the rest of the podcast I’ll be talking more about preparing for Nanowrimo. I hope you tune in.
As always, feedback is begged for welcome. Thank you for your time!