Laura Morrigan

I She had been told the surface world was dangerous, but she could not resist it. It was such a different place from the world below the waters. Under the sea, the colours were murky, sounds were muted. Everything was calm. Above the water the sun shone down, nearly blinding you at first. There was the screaming of gulls, it wasn’t a nice sound but it was different. So loud and immediate. Everything was so intense. Then, of course, there were the humans. She watched them in their fishing boats. They were so like her yet so different. They wore coarse clothes, where she went naked. And, just like the stories said, they had legs. They walked around on their boats like it was nothing. She watched in wonder. Her tail was strong and powerful, it could move her through the waves like a bullet. Yet, as she watched, she envied them their legs. She dreamed of walking around like they did. Of going back to land, of seeing all the wonders there. Day after day, she left her watery home to visit th

Christmas is nearly here! If you've run out of Christmas movies, here are five TV series episodes to keep you going. 1: Supernatural: A Very Supernatural Christmas  (s03e08) An early Supernatural episode that offers laughs, monsters, and a poignant flashback story to Sam and Dean's childhood. Also a nostalgic re-watch for those who finally finished the last season.   2.   Futurama: Xmas Story (s02e04) This episode introduces us to  a hilarious future Christmas where a robot Santa kills naughty people. This early Futurama episode is a real classic of the series.   3.   Chilling Adventures of Sabrina: A Midwinter’s Tale  (s01e11) Based on creepy Christmas monsters from folklore, this is a fun seasonal episode. If you haven’t seen this regrettably cancelled series it is spooky and funny with loads of great horror references. Luckily there will be one more season, coming out 31st December.   4.   Doctor Who: The Next Doctor  (Christmas Special 2008) A Steampunk Victorian romp with

CHRISTMAS. For most people, the word conjures up images of snow, a jolly man in a fur trimmed red suit, blazing fireplaces and an extravagant roast dinner. However, a large part of the world actually celebrates Christmas in Summer. Australia has been a British colony since 1770 and has inherited a lot of Christmas traditions, such as eating similar foods, listening to the same Christmas music and Christmas crackers with paper hats and terrible prizes. Many Australians of British descent listen to the Queen’s Christmas speech, but this is by no means mandatory. While Australia is a multicultural country, and many other cultures celebrate different holidays during this time such as Kwanzaa and Hannukah, Christmas is widely considered a non-denominational holiday in Australia. It is mainly about food, family and a day off. The Australian Aboriginals are made up of many different cultural groups that celebrate differently. The Arnhem Land Yolngu people celebrate the last season of th

This hallucinatory modern film pairs the classic revenge themes with themes of demons and magic. Filmed with pulsing colourful lights, short animated sequences, we are given the feeling of a dream or perhaps some kind of acid trip. The trippy soundtrack from Icelandic composer Johan Johansson melds perfectly with the fever dream visuals. Johansson was gaining recognition for his music when he unfortunately passed away at only 48 and this was his last film score. We learn little about the main characters other than they are in love and happy with their simple life. When a group of cultists destroy that life, of course, we are thirsty for revenge. One of the great things about a revenge film is that we are allowed to revel in the violence, to enjoy bad people suffering for their actions. Seeing evil be punished is a guilty pleasure we are allowed to embrace in film. British actor Linus Roache is amazingly creepy, playing a despicable and somewhat pathetic failed musician become cult

Considered to be one of the best films in British history, Don’t Look Now is a slow burn thriller that keeps us wondering whether something supernatural is going on or not. Based on a story by Daphne du Maurier (famous for Rebecca and The Birds), the film is the story of British couple John and Laura who, after the tragic death of their daughter, go to Venice to work on a church. A pair of women who claim to be psychic and sightings of a small figure in a red coat that matches the one their daughter wore have them questioning whether she could still be with them. The film is very elegant and slow paced, only reaching its thrilling conclusion near the very end. The dark, maze-like streets of Venice form an atmospheric setting, full of weird noises, dead ends and a mysterious murderer. As the main couple, Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie’s love and frustration feel quite real, while the psychic sisters keep us guessing on whether they are up to something or not until the very end.

Continuing on from his trailblazing Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead takes place 12 years later. Dealing with the themes of racism and consumerism, the film once again focuses on a disparate group of people trying to survive the zombie apocalypse. Beginning with a raid on a public housing tower, occupied mainly by people of colour, we see the racism of a riot police officer who gleefully shoots men and women who have not even been turned into zombies. Two of the riot police abandon their posts to attempt to escape the city along with two newspeople. However, when they land in a shopping mall, they decide to fortify and spend time there. Here we see the sending up of consumerist culture as zombies mindlessly wander the shopping malls, some part of them remembering that it was once important to them. Our protagonists initially enjoy having all they could possibly need, but later grow bored and empty, like the zombies themselves. In the final act, we see how humanity is its ow

The characters in this short story belong to L Frank Baum. The rest of the writing is all mine. I Sometimes I dream of Kansas. The vast grey desert touches the endless grey sky so you can hardly tell where they meet. So different from Oz with its bright colours and shining cities. It surprises me how much I miss it. My aunt and uncle’s lined faces smiling at me as we rose before dawn to do the chores. The way everything tasted of dirt. Not things you think you would miss. There really is no place like home. But I can never go home. II “Dorothy, are you awake?” He tries to sound casual, but I hear the tremor in his voice. The Scarecrow, the last of my friends. And even he fears me. I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. They feel gritty, but everything feels gritty now. He’s smiling from the outside of my cell. Too scared to venture in. I can see from his face that it’s worse today. “It’s spreading faster now, isn’t it?” His refusal to reply is all the answer I need. I have no mirror

There was once a girl who was very beautiful. She had red lips, skin as brown as a hazelnut, and long hair as black as ink. This was very inconvenient for her, as men were always asking for her hand in marriage and she just wanted to be left alone. All day, all night, men were hammering on the door of her cottage, telling her they loved her because she was so beautiful. They didn't even bother to find out anything about her, what she liked to do or what her name was. They just wanted her because she was pretty. So this girl built a tower. She built it seven stories high and then bricked up the door from the inside. In this tower, the men could not reach her. The walls were high and impossible to climb. She was free to do as she liked. She would haul up supplies on a bucket from the high window, a young girl from the village would bring them for her. She learned to cook gourmet meals just for herself, she read, and best of all, she could sleep uninterrupted by men banging at her doo

  I read once that in the original Snow White fairytale, there was no stepmother, only a real mother filled with jealousy of her daughter. A sort of "be careful what you wish for" tale. I thought about of the mothers with Postnatal Depression who cannot bond with their children and wondered if this was the true story behind Snow White. I do not mean to demonise anyone with Postnatal Depression or other illnesses, but to try and see the story behind the fairytale. POSSIBLE TRIGGERS: Domestic violence, child abuse, postnatal depression Only Child  (A retelling of Snow White) A mother's wish for her child is always selfish When I felt the life moving within me I wished for her to be all things Beautiful, wise, brave And lucky When she blossomed into the world Tearing out of me I thought I would know beauty But there was only pain Days, weeks, months passing in a blur Only knowing the lingering sadness Of this part of you Becoming something else Growing, changing on its own S

  I wanted to write a modern version of Rapunzel that looked at the idea of the mother trying to protect the daughter. She may have been overprotective, but remember, Rapunzel did end up a single mother, living in the desert with twins, until the obligatory happy ending. Warning, this story contains references to teens having sex and teen pregnancy. *** I suppose they'll make me out to be a monster. That's fine. I know the real story. As I sit here behind bars, waiting for them to decide my fate, I am not sorry for the choices I made. I would do it all over again, all for my daughter.  I married young, and it was over quickly, the dream of love quickly fading to harsh reality. We were barely more than teenagers, nights of laughing over burnt meals turned to recriminations. After three years we had failed to have a child, our one great wish. It tore us apart. He left me for another woman, not even bothering to finalise the divorce before they tried for another child. I saw her

  Misunderstood Villain's Support Group: Loki and Maleficent “And everyone still loves Louis best!” “Shut your mouth, Lestat, you pompous eunuch,” Loki muttered under his breath, careful not to let the leader of the Misunderstood Villains Support Group hear him. He would have given anything to kill every member of the group, but without his staff, he was nowhere near powerful enough to take them all on at once. Still, only three more weeks of this stupid court ordered group and he would be allowed back to Asgard. He was counting the days. A part of him wondered what for, since all that would happen was Thor would go back to bullying him again. “Sorry I'm late”, a darkly melodious voice rang through the room. Loki turned to see the imposing figure who stood in the doorway. “Great fashion sense,” he muttered, “nearly as good as mine.” He took in her horned head and shiny black robes. On this woman, the Goth look certainly was  not  dead. The woman swept across the room to place h

  PINNED or The Disobedient Faery Childe THIS STORY IS FOR ADULTS, NOT CHILDREN “Never go near the Waterstone House”, Mother Rankin cautioned the young faery folk she taught. “It is a terrible place, a place of death.” Most of the young ones listened to Mother Rankin, after all, she was a wise old crone, her knowledge of herb lore had saved many a faery and human life. To humans she seemed like an old woman, rather bent, with browny sun-worn skin and odd, unmatching clothes. The faery children could see her as she really was, the greeny tinge of her face and her blind white eyes, but she did not scare them. Crones were not the best looking of the witch folk, but age had mellowed them and most could be trusted with the care and discipline of young faery folk.  There were two faery children who did not listen to the words of Mother Rankin. Thistledown was a pretty young faery girl, as light and air-headed as the thistledown she was named for, and her best friend Cocklebur, as spiky and b

My sister was always fanciful. She was born simply Anna, you know, but she had to call herself Arabella, and put on airs. Her and that silly name and her colourful lacy dresses, dragging everywhere and showing dirt! I always preferred the plain black clothes, no muss, no fuss, so much for suitable for our profession. We were born into it, like our mother before us, it was a proud tradition. All we women lived under the same roof, singing, proud of our role in life. Not so Arabella. No, she had to go make her fancy dresses, and when we teased her, well then she did what not one of our family had done in generations, she took off on her own. She made her own cottage in a nearby wood. I visited as often as I could, even though I thought she was snobby, and treated us like we were beneath her. I hated her blonde ringlet curls and primping ways. I hated the way she swept the floor with the broom, clutching it carefully so as not to chip the coloured beetle shells she wore glued to her finge

  She had hunted in her youth, those wrinkled hands, knuckles so swollen she can barely grip her cup of coffee once held a bow, held the string taut, never shaking. All her senses narrowed down to a pinpoint, to that soft spot in the flesh where the arrow would hit its mark. She would concentrate so hard she could hear the animal's heartbeat, her senses would, for a moment, be as intense, as overwhelming as theirs, and she would understand their bloodlust. With those young hands, she would skin the dead wolf, the flecks of blood dotting her hands like the dark spots that would later cover them in her age. Usually, she would sell the skins at the the market, sometimes, she would take the whole skin, for a rug, or to make a fur coat for one of her lovers. Lovers now long dead. Sometimes, she would take the skull, bury it behind her house for the ants and worms to clean, dig it up months later and hang it on the wall with a rusty, bent nail. That was when she lived in a cabin in the h