Laura Morrigan

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

A sort of true story Inspired by the amazing  Magaly  Magaly, I don't remember if I told you this but your character is named after Mina Murray.  One day, Mina woke up with a terrible pain in her eye. She went to her husband, who could see nothing wrong with it. All day, as she went about her business, shapes swam in the corner of her eye. She hoped it would go away, that it was simply irritation. She used some eyedrops, and went to bed. The next day, the pain was worse. As she left the house and went about her shopping, things seemed strange. People seemed to stare, and there was something not right about them. Mina decided to go to the hospital. She took an umbrella with her because it looked like rain, and it was good for steadying herself. Her sore eye made it hard to focus, and the pavement seemed determined to meet with her face. As she was headed through the hospital, Mina heard a cry. As she ran to the source, some dust blew into her good eye, filling it with tears. Her vis

   It was raining outside and Clara couldn't go out to play. Judy was playing with the dolls again and Clara pretended to read a book while secretly watching her. Judy was her older sister, and sometimes she scared Clara. Judy looked up and saw Clara looking. She gave her a wide grin, made a little spooky by the front tooth that had fallen out recently, the adult one yet to grow in its place. 'Pick a story, Clara', she said. 'Beauty and the Beast', Clara said quickly, turning back to her book. She didn't like Judy's stories. 'Once upon a time,' Judy said, 'there was a girl so sweet and beautiful that all who saw her called her Beauty. One day her father, a rich merchant, went to the port to see his ships come in. He asked his daughters what they wanted. The eldest wanted jewels and dresses, but Beauty only wanted a single rose. Alas, when he got there, he found that his ships had all been lost at sea and he was ruined. On the way back, he saw the

 I wrote this short story thinking about what it would be like if everyone in the world was tattooed, and those without tattoos were the ones who were judged by others. Because I like to play with realities, I also made blank skin a condition that cannot be changed. I know that tattoos are a choice etc., but they often have a distinct meaning to those of us who have them, and I tried to bring this across with the idea of a woman who could not change her inkless state, and just wanted to be understood for who she was. It is also an examination of beauty standards and the way those who are different in any way are treated.  ~Unmarked~ Freak. Unmarked. She was used to the insults, but the words still stung. She hated the way they looked at her. Mothers, steering their children away from her, as if her blank skin was catching, men, leering at her, imagining what she looked like without her clothes, as though the blankness of her skin was intended only for them. She was diagnosed with the c

  Please follow the link and check out all the other posts!  http://hollyshorrorland.blogspot.com.au/2014/02/the-third-annual-vampires-day-soiree.html  http://hollyshorrorland.blogspot.com.au/2014/02/the-third-annual-vampires-day-soiree.html The Incredibly Boring Un-Life of Benjamin Barker The following is intended as a humour piece and no copyright infringement of others characters is intended. The mocking is also intended in a friendly nature.  This Document Copyright ©2014 By Laura Morrigan  All Rights Reserved except for the names Lestat, Louis, 'Bunny', the 'sparkly vampire', Benjamin Barker and Sweeney Todd, who belong to their respective authors and are used for parody. I Benjamin Barker shuffled the papers on his desk, as frustrated frown on his face. The paper-cut on his hand still throbbed, though it had already healed. It was a typical wound in the life of a paper pusher, but still, a frustrating one. Frustrating because the dull ache and the sight of the cri