Danielle Loewen
Bio
she/her | avid reader | gamer | feminist | reluctant idealist | recovering academic | body lover | meditator
Stories (8/0)
Sacred Pear Trees and Pagan Rites
To the North of the Silk Road, between the Black Sea on the west and the Caspian Sea on the east, lies a barbaric and mountainous land held by pagans called the Vainakh. Merchants who travelled nearby told stories of the strange rituals of these lands: ancestor worship and tree veneration, among other foul heathen practices. Every spring a week before Beltane, the priestesses gather to perform a lottery. One girl of marriageable age is chosen as the sacred vessel, to take part in a rite honouring Tusholi, the goddess of fertility, though purportedly no Vainakh will say what the rite entails. -Marco Polo, on an expunged page
By Danielle Loewen3 years ago in Fiction
Some Tales Need Telling
June 12, 1932 I rose from rumpled sheets and slipped cautiously through the dimly lit room to open the tall windows framing the narrow balcony beyond. The full moon spilled in with the pale street lamps of Paris, followed swiftly by the scent of the jasmine blooming in the small hotel garden below.
By Danielle Loewen3 years ago in Horror
The Stories Lie, I Never Loved A Bull
The gods and men alike love nothing better than to invent lies about us. Although they call us gossips, it is they who have mouths filled with forked tongues, telling tales for which we women pay in blood. The blood of our bodies, the blood of our children. We women always pay the debts, although we rarely incur them.
By Danielle Loewen3 years ago in Futurism
Attempt Number 8,128
It still looked like a barn--from the outside, anyway. If you didn't look too closely, you might think it was abandoned, dilapidated. The livestock was long gone; the idyllic piles of hay eaten by generations of industrious mice, beaten down by the elements, or decomposed to nourish a burgeoning crop of weeds.
By Danielle Loewen3 years ago in Fiction
Loon
From far across the field of ice, we saw the smoke. The sun had polished the snow to mirror brightness and we hurried, fearing what the smoke foretold. But the beasts that pull our supply sleds can only trundle through the crusted drifts so fast. Too slow, too slow - but nothing could be fast enough, for my sister was there.
By Danielle Loewen3 years ago in Fiction