“A Heroine” Fiction. Based on a True Lyrical Connection.

“Will you still love me when I am no longer young and beautiful? Will you still love me when I got nothing but my aching soul?” 

– Lana Del Rey


“A Heroine”

Fiction. Based on a True Lyrical Connection.

by Garnet


This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character, or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Trigger Warning: our program often motivates people to discuss their trauma. If you find yourself feeling overwhelmed, please, take a step back to address emotional flashbacks and trauma before continuing to push yourself. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, call 911 or the National Suicide Hotline at (1-800) 273-8255.

Every story needs a heroine. This is not that story. This is a story about a girl, like any other girl, but this girl gets lost in the forest. Among the tall Evergreens. Deep, in the deepest part of the forest, where the sun can’t reach. This is a story of a girl who knows when it will rain before the sky does. She feels it. Precipitation prickles like a burn waiting to surface. It nips at the edges of her skin. She knows when it will rain because before it rains she cries.



I am the devil in the room.

Seductress Morrigan

Mother of Wars

Flanked by a murder of crows

I am the devil in the room.

Casting my black magics.

Elongated shadows trailing behind me.

Oil slick, black iridescent purple Night

Feathers prepared for Flight

Scavengers, Protectors.

I am the devil in the room.

Seductress, Mother, Woman of Earth

Blood, and bone, and marrow

Dancing in flames and proclaiming decrees

Hear me, hear me – Mother Speaks!

I am the devil.

I am the Goddess.



She sits in front of a hearth. Ashes crackle behind the stones, once home to a raging fire. In her hands lie an incomplete display of embroidery. Her children have been tucked in their beds. Twilight dwindles to a hearty, dark evening. She sits in front of a hearth, recounting her life to this point.

A small, auburn haired girl gallivanting through woods, splashing in Earth’s crust. Swimming through everglades. Tallying wide riptides. She used to pray to the goddesses. Placing toadstools on makeshift altars hidden in dead tree trunks.

Now, auburn to silvery orange. She traces wrinkles on her hands. Wondering if this life of obligation and duty was her true destiny. Carving out holes in her heart for the babies to grow.

Was all her life meant for this? Homemaking, teaching, birthing?

All her life was built on love. Her destiny, her war was with the chaos of fate. It was the dance between dream and destiny.

She sits in front a slumbering hearth, ashes cooled. Memories of the flames still provide warmth. Hovering over her embroidery she sighs. A fulfilled sigh. She leaves the cloth behind, walks up the stone steps, and lays in the bed of her youngest child.

Anyone who ever dares to say her life was wasted is gravely mistaken. She is the heroine of these young lives, crusading on their behalf is her birth given destiny. She has lived to give life.




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