Introducing the big baddie villain of my larger project.

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Yusta stretched her tendrils slowly, pushing into the extremities of each one in turn. She felt bloated and cranky. Her tubes were raw, probably from the ectoplasm she’d regurgitated into the outer dimensions earlier. She hadn’t bothered to clean up, now that the time was finally approaching… soon the nest would be ready, only another hundred years or so. Then, she’d release the brood.

The next few centuries after that would be busy and exhausting, but as long as she survived along with some of the brood, then Yusta would finally get to go back home and leave this shit hole of a planet behind.

She didn’t recall much of the first time she had been here, mostly memories of destroying her weaker siblings and forging her first alliances. She did remember that it had been much warmer then, dryer too. The moisture had stayed to the outsides of the land masses, and the ecture had cycled freely. Here and now, with temperature so low and moisture so ubiquitous, the ecture had pooled and stagnated in deep dense places. She had to stretch all the way into her outer dimensions in order to reach the edges of the ecture pools. She wasn’t very large, in that way. For having been the lead of her brood, Yusta was, in fact, rather small. Even pregnant, her whole body stretched into only seven dimensions comfortably, nine if she really reached.

The challenges of surviving the brood cycle, and her first adult cycle had not really prepared her for being a brood mother. Her brutality and shrewdness had served her well along with her ability to cooperate and get along. Here and now, she was alone with the beasts of the brood planet and the stirrings of her own broodlings inside of her. She had only her own wits and resourcefulness to get her through all that still needed doing.

She reminded herself that she was lucky. This planet, where she herself had been a broodling, was relatively abundant. Had she been from a different line she might have had a more suitable place to raise the brood, but just as likely she would have had to start from scratch and seed a barren place without ready sources of food. Her mothers all the way back to the first explorer to seed this planet had invested much in stabilizing the cycles. Anything it took for a stronger brood.

Her first adult cycle had been enlightening, getting to know the ways of her people. She had learned that, in some broods any leader that wasn’t a male would not do, despite a matriarchal power structure, and strong female brood leaders would have been put down by the mother before getting too powerful. Had she been from one of the barren planets without stable cycles, there would have been relatively little siblicide, as the conditions of survival alone would have passively culled many and the broodlings who cooperated to survive would have become the leaders and survivors. The were even richer broodlings planets, too, mostly in the most ancient families.

During her own brooding, Yusta had had the best of both worlds. She was strong, and at first had been underestimated due to her small size. Many of her siblings had fallen to Yusta herself, but had she not been careful with her building alliances, she could have lost in a one-on-one battle with any number of her fellow broodlings. She allied herself with others who were, like herself, powerful, but not so strong as to usurp her position as lead. And she always made sure to praise her allies publicly, offering them status as well as survival. With strong allies at her side, she made sure that she learned of any hint of mutiny as early as possible. More than once, other broodlings seeking to maintain their status among her allies would put down a threat before she even knew about it. She had gone so far as to establish rituals of fealty, making it a matter of honor that her allies not betray her. But when it did come down to a direct threat, she was swift and merciless in her dealings, publicly humiliating any sibling who had thought to usurp her as she tore tendrils off, one by one.

Her own mother, Manta, had been largely apathetic in their raising, a benefit of the relative abundance of this planet, Yusta figured. Manta had neither had to actively cull nor intervene to assure the survival of her broodlings. She simply had to wait to find out who would come out on top. Manta had fed a lot once the brood had been released and had grown large, slow, and Yusta thought, petty and stupid.

Manta had been disappointed that Duma had not been on top near the end, and Yusta suspected, had been behind his last minute grab for the lead. She still regretted the need for him to be put down. Yusta had hoped he would have been among her mates, lending his formidable strength to her own brood. If Duma had made that grab for position with any expectation of failure, he might not have been so sloppy. Yusta figured the only way he could have felt so sure of himself was if he had had Manta’s assurance of his success. But, true to her ways, Manta had not intervened when several other brothers, having been promised a place among her mates if Yusta were the one to lead them home, ganged up on Duma while he was making his stand.

Yusta pulled herself together, she had no time for distractions. There was work to do. She wondered whether the ectone that had caused her to expand enough to hold the brood inside was affecting her thoughts too, putting too many dimensions between one neural connection and the next. But, that ectone also heightened her senses and she could smell the ecture. The processed star light had concentrated in the depths of the wet masses and in pockets deep in the dry lands.

The task at hand, bring the temperature back up to a suitable range, get the ecture cycling steady again, exterminate some of the pests that had grown up on the surface, encourage the food beasts to grow large enough to be more than a snack for her young.

She remembered Manta telling their mothers line of how the previous brooding had gone during the presentation of the returning brood. She had rearranged the land masses to restrict moisture to the central areas of the land masses, and had released her brood in several places to grow semi-isolated until they could begin reaching out of the broodlings physical dimensions. She had erected barriers to keep the moisture in the main water masses from reaching the central areas by air, and had churned up those water and air masses to cycle the ecture into the atmosphere to rain down and cycle back up again, feeding the food beasts in all dimensions.

Yusta considered sticking the dry land masses back together, but that require more energy than separating them had, and would only help if she could get the ecture move and keep moving. HerShe imagined the cycle, and saw it would not work. Manta’s arrangement had stayed pretty static during the last cycle. There had to be another way.

There must be a way to access the ecture under the layers of land without burying that land underneath layers of moisture.

#scififantasy #broodmother #novelinprogress #miocene #interdimensional #cosmichorror #itsonearth #wearepests #thecircleoflife

Listen well, oh offspring of average folks, as I tell you of the time of the gap between this and the next - that time which is called death. Prepare yourself so you will know how to begin again or not.

As you enter the next essential stage of your development, you must remember your practice during life and follow your right path.

In that pregnant moment

all is sublime

Grey becomes gold.

Everything you have known gets lost in time.

The pain which you have long suffered morphs into gentle caresses. Loneliness passes; the end begins.

Listen... Listen... Do you hear the violins? Serenading you to follow behind like the pied fiddler, and now it is time to choose. Will you follow along with curiosity? Will you see where the music leads you? Or will you get distracted by lights dancing far off and pursue them with your transforming self? You will be vulnerable in this bardo, and you must choose well. You will know the right choice by the sensation on your skin, tingles chasing over your skin after you have ceased to breathe. Oh kid of resourceful family, rise up and do what you gotta do...

Approach with curiosity, not fear. Believe that you will be something and then go become it.

Lady Nicotiana has me in her grip again. Obsessive thoughts after three weeks of no trouble and barely any struggle. Why was it so easy to bum one after the hell I put us through three weeks ago? The headaches and anxiety and everything more stressful than it needed to be? This harsh mistress makes life so much harder and yet... and yet here I am again, with the stick of leaf so fragrant filling my lungs with smoke. The same smoke I have come to despise the smell of on others. I was supposed to call you if I decided I wanted one, and I did call before I bummed one, but you were busy and I didn't bring it up, we chatted as you drove, but I didn't bring it up. I was supposed to get you to tell me why not, and instead you told me that when I wasn't sure whether it was a good day or not to default to assume that I'm doing better than I could possibly imagine. And then we hung up and I bummed one. I was supposed to turn to my notebook to write, which is what I'd been doing before I called you, but all I could write about was how three weeks ago I had nearly destroyed us as the harsh mistress tried to keep me in her grip. I wrote about how my faith and trust in myself had worn so thin as to be nearly gone entirely. I knew what was coming, I wrote about how I'd resigned myself to the idea of smoking today, and how I had to re-establish my self trust or I'd never get anywhere and yet, I have done the thing I said I would not do. Again. How will I ever become anything I esteem if I can not even keep going after three weeks without one misstep for ten more minutes until it passed? And now I can taste her on my breath, the Lady has me again, and I must begin again. I am afraid I'll destroy us again again again. I'm afraid I've already begun. I was supposed to drink water, and I did. I was supposed to get exercise, and I am sore in muscle and bone from the effort. I've done all the things I was supposed to do except tell you that I was in danger of letting myself and you and everyone else down. Again.

This handheld device is not the same as a tool.

I haven't been able and willing to help you out.

Thanks for being there for me when I was there for you.

I'm just trying to figure out a way to make it work.

Sometimes it takes intent to be in a relationship but it will have to be after you.

What do you think about this one?

Fragile like a spider's web

Relieved of broken tension

Distant boughs sprang a'spread

Can we begin again?

Vulnerable, yet receptive

Amazingly, you forgive

I strive - eagerly endeavor

To redraw these limbs together.

The weight of the bags in Dora’s arms seemed to pull her whole body down, to press in on her lungs, and darken her mood. The holidays were supposed to be a time to celebrate and be happy, right? But every year, ever since she was little, Dora had felt that the holidays were specially designed to further disturb her already messed up life. She wished that she could just “forget” these bags at her aunt’s house, but her mother would have just driven back to get them and probably stop at the store on the way back. She wished that she could have stayed at college for the holidays, but that would mean dealing with mom’s guilt trips for months or more afterwards.

On the drive home, her mother chattered happily about how pleased everyone had been with what she’d given them, how she had found the perfect thing for each member of the family. Dora’s mother prided herself on her shopping ability.

Dora tuned her out and stared out the window at the brightly decorated lawns of other people’s homes, normal people’s homes. Twinkling lights, tacky inflatable Santas, classy wire-frame reindeer, each house a promise of some level of order Dora longed for - they all have places empty now in which to store the decorations come Spring. Dora remembered when she was a child, when December rolled around, they would decorate too, hauling boxes of lights and garland from the attic and spending days arranging things.

When had that changed? Was it when Dad left? When Mom started working for herself? Dora realized that it wasn’t all at once. The house had never been tidy, there’d always been piles and clutter. There had always been “extras” of everything. But it had been a gradual shift, only getting completely out of hand once she’d gone away to college two years ago. Dora wondered if it was her fault. But even as a little kid, if she had friends, she went to their houses. No one ever came over to hers.

Upon reaching the house, Dora looked away from the mess of overgrown plants - the remnants of a garden that had once tidily flourished. But now it was too much work to keep up with for her mother, who spent more and more time sorting through all of the stuff that filled the space inside.

Hefting the weight of the gifts to carry around to the back door - the front door was blocked from the inside - Dora did notice something she’d missed in the few days she’d been home. There were still Christmas lights strung on the front of the house. Were they from last year? Or the year before? How long has it been since anyone strung lights? If she plugged them in, would they work? She wasn’t going to try it, afraid that the house would catch fire.

Yesterday, while gathering up the gifts to take to the family gathering, Dora’s mother was sure that there was a gift card meant for Dora’s cousin “about a third of the way down” in a stack of papers next to her desk. Dora searched the stack while her mother wrapped the last of the gifts. She had found a letter from the insurance company - as well as an ATM envelope that still had $40 inside - in between magazines, free brochures, and the missing gift card. After the mortgage had been paid off, they wanted to do an inspection of the house to continue the homeowner’s insurance, and since her mom had not replied to schedule a time, the insurance had been cut off. This was no time to risk a fire, as much as Dora sometimes thought about burning the place down, just to get rid of it all. Not that she’d really do that, even if there’d been insurance, but a girl can dream, right? Dora had, however, pocketed the $40.

There was nowhere to put the bags, Dora knew. Looking around, she chose the dining room table, hefting the bags on top of toppling piles and scattered collections of seemingly unrelated things.

“You got a Christmas card from Max and Pauline, I put it there on the pile of your things on the table,” her mother was still chattering. Dora surveyed the table, covered in piles except for two spots in front of chairs just large enough for a dinner plate. The other two chairs were also covered in piles. There was just enough room in the claustrophobic chambers to exist, but not enough room to think.

Moving aside one of the bags she’d just put down, Dora found the card her mother had mentioned and opened the envelope. There was only a card with a signature. She promptly threw it away. The trash can was one of the emptiest places in the house, she noted. She examined the rest of the pile, briefly. It was mostly unopened mail - one from a credit card company offering her a low interest rate, another from her school’s alumni association, as well as a receipt from something she’d bought over a year ago, and a blurry photograph her mother had taken at one of her high school softball games. Junk. She turned and threw the whole pile into the trash, closing the lid to the bin with a slap. Her mother stopped what she was doing, looking surprised and hurt.

Dora went to the bathroom, looked at herself in the dingy mirror, and started crying. The soap dispenser was mostly empty, and covered in a yellowish grime. It was crowded between a mug that Dora gave her mother long ago that read “#1 Mom” with toothbrushes in it (three still in their original packaging) and a lidded jar filled with Q-tips. The entire counter was covered - empty prescription bottles, travel size packages of tissues, tools for fixing the leaky faucet (unfixed), a broken hair dryer. She turned on the faucet and rinsed her face with cool water, trying to soothe the redness in her eyes and cheeks.

When she came out of the bathroom, her mother had begun pulling things from the bags and sorting them. “Dora, dear, this bag is yours,” she said, indicating a large bag with cartoon polar bears and snowflakes on it. “Help me sort these things and we’ll get done that much faster.”

Dora sighed and pulled a carefully folded piece of tissue paper from one of the bags and started to throw it into the trash.

“Put the wrappings in this box, dear, I’m going to put them up in the attic when we put away the wrapping paper. They’ll get used next year.”

Dora stared at her mother incredulously, then glanced over to their “wrapping station”. The first day she’d arrived, she had helped her mother move the things from the couch next to the piano - unplayed for years, in part due to not being able to sit on the bench - so that they had somewhere to put all of the wrapping supplies. Then they had gone into the attic, which was completely packed with plastic bins. They’d had to pull out dozens of bins before finding the ones with the Christmas stuff. Dora had felt relieved when her mother reluctantly decided they didn't have time to decorate the house and allowed her to put those boxes back in the attic.

There were rolls and rolls of unopened wrapping paper as well as carefully folded remnants from previous years, a box full of unopened ribbon, reclaimed stick on bows which had lost their stick, and at least a dozen unopened packages of festive tissue paper. Most of it had been bought on sale after the holidays in previous years - and her mother had been pleased to find such good deals. To this, they added the new deluxe saver’s pack of wrapping paper that her mother had gotten and stashed behind the couch last week. The tissue paper suddenly felt nearly as heavy as the bags of stuff she’d carried in from the car, and she considered throwing it away anyway. Then she sighed and placed the tissue paper into the box her mother had indicated.

Dora’s phone rang. She pulled it out and looked at the screen. The number looked familiar, but she wasn’t sure who it could be.

“Hello?”

“Hey there, Ms. Eudora, are you home for Christmas?” A cheerful young woman’s voice said.

“Jesse?”

“That’s me, sister from another mister!”

“Yea, I‘m around for another couple of days, what's up?”

“What are you doing tonight? We are setting up a last minute Friendsmas get together at my place, are you free?” Dora found herself grinning, Jesse had always been able to brighten her mood. But she hadn’t expected anyone to call - Dora hadn’t been a good friend. She’d rarely hung out outside of softball and classes during high school, and she’d lost touch completely since going away to college. But Jesse’s had been one of those homes she’d escaped to when she was younger. They had had wire frame reindeer outside, she remembered. And Jesse was one person who didn’t ever ask why she never visited Dora's house.

“Yea, I think so. Can I text you in a few? I just gotta check with Mom,” Dora looked at her mother, who was watching her with interest. Dora felt guilty for being so excited at the prospect of being anywhere else but here.

“No problem, but you’d better make it, it wouldn’t be the same without you!”

Dora ended the call. Her mother raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

“Hey, can I borrow your car? Jesse is having some people over at her place tonight, do you mind?”

Her mother looked back at the gifts and packaging she was sorting and sighed dramatically, “I suppose so. I’ll just finish this up by myself, I guess. Just let me get my things from the car first.”

Dora dismissed another pang of guilt, and suddenly decided that she didn’t care if her mother was alone tonight, she would give herself a night off.

She pulled out her phone again and typed, “Your call is the best gift I’ve gotten so far, what time?”

Before her daughter left, Cecelia made sure there was nothing she might need still in the car, just in case. She filled a reusable shopping bag - chapstick, a piece of folded wrapping paper that had fallen from another bag, a fraying sweater that she had knitted years ago, a single glove (maybe the other one had made it back into the closet?), a book that she’d started reading after one of her clients mentioned it, other things. Finally, she reached into her pocket and handed Dora a wad of cash, just in case.

Returning to her home, she looked around. Her eyes fell on a plastic thimble, red and bumpy. She picked it up and ran her fingers over the bumps. She remembered the day she bought the little sewing kit that it had come in, she and Dora had been out and a button popped on Dora’s shirt where her young developing chest had strained the fastener. She remembered buying the kit at a convenience store and replacing the button in the car while Dora hid under a jacket. She'd added extra stitching so as to not let it happen again, and then she took Dora shopping for clothes to fit her new woman's body. She remembered how lovely her daughter had looked in some of the things they picked out that day. It had been difficult for Cecelia to let her wear them, they were so nice.

Considering it, that was the last time she could remember shopping with her daughter. She would have to ask Dora if she’d like to come along on her daily rounds before she went back to school. That would be nice, Cecelia thought, and put the thimble on top of a box on the kitchen counter where she could see it to remind her to ask.

Then, she turned back to the task at hand. The holidays at her sister’s house were always well managed, her sister had always been more organized than Cecelia herself. She pulled out the sweater her nephew had given her, careful not to crumple it. He had excellent taste - the soft grey color, the classic cable knit pattern - he had the makings of an excellent shopper, like his aunt Cecelia.

She smiled, and carried it to her closet. She stepped over a pile of magazines that she hadn’t yet had the time to read to the far end of her closet. She pulled out a clear plastic garment bag and a white plastic hanger. She arranged the sweater so that it would hang just so. Cecelia’s eye fell on a bright yellow sweater and smiled. Her sister had given it to her, how long ago? Maybe ten years ago, Cecelia had admired the bright cheerful color, and her sister gifted it to her on the spot, saying that she only wore it once before realizing that it made her look like a giant lemon. Cecelia herself had never worn it, preferring to keep it in the near pristine condition she’d received it in. Cecelia and her sister didn’t always get along, but she treasured this sweater and the memory, the connection, that it symbolized for her. She decided that her new sweater from her nephew should be next to this one, and she carefully made room between the other garment bags and hooked it to the bar.

She would have to remember to write thank you notes, of course. She made sure to find the gift tag that had been on the box that had had the sweater inside, turned it over and wrote “gray sweater” on the back, and put it on top of the pile next to her, where she could see it. She suddenly remembered that there was a gift tag she’d saved from the chocolates that one of her clients had given her, she should find it so that when she went to write the thank you notes, she’d have them all together. Where had she put it? Searching her memory, she recalled that it had been in the pile that she’d had Dora look through the evening before for a gift card, that she’d gotten the gift card the same day as the chocolates.

Finding the correct pile, she started sorting, taking a careful look at each item. A brochure from the local history society reminded her of the nice young man she’d met and had a great conversation with at the town museum. She thought that he and Dora would get along, maybe even want to date. Cecelia worried about her daughter, sometimes. She was glad that Dora had friends to visit tonight, as much as she would have liked to spend the evening together. She turned the brochure over, and sure enough, there was the young man’s phone number. What was his name? She couldn’t remember, but figured that could be fixed with a phone call. She carried the brochure to the place where she put things that were for Dora and started a new pile.

She found what she was looking for, and carried the gift tag from the client’s chocolates and placed it with the one for the sweater. Then, she moved on to the next gift: a lovely ornament carved from stone, a tiny nativity scene inside of a rough piece of soapstone. Her brother-in-law knew she loved nativity scenes. Her sister had been so ready to leave him a few years ago, but they had been going to couples therapy and seemed to be doing well. Cecelia was glad, she’d always liked him. He was much better to her sister than Cecelia’s own ex-husband had been to her.

She lamented that she hadn’t gotten around to putting up a tree this year, there was just so much to do, and now she was having to do it all by herself. She made a promise then and there, as a gift to herself, she’d get the place cleaned up so that the family could come to her place for the holidays again. Next year, maybe.

In the meantime, without a tree to hang the ornament on, Cecelia decided to sit it in the bathroom, next to the faucet where she could see it.

Next out of the bag was a gift card that he’d gifted to Dora. Cecelia thought gift cards and cash were such impersonal gifts, excepting the one she’d given her nephew - that was a promise to go shopping together. She supposed that her brother-in-law and her daughter maybe didn't know each other so well to choose more personal things. She looked around for the polar bear bag. Not seeing it, she placed it on top of the brochure from the museum.

Cecelia looked around, feeling the richness of her life. The love and support of her friends and family, brought together physically into a visible tapestry, woven together, into her safe nest of things. The things she kept were all pieces of herself.

She went to the trash can, opened the lid, and looked down at the pile of stuff that her daughter had so nonchalantly put in there. She fished out a photo that she had liked of Dora sliding into home base senior year. She remembered how proud she had felt of her daughter that day. She’d saved the picture as a gift for Dora to encourage her during difficult times in college, to remind her of her ability to achieve great things.

Looking back at the rest of the things her daughter had thrown out, Cecelia steeled herself and closed the lid to the trash bin again, trying not to feel as if her daughter had rejected Cecelia herself by throwing away the things she’d saved. She couldn’t understand how Dora could just get rid of stuff without stopping to find out if she might use it somehow first. It felt wasteful, but Cecelia tried to forgive her daughter. Dora had kept her going after her husband had left, like a gift from God. Her little girl was all grown up now, and Cecelia treasured all of the things that reminded her of Dora’s life thus far.

She put the softball picture on her headboard, where she could see it, tucked between her alarm clock and the coffee mug she’d brought back to bed a few days ago, and up against a train ticket she’d saved from when she’d gone to visit Dora at school a few months ago. They had gone to dinner at an expensive restaurant and shared a chocolate mousse so rich they had trouble finishing it. Cecelia smiled and made sure the train ticket peeked out from behind the photograph, where she could see it.

Noticing the alarm clock, Cecelia realized how late it was getting. She sent Dora a text telling her to be careful and to have fun, and that she was going to bed. She carefully shifted a few things to the side of the bed that her ex-husband used to occupy and began to ready herself for sleep.

Dora arrived home very late - or very early, depending on how one looked at it. The Friendsmas gathering had been a godsend. Jesse's house had been full of empty space and friends and laughter - Dora relaxed for the first time since she'd boarded the train outside of the college town. Some of the people she'd known in high school, several were on the softball team, but there were others she'd never met before. They had ordered pizza and drank beer, even though about half of them were a year or so underage.

Dora had tried to help pay for the food and drink, but Jesse had waved her off. That had been quite a few hours ago, and Dora was hungry again. Jesse had insisted that she take home a few extra slices.

Dora was so grateful for Jesse, she'd even been able to regift a couple of the things from the polar bear bag, having tossed it into the back of the car on her way out. A few more things she didn't have to deal with.

She stopped in front of the microwave, balancing the leftover pizza box on top of a jumble of Tupperware, magazines, used napkins, and utensils. The box had been crushed on one side, and as she opened it, she remembered how it had happened - a guy who was clearly crushing on Jesse tripped and fell right onto the coffee table, but he played it off well and rolled as he landed so that his head ended up right in Jesse’s lap. It had to have hurt but he left the girls laughing.

She smiled and ripped off a paper towel from the roll and opened the microwave. The open space inside the microwave was a gift of emptiness and functionality. She stopped the countdown a few seconds early, hoping the noise wouldn't disturb her mother.

She left the crushed box on top of the stove and carried the warmed up pizza to her old bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, slice in one hand and phone in the other. She texted Jesse to let her know she'd gotten in safe, as she'd promised to, and then browsed through photos from the evening. She found one of her and Jesse making funny faces, and she smiled as she set it to the background image for her phone, where she could see it.

When she'd finished the late night snack, she undressed, tossing her clothes on top of the duffel bag that would accompany her back to school. As she drifted off, she was grateful that she'd been a gifted enough student to win the scholarship that allowed her to get out of this shit hole. Only two more days.