I was trying something here; writing without planning. Yes, it's writing a myth as well. But the Mother character has just sat down and is telling this story, or at least that's how I wanted it to come across. There are holes in it, because it's not planned, and she finishes it rather hastily because she's fed up, maybe, or the child wants to sleep. I'm quite pleased with it, as simplistic as it is.
“A story, is it? Very well.” Mother sat on the seat next to my bed, her knitting needles clicking quietly together. I sat up, suddenly not at all tired despite the heaviness of my eyelids. My duvet was warm, my pillow was soft and the fire crackled in time with the clock on the wall.
“My tale begins hundreds, no, thousands of years ago, and on a world far from this one.
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