Mami Wata Stories Novels & Stories

Mary answered in the dorm of a question "Well my mum told me today that all stories and tales are sprinled with truth. And all the gods are real the moon goddess created us and assigned our wolves our mates and when we turn, I don't believe she would condem us if we believe in an alternative afterlife or maybe our afterlife is the same as the vikings and your nan's beliefs, we just don't know and probably never will until we die. That's why it's called an afterlife" I answered

The risk made everything hotter, the chance our parents could show up at the cabin any minute, us nowhere to be found. “You’re clenching so tight,” he grunted, biting my shoulder. “Gonna breed you again. Fill this stepbrother hole until you’re leaking for days.” “Yes...breed me,” I gasped, pushing back to meet his thrusts. “Pump me full, Ryan. Please...” He fucked me faster, one hand over my mouth to muffle my screams as he railed me against the tree. My cock exploded in his fist, shooting ropes onto the ground while my hole spasmed around him.

The Sequel: Wild Anemone is coming soon. Hello friends, I'm Mama Magie Ward. A farm mom and author who started writing as part of my stroke recovery. We walk together in the penumbra, a space of partial illumination between the shadow and the light. Mine are stories about and for those who face overcoming or succumbing.

Others were darker—twisted versions of what I thought I knew, stories that mother had sanitized for her daughter's innocent ears. There were stories of Moon Healers who could mend flesh with a touch, knitting together wounds that should have been fatal, saving lives that the Goddess had already marked for the afterworld... or stop a heart from beating with the same gentle caress, stealing life as easily as granting it. Wolves who could ease a soul into peace, comforting the dying with visions of beauty and light as they passed beyond the veil... or rip one from a body in rage, condemning the victim to wander eternally, forever separated from the ancestors.

She spoke of their child and her hope for another one. I looked to Nikka when Mandy finished her story; Nikka spoke into Mandy's mind and Mandy relayed her thoughts. She told me about Nikka's mating with Dmitri. I was fascinated with vampires and asked questions for an hour. Mandy told me of the war between beastkind species and how much better things were now that it was over. I was enthralled with their entire realm, and Mandy happily answered even the most probing questions. When I took a long breath, Mandy spoke, "Now it's your turn to spill. Tell us if your man breathes fire in bed, out of bed, or both."

“The man that Camila called her Mate. The man who came from the North was a Vampire.” I gaped at my parents unable to say anything. Beside me, I can see Mikey’s reaction which was a clear reflection of mine. We grew up with stories that will ensure us not even dare go in the direction of the path that leads to the North. The stories that we learned and know were not some kind of fairy tale that leads to the happy ever after. The stories that we were taught were brutal and always resulted in death.

At least far more interesting than the story I heard yesterday at the antique auction, is this one, I thought. I became uneasy when he described how two werewolves broke their fated mate promise and unleashed a terrible calamity. The narrative was too visceral and realistic. Every time I hear the story, it seems to tighten my heart, so I don't want to listen to it anymore. It felt odd, as though I had also lived through the same narrative. She continued, "And it all began with the Grimoire." "Grimoire?" I asked, intrigued. This Grimoire seemed to be at the center of all the odd occurrences.

I reached for the memories of the shifters who had died, for the love Silas had given me in the dark, and for the sacrifice Fenris had made to seal the Mother. I didn't look for a weapon. I looked for a **Story**. *“In the beginning,”* I whispered, *“there was a girl who was told she was nothing.”* The white light of the Cleaners hit us. But it didn't dissolve us. It hit the "Story" and stalled. The Mirror-Man tilted his head, his reflective face rippling with confusion. "Analysis: Subject is attempting to write a Narrative-Layer over the Null-State. Logic dictates this is impossible. Narratives require a Foundation."

To him, I was nothing. "Why?" I whispered. "Why do this to us?" "Because 'The Old Mess' is a great story, Kaima," she said, standing up. "And people pay a lot of money to feel like they’re part of a great story. But now, the story is over. It’s time for the analysis." They led me down a hallway that seemed to go on forever. It was filled with rows of tanks—thousands of them. Some were empty; others held wolves, children, and elders. All of them were sleeping, dreaming of worlds that didn't exist.

“She should probably start with the stories Nana always loved to tell her. Those are the type that might be illegal.” “What the hell, Tate. Why are you out here ratting out Nana like that?” “Tell me,” I say, ignoring her fake annoyance with Tatum. “Everyone has heard of ghost wolves,” she starts with a sigh. “But no one ever talks about what they are, how they came to be.” “All I recall hearing was that they were wandering wolves who lost their mates.” I shrug and Tatum shakes her head. “No, they are a ghost of themselves because they never found their mates.” Tatum corrects me and I roll my eyes. “Our moms always argued about that bit when they would try to scare us with the stories.”