Favored by the Goddesses: Everyday Goddess Omnibuses, #1

By R.S. Kellogg

Sixteen Everyday Goddess Stories in one place for your reading enjoyment!

 

Women and goddesses alike face adventures of all sizes in the Everyday Goddess series.

Whether they deal with issues that shape the world or merely their personal destinies, their choices matter, and they follow intuition and luck to figure things out . . .

Sometimes with surprising results.

These sixteen stories—first gathered together for the first time in this omnibus—explore the magical adventures of Kuan Yin, Artemis, Nike, the Fates, the Graces, the fairy tale heroine Rapunzel and a handful of everyday women.

 

This omnibus includes short stories from three separate collections:

 

Everyday Goddess Stories, Vol. 1:

"The Empress Kuan Yin," in which Kuan's Yin's search for the balance point of the year begins in a suburban backyard.

"Try Not to Get Lost in the Woods," in which Betty, hiking alone, loses her way as the sun goes down.

"Artemis the Midwife," in which Bethany faces a surprise storm when she goes camping with her children.

"Tia's Eclipse," in which a superstitious seeker looks for a place away from tourists to watch the coming eclipse.

"Artemis and the Cats," in which Penelope chases her dog after he finds an unexpected escalator to a realm of the gods.

 

Tales of the Fates: Everyday Goddess Stories, Vol. 2

"Nike Plays Cards," in which the goddess of victory hopes to win a favor from Zeus in a card game.

"Fates' Colored Water," in which the Fates prepare for a fraught birthday celebration for one of the sisters.

"Her Great Lengths," in which Rapunzel gets a rare opportunity. (Maybe it's fate.)

"The Quilt of the Fates," in which Lach tries a new hobby.

"The Women's House," a Breadcove Bay story in which a woman seeks help to move through the invisible weight of her grief.

"Nike and the Fates," in which the goddess of victory visits the Fates to ask for a favor.

 

Tales of Fates and Graces: Everyday Goddess Stories, Vol. 3

"Cousins to the Fates" reveals what happens when Atty and the other Fates agree to a meeting with the Graces . . . who bring very different ideas than what the Fates believe about grace and destiny.

In "A Day in the Life of the Graces," Bright prepares to help out with the aftermath of a hurricane, with no idea of what issues await her.

In "The Longshot Heir," Rapunzel's Mother leaves unexpectedly for town, leaving Rapunzel to make an unexpected discovery.

In "The Graces of Apollo," Apollo plays unwitting host to divine guests that bring a strange request.

In "The Crush of a Fate," Atty takes time alone to think through an important personal matter with significant repercussions.

 

If you love tales of Goddesses and humans who brush the divine, buy this book today and receive all 16 of the above stories, now gathered together for the first time in this omnibus!

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.S. Kellogg
• Release date: Feb 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781956123920

R.S. Kellogg

 R.S. Kellogg writes in the fantasy Breadcove Bay series, as well as exploring other story worlds and non-fiction topics.

Book preview

Introduction

Stories of the many goddesses from diverse world cultures have a power, flair, and variety to them that I find fascinating.

In some traditions, the goddesses play very distinct roles.

In others, they are hinted at or largely silent.

In still others, goddesses can play multiple roles, or sometimes take on a life all of their own and evolve, with additional adventures, stories, and even accounts of encounters with devotees that can build up and add to their mystique over time.

There is something so archetypal about the feeling of these goddess stories—and the idea of the spark of the divine in the feminine energies of every woman.

It can be primal, powerful, and inspiring, especially for women who are finding their own way to create, oversee, remake, and luxuriate—all arguably goddess-like qualities.

The Everyday Goddess stories gathered together for this omnibus are inspired by a few cultures.

The Greek Goddesses with stories here include Artemis, the Fates, the Graces, and Nike. Though the names are ancient, the characters are playing out stories that take place against a modern backdrop. Kuan Yin is a Goddess with an Asian background. She is the goddess of compassion, and is reimagined here as a deity who searches to find balance.

The character of Rapunzel pops up in volumes 2 and 3 of the Everyday Goddess stories, and again with a couple of stories in volume 4 (sold separately). She is not a goddess, but is instead a fairy tale character with newly reimagined stories—that in this book center around the dynamic between Rapunzel and her Mother.

The other characters with stories in this omnibus are regular mortal women who brush the divine, either briefly, in a prolonged fashion, or repeatedly (as in the Women’s House, where the healer is a woman whose work is to facilitate connection with the divine or with emotional healing via the liminal space).

Here’s a sneak peak of the stories you’ll find in this book.

Everyday Goddess Stories, Vol. 1:

The Empress Kuan Yin, in which Kuan’s Yin’s search for the balance point of the year begins in a suburban backyard. This story features a young trans woman, finding her own way.

Try Not to Get Lost in the Woods, in which Betty, hiking alone, loses her way as the sun goes down.

Artemis the Midwife, in which Bethany faces a surprise storm when she goes camping with her children.

Tia’s Eclipse, in which a superstitious seeker looks for a place away from tourists to watch the coming eclipse.

Artemis and the Cats, in which Penelope chases her dog after he finds an unexpected escalator to a realm of the gods.

Tales of the Fates: Everyday Goddess Stories, Vol. 2

Nike Plays Cards, in which the goddess of victory hopes to win a favor from Zeus in a card game.

Fates’ Colored Water, in which the Fates prepare for a fraught birthday celebration for one of the sisters.

Her Great Lengths, in which Rapunzel gets a rare opportunity. (Maybe it’s fate.)

The Quilt of the Fates, in which Lach tries a new hobby.

The Women’s House, a Breadcove Bay story in which a woman seeks help to move through the invisible weight of her grief.

Nike and the Fates, in which the goddess of victory visits the Fates to ask for a favor.

Tales of Fates and Graces: Everyday Goddess Stories, Vol. 3

Cousins to the Fates reveals what happens when Atty and the other Fates agree to a meeting with the Graces . . . who bring very different ideas than what the Fates believe about grace and destiny.

In A Day in the Life of the Graces, Bright prepares to help out with the aftermath of a hurricane, with no idea of what issues await her.

In The Longshot Heir, Rapunzel's Mother leaves unexpectedly for town, leaving Rapunzel to make an unexpected discovery.

In The Graces of Apollo, Apollo plays unwitting host to divine guests that bring a strange request.

In The Crush of a Fate, Atty takes time alone to think through an important personal matter with significant repercussions.

These sixteen short stories explore the divine feminine—throughout a variety of lenses and characters.

Ready to dive in?

Enjoy the stories.

Cheers,

Rebecca

P.S. At the end of this book, you will find the opening of A Cold Mermaid Tale, a sneak preview of the first story from A Chorus of Mermaid Magic Tales: Mermaid Omnibus #1.

Introduction

Myths and stories of goddesses and of women’s encounters with the mystical fascinate me.

Actually, to give the full story, myths and stories in general have always fascinated me, and my relationship with them has certainly evolved over the years.

As a child, I gobbled up illustrated books of Greek and Roman mythology as well as books that novelized fairy tales and new inventive tales spun out with delightful details and enchanted charm.

As the reader, I generally associated myself with the lead hero or heroine, while pausing to take note of the sometimes-peripheral characters who seemed to carry the heart of the story. I also admired the strong, memorable female characters that showed up, occasionally on the periphery, in some of my favorite plots. Wouldn’t it be cool to have more about them? I thought as I finished a satisfying book with a female character I would have loved to have seen more about.

IT TOOK SOME TIME BEFORE I recognized that the adrenaline-high stories of the epics and sagas I loved so well, while certainly entertaining, could also feel exhausting to me after a certain point.

I longed for journeys that explored the heart, the inner landscape, and relationships, just as much as they tracked a hero or heroine’s quest.

I may have longed for this piece even more.

When this element was missing or lacking from a story, I certainly felt it, and I always was left wondering . . . what would have happened if we’d seen what had been going on inside of that character’s heart and mind more deeply?

What if the character had sunk more deeply into that realm themselves? What may the story have become then?

In stories I read that traced that deeper arch, I felt so satisfied after reading the final paragraphs.

In many traditional male-driven sagas and legends, there is a woman somewhere at the symbolic heart or pivotal points of it, and she typically plays one of a few roles:

Either a love interest that holds the heart of our hero and represents a large part of his exterior motivation or reward, a quiet voice of reason that asks him to consider his options, or an intuitive voice or channel that gives him wisdom or information that he needs.

In female-driven stories where the action does not follow the traditional male arc, I feel there is room to play with a deeper level of interior transformation and shift. The surface drama can become a force for change not only on an external level but also on a level that is intimately, deeply personal . . . and can therefore, potentially, lead to more expansive shifts—sometimes merely for the character at the heart of the story, and sometimes for the broader group for which the woman is a part or with which she engages.

Most of the hearts of these stories explore just these kinds of arcs.

But some of them were written just for sheer fun.

And most are both.

Happy reading.

Cheers,

R.S. Kellogg

The Empress Kuan Yin

By R. S. Kellogg

The trouble with visiting Earth is that if you stay long enough, and have any level of power, the locals will assign you as either a demon or a deity.

There are headaches either way.

And, due to their cycles of religion, sometimes the locals will assign you as both. Usually by different factions though.

Kuan Yin sat on an ornamental jasper stone throne with a tall back and curving armrests that a devotee had ordered carved in her honor to invite her presence into the family’s backyard garden behind a tasteful old house in Virginia.

She felt, as she often did when she gathered herself and paused, the depth and weight of her years on this planet.

She felt them like a tree feels its years in rings and roots, anchoring it where it stands, tall, thick, and rooted to the life force of this Earth, somehow both itself and yet connected with all beings. Many years stretched behind her, and endless centuries remained before Kuan Yin’s work here would be finished.

Her pet white cockatoo flitted in various spaces within the backyard.

She saw him:

| molting in spring after breeding, landing on a bare branch above the fall leaves (Kuan Yin wondered if this resulted in sacred cockatoo babies and peeked to see that—yes)

| pecking at grain set for him in a ceremonial bird feed bowl in summer, neck moving in his slight jerky fashion as the grain made the faintest scattering sound under his beak

| molting in fall, again, near fragrant orange flowers where he shook himself and scattered a few feathers (looking like a triumphant little devil)

| and head tucked under wing napping on her lap in the winter, the texture of his claws bumpy against her thigh even through her robe.

Kuan Yin had four-part vision.

True, she existed in the human version of a now, and could focus a primary part of her essence to a given location and time, as she did now in this garden, but generally she existed a year at a time, and saw things in simultaneous seasons.

She saw and held four seasons at once.

She held the seasons until she saw the thread at the center that represented the balance for that year. Then, when the thread of inner balance within the cycle revealed itself to her, her gaze would trace the length of it, enraptured by the pattern that balance took that year.

Being witnessed by her, the balance-thread would vibrate in response.

Kuan Yin would smile; all would burst into resonance.

It was the closest thing she had to what the humans experienced as love at first sight.

Her mood would elevate rapidly and her vision would shift into wholeness.

The four-part vision would fold—curving together like the spherical sides of a pearl—closing together for her to comprehend the year as an entire piece—precious moment, treasured moment, moment of crystallization and completion—she’d see one image.

And she’d shriek within herself for joy, a sound few to no locals would ever hear, as they recognized her mainly as a goddess of calm, and interacted with her in that aspect, generally oblivious to some of her other pieces.

It was one of those other pieces that had brought the force of her presence into this garden.

Reluctantly in this case, but still she’d had to come.

She’d been sitting on a moon swing at the top of a hill in Kawaii, singing with the stars in a great ecstatic symphony of cosmic sound when the call had come.

The edge of a whisper, distinct enough to command her immediate attention.

Kuan Yin was immediately elsewhere, the swing under the stars moving back and forth on its own for a spell, leaving the heavy scent of rose and ylang ylang behind, and the echo of vibrato on a song.

A tourist rubbed her eyes. She’d caught a glimpse of a woman in a long robe on the swing, and then the being was gone.

Now that Kuan Yin had centered her essence in this garden, there did not appear to be a person behind the whisper. 

But this was not entirely unusual.

Sometimes she heard the whisper when it was still only spoken in the heart, and before it was spoken aloud.

Patience being a primary virtue of Kuan Yin’s, she waited, pouring water from a pitcher into the sacred pool in the back of the garden.

As the stream of water fell to the pond, she saw the pouring water:

| warming the chilled water of the pond in early spring

| blessing the fish in summer

| splashing over the head of a turtle paddling along through the autumn debris on the corner of the pond (evidently in autumn the gardener wasn’t cleaning the leaves up as timely as he could be)

| falling not far from a plastic lotus someone had ceremoniously added to the pond in winter.

Kuan Yin curled her toes toward the earth under her feet.

The air smelled like her floral perfume. Mostly roses and ylang ylang.

That’s what the air always smelled like around her no matter what the facet of her vision might be.

She may have dozed off, or slipped in to her species’ version of a deep meditation, because her gaze softened.

Her eyes didn’t close, exactly, but she was in a warm inward space, tuning in to the river of her own inner being, content to wait for whatever it was that was speaking to her to come forward.

It was a low cough that first caught her attention.

A young man. His hair overgrown, fuzz on his chin, much too skinny for the baggy shirt and pants he wore, eyes dull yet somehow still holding a ghost of a spark.

He knelt to the side of her, offering a tulip clearly plucked from the spring garden on the perimeter of the yard and setting it at her feet.

The young man existed only in the springtime garden.

Cautiously, Kuan Yin expanded her consciousness outward, checking elsewhere.

The young man existed only the springtime garden.

Your bird pooped on our lotus statue, he said. His voice sounded soft and reverential, but somehow still accusatory.

Kuan Yin frowned at him. The rains will wash it away, she said.

By next Tuesday, apparently, according to what she sensed of the weather patterns.

The young man looked up.

They made eye contact.

He blinked.

Kuan Yin felt something rising within her.

Recognition?

He looked at her and she knew he saw her.

With his human eyes.

She felt as she imagined the string that held the balance every year felt, at the moment she comprehended it in their eternal game of hide and seek.

Seen, visible, and somehow more alive than she’d been a moment before.

This was curious.

Why should the gaze of a clearly half-starved young human make her feel more alive?

Especially when his own life would last no longer than one season—one frame of her vision.

She, who hailed from another star, and she who his people had come to call a goddess?

Humans came to her for grace and enlivenment, it did not go the other way around.

He continued to gaze upon her face, seeing her clearly. I beseech you, goddess, from my soul, he said. Bless my family. Especially my mother.

Her radiance extended outward to all, of course.

Any who called upon her radiance at any time would connect with it, be blessed by it.

Her spiritual power was one of the forces on this world that lifted women and children. Men didn’t come to her as often.

Of course I will bless your family, she said. It was already done, as soon as he’d asked it. Would you like me to bless you as well?

He shuddered, pulled in on himself, shoulders hunched inside his red checkered shirt.

He settled down beside the fish pond, and seemed to rest comfortably there.

If I was going to beseech a guardian on behalf of my family, I thought I’d pick you, you know? he said. Not just because you’re one my mom loves, and she set up that chair for you. But also because I think you’d kind of relate to my circumstances, Kuan Yin. Maybe help them understand me.

But the echo she heard that rested silently behind his spoken words was the old name he’d been thinking of: Avalokitesvara.

One of her other names.

Her name from when she had been male.

Kuan Yin looked at the young man a little more deeply.

She saw within him, curled within his soul like a pearl clutched for dear life within the grip of the petals of a frozen lotus, the soul of a woman.

A woman who was terrified and voiceless.

What is your name, my dear? she asked the figure before her.

Something at the edge of the lotus holding the woman melted, just a trifle. Enough for the words to come through: I’d like it if you’d call me Rowan.

You guard your true nature very closely, Kuan Yin said.

I didn’t ask you to talk with me about my true nature.

I am a goddess, she replied. I reflect back to people what they are, when they come talk with me.

A shrug.

A tear.

And then another tear.

And then a storm of tears.

Kuan Yin, specialist in compassion, was very familiar with the healing power of tears.

She sat comfortably in the silence and let the water flow.

She watched as the frozen lotus inside this young person melted a little bit from around the inner form of the woman. If anything, Rowan looked a little better now. Less desolate.

A little more light to the eyes, a little less droop to the shoulders.

Rowan looked up at Kuan Yin. How did it go for you? When did you realize? How did you . . . decide to own it?

Kuan Yin shrugged. One regal shoulder rising, and falling. I didn’t decide. It simply was. The realization came to me one year when I looked at the balance at the end of the pearl—you’re a human, you wouldn’t understand. But I reached the moment where I saw the balance for the year, and I realized—my balance had shifted. I was a woman. And a lot of the humans realized that too. You’re not the only one who can see me, you know.

Rowan had snot running down her chin. She wiped at her face with a sleeve. She nodded. Thank you for keeping an eye on my family.

She stood up, ready to head back to the house, glancing back at Kuan Yin one more time.

Kuan Yin saw something in the shadow of Rowan that took her breath for a moment—the edge of the string.

The balance string was tied to Rowan’s being.

| in spring, Rowan was heading back toward the house, and the thread of balance was stretching back toward Kuan Yin

| in summer the shades of the windows at the back of the house were drawn

| in fall, the leaves piled up near the fish pond but candles were lit at the house on Rowan’s birthday (in memorium)

| in winter, the yard was painfully silent.

Kuan Yin expanded her consciousness outward, looking for the balance thread.

In winter, the world was silent on the matter of the balance thread.

No balance thread.

She double-checked. This year’s balance thread died with Rowan.

Shoot.

Kuan Yin did a lot of things on Planet Earth, but she basically had One Job.

Kuan Yin sprinted toward the house, chasing Rowan. She just missed, getting the door closed in her face and recoiling into the yard.

Someone had blessed this door with holy water and superstition, and she was required to honor boundaries.

She needed to retreat and assess her next step. Where was she going to go? Maui?

Her cockatoo flew over to land on her shoulder.

He didn’t want to be left behind.

The problem with Rowan was that she wasn’t eating.

Kuan Yin had seen this, staking out the house for a day after a brief two-hour retreat to Maui.

She’d seated herself in the backyard, next to the throne, combing out her long hair.

The combing action pulled the scent of roses and ylang ylang from her hair and filled the yard.

In the springtime, birds were attracted to the heavenly scent. She spotted the nest of her cockatoo’s lover in the tree and grinned. That would be the sacred nest.

| In summer, the scent rolled over the walls and into the neighborhood. Lovers walked by arm in arm. Kuan Yin smiled upon romance.

| In fall, Rowan’s mother briefly appeared at the window and glanced out, face drawn but eyes wide. She breathed heavily. She looked tired. She did not see Kuan Yin, but seemed to relax a bit from the divine presence nearby, even under the weight of her grief.

| In winter, Rowan’s mother bundled up in a coat and came and sat on a stone bench near Kuan Yin’s stone chair. Kuan Yin looked into the end of the year where the balance thread was missing.

I don’t know that you can hear me, Kuan Yin said to the woman on the bench. I do think you might be the only human who can save the current situation. But it needs to be in the right season.

The mother’s long, narrow features looked pale.

She had dark circles under her eyes.

She may or may not have seen Kuan Yin, but she held her breath for a moment, and blew it out, and sighed.

Balance is a delicate thing.

Put the right amount of pressure on a design at the right moment and things will swing in the right direction.

The trick is you need to know which spot to touch.

And you need to know how to work around the friction.

There were two dualities at play in Rowan, and two in the house.

Kuan Yin could see the division between the two parents as she sat, staring at the psychic patterns and layers at play on the property.

The mother was free-spirited.

She was the one who welcomed the spirit of Kuan Yin and invited her into the garden.

The father felt that anything that wasn’t a male god must be a demon or a temptress.

He was the one who had blessed the back door with holy water and superstition, in order to keep the influence of his wife’s back garden out of the house.

Kuan Yin could see how Rowan might be afraid to show her face in that house, might be not feeling like feeding herself.

The soul of a woman inside of a man will probably not be an easy sell to a person who is only looking for a male version of holiness.

Kuan Yin focused as much of her energy as she could onto Spring.

Narrow window, must help Rowan to begin to eat,