Chaos: Molly's Odyssey, #1

By Gemma Goodwin

Molly chances upon the town's hermit, in his backyard, battling Kratos, the God of War.

 

She triggers the magic on an axe that no normal person should be able to. And it is now put to her that Molly is a lost Olympian, trapped on earth, reincarnating as a mortal for hundreds of years.

 

With the aid of her new allies, Mr. Glover and his wife-dog (who is also an Olympian, but cursed to live on all fours), Molly sets out to discover who she is and hopes to reach her full potential.  

 

But which Olympian is she?

 

Molly needs to work it out, and fast, because bad things are happening to those closest to her, and not even the local law enforcement can save her.

This begs the question, what did she do on the Other Side to warrant such unfavorable attention?

 

Chaos is the first book of the Molly's Odyssey series and sits at 55,000 words.

 

There are no themes of LGBTQIA+ in this story, however, it touches on peer bullying, building and determining relationships, finding one's place in the world, and navigating everyday life problems, as well as Olympian conflicts.

 

Molly is a fresh, honest, relatable voice. The reader gets to see all her flaws, and experience all of her triumphs.

 

This story is set in fictional America and written in American English.

 

Given this author wants to make reading as easy as possible for her readers, there is also a copy written in British English. The story is the same, but the spelling has been changed, and some words switched out for those more familiar, except for Molly still calling her mother 'mom'. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wet Dog Press
• Release date: Jun 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9781067023003

Gemma Goodwin

Gemma likes a simple life. Family, animals, food, writing, a sprinkling of friends, and a good series to watch. In 2024, Gemma made the call that Molly's Odyssey was it and decided to stop mucking around and tell the stories that she lies in bed thinking about. Book two is due out later this year.

Book preview

odyssey

od·ys·sey

1

: a long wandering or voyage usually marked by many changes of fortune

2

: an intellectual or spiritual wandering or quest

Merriam-Webster dictionary

Rodent and the Mongrel

Sunday

I should have spat in her coffee.

Nosey-parking, dream killer.

Aunt Janet’s voice was flat, and so quiet I had to press my ear against the kitchen door to hear the verdict. No, Cass. She’s not keeping a filthy rodent in my house. Our prior tenant wasn’t even allowed a goldfish! We’ve already broken our rules so you could keep Whiskers.

Instead, I’d given her the cleanest mug we owned, which just had the one low-tide mark.

Mom’s response was predictable. Molly should have asked. I’ll tell her to take it back.

‘It’ had a name.

Martin.

And Martin was curled up asleep in my front pocket.

My eyes watered as I recalled the pet shop worker’s warning: ‘Taking on a pet is a big responsibility, even one as small as this.’

He had pointed to the sign which stated they didn’t accept returns, adding, ‘I take it your parents have signed off on this?’’

Obviously, I’d lied.

When I had seen Martin’s mangled paw, my heart sang for him, and he, with a cage full of accessories, was on a half-price special, which was also the full price of the hair treatment I had saved months for. Now, I would be without my pet and stuck—still—as the only ginger Māori on this side of the planet.

Aunt Janet moved on. Anyway, how’s work? I hear that what’s-his-name ... Larry? You know, the one that runs your department. He’s looking at an early retirement. It could be the promotion you’ve been waiting for.

Mom asked where she’d heard that from.

His sister mentioned it last week in Clay’s office. I think she was trying to get a discount on horse feed by handing over valuable information.

Mom and Aunt Janet finished their drinks, and talked about their least favorite co-workers, without so much as a thought for me.

I slumped against the door and stroked Martin’s tiny body, weighing the possible dire consequences of his fate.

How would Martin, living here, affect Aunt Janet’s life in any way?

It wasn’t as if I’d let him run around chewing up the carpet.

She wouldn’t have even known about him if Mom hadn’t—I stumbled back into my aunt; Mom having opened the door behind me. Aunt Janet half caught me, and half repelled me from her body. For a moment, her hands were stuck in my hair and she gave a small shriek—like it was her scalp getting tugged on, and not mine. She dropped her clutch, cosmetics spilling over the floor. A compact cracked and peppered the lino with sparkly dust. She gave another small cry and swooped to collect her things. Her lips taut as she packed her treasures back into their rightful places, pausing when Mom handed her the ruined powder case.

She looked up at me, slim eyebrows lost in strawberry-blonde bangs as she held the ruined makeup for all to see. I don’t suppose you have one of these to replace mine, do you, Molly?

Every freckle a hot pinprick on my face. I didn’t—and even if I did, I wouldn’t wear a shade that was nearly white!

It was a stupid question, even for her.

Mom dusted her hands off on the side of her skirt. I’ll get you a new one.

Aunt Janet shook her head and tucked it away with the other bits of face paint. I’m just tired, and the smell of that pest is giving me a headache.

Rats don’t stink, I mumbled.

She glared up at me. Excuse me?

My cheeks hummed. Rats are extremely clean animals. They don’t smell. They’re cleaner than dogs.

Cleaner than your dog, that still pees in the office, I wanted to add.

Mom cleared her throat while I did my best not to look at either of them.

Given it’s been living in your pocket for goodness-knows-how-long, I wouldn’t expect you to notice. Aunt Janet rose and re-plumped her scarf. Her ‘I’m-a-qualified-therapist’ ego turned on. "You’re old enough to make informed decisions. You could have saved yourself a lot of hassle if you had done the right thing and asked first. Your mom and I have decided not to reward this type of behavior. You’ll have to take the rat back. Tomorrow."

Except I couldn’t.

She air-kissed Mom’s cheeks, like she was someone fancy, except she was born and raised in crumby Sanson, like the rest of us. Nice catch up, although Angela might wonder where I am. Best not tell her I’ve blown my diet with brownie, of all things.

Mom laughed; raspberry seeds stuck between her front teeth. I can keep a secret!

No, she couldn’t. Martin’s impending doom was evidence of that.

Aunt Janet waved over her shoulder as she trotted out the front gate. I’ll talk to you later, and don’t forget about Friday, Molly. We’re all booked in.

I scowled behind Mom’s back.

Molly? Mum nudged me with her elbow.

What?

Mom waved, her bracelets jingling. Of course, see you then!

She shut the front door and faced me, a hand on her hip. That was rude. She was asking if you were still coming... to look after Emily.

Like I could forget.

It was funny how Aunt Janet talked about doing the ‘right thing’ when she got me to babysit her awful kid, underage, but I wasn’t responsible enough to look after a rat.

There was a word for that.

I just couldn’t remember what it was.

After dinner, I talked to Dad on the phone and cried, hoping he would take my side and demand to Mom that I should keep my pet. But the reply at the end of the line was of no comfort. It’ll be all right, love. Marvin will find a good home.

"Martin."

Sorry. Martin. He’ll be okay. Rats are resilient. They can survive apocalypses, and all that.

I cleared my throat and studied the back of Mom’s head as she sat on the sofa watching a stupid sitcom, where the audience laugh too hard at stuff that isn’t even hilarious.

Hypocrite! That was the word. Aunt Janet the—

Dad yawned. So, what have you got planned for your big day?

Nothing, I replied.

What? You’re not gonna have a party or anything? You’re gonna be fourteen! You gotta do something cool, he said.

I’d spent all my money on Martin and Mom was likely to give me something sensible, like clothes and a movie night.

The side of my chest warmed, my t-shirt pocket doing little to soak up Martin’s accident. He peered up at me, knowing but innocent.

Dad, I’ve gotta go—

Whaaaat?

I’ve got... homework and stuff, but Mom wants to speak with you.

"Okay then, I love you. Talk soon and I am sorry about Martin."

Love you too. I passed the receiver to Mom and headed to my room before she could note the mess on my top.

I put Martin in his wheel and ripped my t-shirt up and over my head, throwing it at the corner of my room. Dad never took charge of anything, and he wasn’t sorry for me. He didn’t even try to help.

I went to bed early. Mom called it sulking; I told her I was tired—tired of her sister’s sticky-beak-crap, only I didn’t say the last part loud enough for her to hear, because she would ground me for cussing.

Later, when I couldn’t sleep, I bawled into my pillow; and when I was sick of that, I punched it, pretending it was my aunt’s face. The poofing sound of feathers getting the wind smacked out of them wasn’t anywhere near satisfying.

At some point I must have fallen asleep, because before I knew it, Mom shook me a few times, stole my blanket and called out from down the hallway, Hurry, Molz, or you’ll miss the bus—again!

Monday

Guilt gnawed at me as I walked past the town’s launderette and t r u d g e d across the playground with the bins that no one seemed to empty and found myself on the outskirts of Mr. Glover’s ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY’, or ‘The Haunted Forest’ to any kid under ten-years-old, with its towering, creepy trees.

If I were running late, which was most days, I’d cut through the section to get to the bus stop—but that wasn’t why I was here today.

With a grunt, I slung my school bag up and over the railing and scaled the patched-up fence with Martin stowed away in Mom’s fanny-pack, safely hanging across my chest. I landed on the other side, enveloped by the smell of rotten wood. I collected my bag and wove my way through the labyrinth of tree trunks, vines, and boulders the size of small cars.

A light melody of birdsong trailed above me as I neared the roadside. A few more minutes’ walk and the thicket would thin, the dip of a bank would appear, and I’d be lining up with kids I mostly didn’t like. But first I needed to find the right spot—if there was such a thing.

Dad had told me all I needed to know.

If rats could survive apocalypses, Martin had a fighting chance here, on the outskirts of town where no one would find him and where he wouldn’t end up in someone’s trap. I tossed my bag aside and reached deep into my pocket, sprinkling a handful of seeds by my feet as I kneeled.

Hesitantly, I fingered the zip of the pouch, the only barrier between Martin and his unknown.

A lump formed in my throat.

His furry head poked out, and he sniffed the cool air before turning back into the warmth of the padded material.

Martin?

He wouldn’t budge, even as I tried to shake him out.

I could leave him in the pouch... Mom wouldn’t notice it missing, and if she did, she wouldn’t have any proof it was me that took it.

Come on, Mart— I jumped, a loud crack sounding behind me, and he shot from the opening, disappearing in the long grass.

Martin!

A dog’s wail bled through the forest as a slow drizzle fell through the lush canopy.

A man yelled.

Mr. Glover?

I dropped Mom’s fanny-pack and ran for his house.

With a stitch in my side, I arrived at a clearing to find Mr. Glover, who was bare-chested, covered in tattoos, wearing baggy boxers, held up by a fraying waistband, and unlaced boots. He was shrieking at an odd formation of tall boulders, and shorter rocks stacked on top of each other, all spread in a large circle with enormous gaps between each tower. The area was as large as my aunt’s house.

Mr. Glover pointed a finger at me. "GET OUT OF HERE!" 

A powerful gust ripped a heavy limb from a walnut tree, hurtling it toward me, and I screamed, ducking.

The bulk of Mr. Glover’s frame rammed me out of the way, and I tumbled, air hissing from my lungs as I hit the ground like a sack of potatoes being thrown onto concrete. Dizzy, I sat up and took a moment, watching as he darted around the stone formation, noting a braided leather choker a few sizes too small, wrapped tightly around his thick neck. A gemstone the size of a nickel flashed at his throat.

Mr. Glover took a dive as something sparked and shot out from inside the stones. The older man pulled himself up, wet leaves and dirt stuck to his hairy thighs and arms.

How were the stones shooting at him?

Strange pigments of light brewed in the inner circle.

"What is that?" I yelled.

Mr. Glover shouted over his shoulder, "WATCH OUT FOR HIM!"

There was no ‘him’, just colors that sparked and snapped. They were electrical. Beautiful. They stretched and spun faster, like a kaleidoscope.

Get me the axe! He waved his arm at his house.

I looked where he was waving and saw a cast-iron bath with burning coals underneath, and near to the outdoor bathroom was an old tree stump with the tool in mention sticking out of the middle—with a bundle of clothing folded over the handle, and a towel.

Confused, I turned back to Mr. Glover.

What was the axe for?

Mr. Glover muttered as he paced, his eyes locked on to the pretty colorations which brewed into gray clouds.

Rain fell like a blanket, trying to suffocate a fire.

I think Mr. Glover was the flame.

I pushed wet hair from my eyes and saw a figure taking shape inside the circle of stones.

A high-pitched squeal came from deep in my chest. "What’s happening?"

Birds fled their nests, their songs replaced with screeching.

Was it the thing from the Bible when God came to take the good guys and leave the rest of us?

"What’s going on? I asked louder. MR. GLOVER!"

I glanced back at the axe, but knew better. I thought to run, but whether it was fear or a hypnotic force, I was like a possum glued to a branch.

A thunderbolt struck out across the ground from the darkened figure, narrowly missing Mr. Glover’s boots. He leaped back, but continued to chant, the choker changing as he did, and pulsed red.

A man’s voice roared from within the stones, "Let me pass! Foolish mortal!"

I’m not sure if possums squeak, but this one squawked.

Sticks and Stones

More lightning snaked across the ground, each in Mr. Glover’s direction, who was shaping a ball of light in his hands.

I hid behind a tree; and spied as Mr. Glover heaved the orb of bright energy at the stranger. It whooshed through the air and rebounded from the stone’s barrier, and blasted back at Mr. Glover. He stumbled, turned, and fell face-first onto the ground.

Laughter carried on the wind as I ran for the old man, my fingers barely touching the matted hair on his arm as an electric wave shot through my bones. My teeth gnashed, the jolt blowing me sideways, my backside cushioning the plummet as I landed hard on a pile of broken crap—pallets, old tires, and a box of plastic coat hangers.

Gingerly, I patted the warmth that ran down my inner thighs.

It wasn’t blood.

But I wished it was.

Instead, it was more like the worst possible thing that could happen to anyone.

I sat dazed, tenderized, and too horrified to budge, until Mr. Glover moaned.

He needed to move.

Somehow, I pushed myself up and went to him, and with a heave, I grabbed his shoulder and turned him over. The stone was pale at his throat.

Eyes of steel glared at me. What are you doing on my property?

"You need to get up! IT’S GOING TO KILL US!" I squealed, pointing to the man amongst the rocks and shook Mr. Glover hard. I meant to say, ‘kill you’, because I hoped that if anyone was going to die today, it would just be him.

I wasn’t even meant to be here.

I didn’t even know what was going on!

He pulled free of my grip and scowled. Look at the state of you!

My palm smacked him across the face.

Mr. Glover eyed me in bewilderment.

My offending hand c r e p t over my mouth.

The dog sloshed through puddles and skidded to an abrupt stop in front of us, yelping madly, its white coat turned brown from the mud.

He’s here? Mr. Glover was back on his feet, sprightlier than I would have imagined.

The dog yapped, and Mr. Glover scanned the area, then took off toward a large shed with the dog in a sprint behind him—man and animal leaving me on my own. I ran after them, my jeans clapping like wet cement against each thigh.

"Wait!" I cried, as both disappeared into the safety of the shelter. I ran faster, watching the door bang shut, and tripped, landing hard on my knees.

"Girl child!" the voice boomed.

Through tears, I dared to peek at the shadow—which was taking solid form, its face angular. Hooded eyes crawled over my skin; a twisted mouth stretched over rows of pointed teeth. Its shark-like presence drifted in and out like a mist as he clawed at the invisible boundary which seemed to hold him captive.

"Break the shield!" he yelled.

I scrambled to my feet, the hairs on my arms standing upright.

"DO IT!"

All I could do was watch him. My legs jelly.

He took a step back, his dark eyes locked on me. "Varmik