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Behind the Ice

© Cederwyn Whitefurr

4th March, 2025

All Rights Reserved.

This Week's Challenge: "The past cannot hurt us anymore."

At least 1000 words, don't worry if you go over.

Tag all prompts with: WritingGroupChallenge.

Add all prompts to a separate folder.

Put the prompt description at the beginning of your story.

Behind the Ice

"The past cannot hurt us anymore," my mother told me. I wish I could have believed those words. Growing up is hard, but growing up as a freak is even harder. An abomination? A hybrid... that was hard.

My father, a sweet, gentle buck, his pelt dappled with spots like a fawn—about as dominant as one too—was a fallow deer. I love my father. He loves me. We have a relationship that goes beyond father and daughter. He is my rock, my mentor, my... friend. Without him, I’d be lost.

Then, there's my mother...

Alyssa- even her name sounds majestic. She’s a pure-blood elk doe, noble, majestic, a goddess in anthropomorphic form. She could have been a supermodel for some high society fashion house in Paris or something. Her grace, her eyes, her body—toned, perfect, like some master sculptor sculpted it. She is a VP in a corporation run by wolves. WOLVES—apex predators—an elk in body, but a wolf in business dealings and hostile takeovers. Loved by her company and feared and respected by the competition.

They laughed at her. They derided her. They looked down at her. A herbivore? A doe? _Daring to try and put her cloven hoof print on _their world?

My mother never laughed.

I don’t think she’s capable. She is cold—I’ve seen icebergs that had more emotion.

In five years, she rose from nothing to everything in that company. Vice-President.

She didn’t just put her cloven hoof down, no, she stomped it with authority, hard work, and commanded respect.

In the workplace, she makes wolves bow down at her cloven hooves—no small feat, that. At home... things are... different. While my mother isn’t warm, loving, and doting—unlike my father, who I swear panders to my every whim—well, mostly, my mother is the bedrock of my family. She wears the pants, the power suit, and wields the authority. She isn’t some tyrant, some dictator. There IS a gentle side to her, but she is the law. Her word is the final one. I both love and fear her.

What did she ever see in my father? A failed novelist, a buck who barely comes level with her breasts? He isn’t a true buck. He’s slender, small, and meek. I think he couldn’t dominate the skin off a custard.

Yet, they love each other. After all, if they didn’t, I wouldn’t be here to tell you my story. Having children is hereditary. If your parents didn’t have children, there’s a one-hundred percent chance you won’t either!

Oops, I lost track of time. I’m meeting my mother for coffee at our favourite café. If there’s one thing that’s guaranteed to prickle my mother’s fur, it’s being tardy!

*

I may be a hybrid. I’ve accepted that. Now, as a young adult, I need to find a way to make my own mark on the world. I just don’t know how to begin. The words echo in my mind, a mix of frustration and determination. I’ve spent so many years trying to figure out who I am, only to realise the truth: I am who I am, and that’s enough. But the question remains—what now? I’m not a fawn anymore. I’m not the confused, awkward teen trying to find her footing between two very different worlds. But what am I? What does a hybrid like me even do in a world that’s already set up for others?

I catch myself tapping my hooflet against the café table, a nervous habit I inherited from my father. I hope that, someday, I’ll find the answer. Until then, I guess it’s just about getting through each day without feeling like I’m being dragged along by the forces around me.

The café patio bustles with patrons enjoying their drinks, the cool air comfortable with a light breeze rustling through the trees lining the street. It’s a typical afternoon, the kind that almost makes me forget the tension in my chest as I fidget with the rim of my cup.

Then, I see her.

Striding with that power-walk she has, her polished hooves glistening, the afternoon sun gleaming off her beautiful markings, the fur of her neck and head like ebony. Her cloven hooves echo against the pavement. People just naturally stop and stare, captivated by this creature of beauty, power, and self-confidence. And there she is.

My mother. Alyssa.

She doesn’t have to announce her presence—she is the announcement. As soon as she steps onto the patio, everything else fades into the background. People’s conversations fall to murmurs, their gazes tracking her every movement, but she doesn’t acknowledge them. She’s already too far above all of them, too powerful to care.

Her height strikes first—she towers above everyone around her. She’s a purebred elk doe, and even when standing still, there’s something monumental about her. Her body is sculpted like marble—slender but powerful, her fur a perfect mix of silvers and chestnut that glimmers under the sunlight. Her coat is immaculate, smooth as if touched by some divine hand, and her tailored suit fits her like a second skin, sharp and precise with sophistication that draws every eye.

She exudes authority with every step. There’s no mistaking the grace with which she moves, but it’s the intensity—the controlled power simmering just beneath the surface. She doesn’t rush toward me; instead, she walks with that commanding calm, as though the world was made to let her pass through it without interruption.

And then, her gaze lands on me.

I try not to shrink under her stare, but it’s hard. There’s something about her—her ability to see through everything, through me—that makes me feel small in a way that nothing else can.

Alyssa's eyes sweep over the crowd briefly, then lock with mine. There’s a flicker of something softer, almost imperceptible, before her expression hardens once more.

She doesn’t smile, doesn’t offer any sign of affection. She simply steps up to the table and takes her seat across from me. I can feel the weight of her presence the second she sits down, like the space around us shifts just a little. The world seems to tilt in her favor.

“You’re late,” she says, not accusing, just stating the obvious in her smooth, controlled voice.

I sit up straighter, suddenly aware of the knot of tension in my stomach. “Sorry, Mom. Got caught up.”

Her gaze doesn’t leave me. It never does. “I’m sure.” Her voice is calm but firm. “Everything in order?”

I nod quickly, relieved that she isn’t pressing harder. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

She considers me for a moment, then leans back slightly, her gaze sharp as always. “You’ve been quiet lately,” she observes.

I hesitate, then nod, trying not to stutter. “Yeah. It’s been... better. I’ve been figuring things out, you know? Getting used to it.”

She doesn’t offer much in response, but her eyes soften just the slightest bit. “It takes time,” she says, almost in a tone that could be comforting, if it weren’t so... practical.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. It’s been years since I realized just how different I am, but even now, I still can’t find peace with it. I may be a hybrid, I’ve accepted that, but... it still feels like I’m walking through life with something broken inside. It’s hard to escape that.

“You will figure it out. Don’t rush it,” she adds, her voice steady. “But remember, the world isn’t kind to those like you.”

It’s not a threat. It’s just the way things are, in her eyes. “The world isn’t kind,” I mutter quietly, looking down at my cup again.

She studies me for a moment, then lets out a small sigh, almost imperceptible. Her eyes flicker, and I catch a brief, unexpected softness behind them. She leans forward slightly, the air around her shifting with that familiar weight of authority.

“You have your father’s heart,” she says. “That will guide you. The rest... you must learn to take, my daughter. This world is not kind to us herbivores. We are prey, and the world knows it.”

Her words hang in the air between us, heavy with meaning. It’s the kind of advice only she could give—practical, cold wisdom.

Then, to my surprise, the sternness in her gaze softens just enough for me to sense a flicker of mischief, something playful—and dangerous—shining through.

“Mom…” I stammer, my hooflets rattling against my cup, nerves buzzing like an electrical current running through me. “Dad is a fallow. You're a... a goddess made flesh. A beautiful, majestic elk...”

I see my mother’s vanity shining through, and my words—true, from the heart—escape me. “I’m a…”

I falter under her gaze, much like my father would.

She does the unexpected. She leans forward, her glove-like hand resting on mine—calm, measured, controlled. Her eyes lock with mine, and I can’t look away. Hers are like a predator’s, deciding whether to play or feast. I wish I knew which it would be.

“The past cannot hurt us anymore, my daughter,” she says, her voice dropping as if sharing a secret. “Besides... the way that party went... be thankful you don’t walk on all fours and bark.”

I freeze, my cup nearly slipping from my hooves. My mind stumbles over her words, trying to process what she’s just said, but it doesn’t make sense. My heart beats faster, and my breath catches in my throat. I want to say something, but nothing comes out.

She rises slowly, her grace never faltering, and her eyes linger on me for a moment longer. “Think on it,” she adds, the corners of her lips barely lifting. “The past cannot hurt us.”

Then, before I can respond, she turns and walks away with the same commanding presence that has always followed her. And I’m left there, sitting at the table, still processing her words—and the world they’ve just shattered.

Wait... WHAT?

END