Review of "Feral Fables" by Lucy Jones, PhD

Score: 94/100 (9.4 out of 10)

Feral Fables is a thought-provoking, dense, and symbolically rich collection of short-tales by Dr. Lucy Jones, a therapist and storyteller with a deep interest in feminine archetypes and spiritual healing/transformation.

Incredibly, due to a combination of factors including the relative short length of the book and its complicated nature, we've read this book numerous times with a variety of experiences.

During some readings, we felt confused, bewildered, and even bored. However, during other readings, we felt enlightened, intrigued, and even motivated.

So, that goes to show the multilayered, nuanced, and mercurial nature of this book.
It also goes to show that different people can have dramatically different takeaways from this book depending on mood, time, circumstances, and other factors.

Normally, we'd say that's excellent and outstanding, but we also had trouble shaking off the times when we felt like outright closing the book and taking a break from it. We couldn't agree on if this was a book that should score a 9.0-9.2 or a 9.3 to 9.5.

Regardless of opinions, what's undeniable is that this book really gets you thinking. It gets you wondering things like: What the heck is this even about? And: How does this relate to me (the reader) and my circumstances?

It might also make you think: Is this story even supposed to make any bit of sense?
Thankfully, there are sections at the end of each story like "Play the Fable" and "Your Notes" that try to guide you toward an answer to those questions.

There's a mixture of eloquent and sophisticated writing in here, but there's also writing in here that seems excessively flowery, wordy, and superfluous—like a gordian knot of words, phrases, idioms, and symbols.

So, again, it's a mixed bag. You'll likely have your own unique experience with this book from the ones we had.

Anyway, let's dive into the specific content...

How about the writing? It's very poetic. It's poetic prose, much like parts of Her Wild Body by Noa Raveh. And it's steeped in mythos and lore. Every single one of these stories has its own mythos and lore, existing in its own little microcosm/micro-universe. And each of these stories teaches or guides the reader toward some sort of lesson, a state of mind, and/or a better frame of thinking about a situation.

One of Jones's favorite poetic techniques is the use of alliteration. There's a ton of alliteration in this book.

For example:

"...bottomless Bedlam..."

"...burdened body..."

"...to become the caterpillar that crawls..."

"The village square echoed with the chorus of comedy... and Rattler recites an infinite promenade of power."

"Choke cherries simmer in the pot for jam... She digs Desert Mallow roots when she
wants to regulate birth. She learns the curative capacity of desert vegetation."

"The One does not ask her to choose between Logic and Lust but allows her divergent
thinking to lead her to the depths of her destiny. "

"...she feels only the frailty of her
faltering feet... "

" She genuflects and gives homage to the Heavenly Husband."

"She hovers silently during those ceaseless shadowy struggles within my soul."

"...this world of water and wave..."

"...stir them into soup for stamina."

"She consults the universe with the mind of a million years."

"...taste the texture of words.."

"She knows nights of anxiety when the piercing wail defers to a treacherous tranquility.
She knows the grappling of erotic greed, as she bolts toward a haven of quiet harmony."

Now, honestly, all the alliteration kind of seems overused and also highlights how flowery the language in this book is—almost to the point of: What the heck are you trying to say? Was there a clearer, more simple way to say it? Does the economy of language not apply? Ironically, the economy of language becomes an issue in the complete opposite sense: most of these stories are incredibly short. They start and stop, sometimes abruptly. There doesn't seem to be much time for the story to breathe or for characters to develop. They just... happen.

That's kind of a miracle of literary achievements: stories that seem too wordy are simultaneously too short.

Anyway, alliteration isn't the only poetic technique the author employs. There are also end-rhymes like:

"'There will be no sailing today,' Teak said. 'It takes more wind to send us on our way.'
It was a day to explore the harbor around the dock. With careful steps, Teak walked..."

Oh, and how about the beautiful, vibrant use of flower imagery in the following passage?

"In my dream, I enter a lush and elegant garden, filled with scentless camellias and mammoth
magnolias, radiant azaleas, fragrant gardenias. I come to watch the gardener paint white roses
red."

A similar thing happens with the fish in "The Mermaid":

"Schools of clown fish wiggle through their anemone playground, while angel fish glide quietly in their heavenly realm. Turkey fish compete for space with stone fish."

Those last two examples (about the flowers and fish) may be our favorite passages in the whole book!

Well, what about the stories and lessons themselves?

Well... we can tell you that a lot apparently happened in these incredibly-dense yet too-short stories. We forget a lot of these names of these characters. We forget a lot of what happened. We didn't know exactly what the point was half the time.

However, that doesn't make these stories bad necessarily. They just tended to tangle our brains into a pretzel—into knots—until steam and fumes came out of our ears like a teapot.

Like we said before, there are sections like "Play the Fable" which help to guide you toward an understanding and perhaps an epiphany for each story. Let's discuss a few.

"Are you the armadillo, or the one who crushed it?" is prompted after the story titled “The Armadillo" (also called "Boundaries of the Armadillo" in the table of contents).

In “The Armadillo,” a woman discovers a crushed armadillo by the side of the road. This small, armored creature—symbolizing defense, vulnerability, and survival—mirrors her own emotional state. She approaches it not out of curiosity, but in a fit of anger and despair. The story suggests that her boundaries have been trampled by others under the guise of liberation, leaving her overexposed and emotionally invaded. The image of the armadillo, with its “soft underbelly” destroyed, becomes a metaphor for her own damaged inner self.

But instead of remaining a victim, she begins a transformation. She takes medicine from a healer, reclaims the spirit of the “warrioress,” and embraces the lessons of the armadillo—not as a helpless creature, but as a source of protection and strength. She cradles the fallen animal as a shield, using it as inspiration to rebuild boundaries, reclaim power, and reconnect with the sacred. By the end, she doesn’t march—but she crawls forward with intention, seeking only those she will allow into her protected space. She withdraws into a cave to commune with Spirit and reflect, vowing never again to let her defenses falter.

The haunting final prompt—“Are you the armadillo, or are you the one who crushed it?”—is not meant to accuse but to provoke self-awareness. The story challenges the reader to consider their own patterns of boundary-setting, violation, and healing. It's a powerful fable of personal sovereignty and the painful, necessary journey toward self-defined safety.

There's an especially strange story in this book (and that's saying a lot) called "The Hot Fight" which uses bull fighting (from what we understand) as a metaphor for taking on the big challenges
in our lives, especially the ones that stand in the way of our goals and the things we desire most.

“The Hot Fight” tells the symbolic story of a woman preparing to face el Toro, a notoriously-dangerous bull (treated almost like a monster in the story) who represents seductive danger, primal temptation, and overwhelming trials. The woman is transformed into la Torera—a female matador—dressed by attendants in ceremonial armor: a girdle for truth, armor for chastity, slippers of peace, a salvation-offering sombrero, and a sword representing Spirit’s truth.

Despite the weight and burden of these preparations, she walks into the bullring alone, without applause, without rescue, and without the option of retreat. The moment is hers alone—she must confront the Toro, not just as a threat, but also as a deep personal longing. As they circle, the bull and woman engage in a sensual, psychological dance. She begins to desire the bull’s assault, to submit to its power, even fantasizing about becoming his lover and martyr.

That's right, we get strange lines about la Torera desiring the bull and wanting him to pin her to a bed (or something like that). What, is she the Queen of Crete (the Minotaur's mom) or something?

Anyway, when the Spirit reenters her, the woman remembers her mission: to overcome—not to surrender. Even when five more bulls appear, larger and more tempting than the last, she gathers her resolve, draws her sword, and charges them. She grows stronger and more fearless in the process.

Still, the story ends with ambiguity: she has not totally conquered el Toro, who lingers in her dreams. The battle of temptation and self-mastery is not over, but she is no longer unprepared. She now sleeps with the sword beside her, armored and vigilant. She is la Torera—the woman who faces the heat of the fight.

As weird as this story is, it's also one of the ones that stood out to us and that we remembered. It actually made us think. Often the things that give us the most grief, the things that hurt us the most, and the things that give us the biggest challenge and times of struggle are the things we want and care about the most.

For example, if you want to be a world championship boxer, you need to suffer months and years of intense training and receiving punches. If you want to be the CEO of a big company, you need to suffer years and years of getting your education and getting your experience as a businessperson under high-stress situations. If you want to be married to the hottest man or woman in your city, it's very likely they're going to put you through a grind—requiring you to prove yourself to them constantly. That's life.

There's also an interesting prompt after "The Lovers":

Are you enough? Can you allow yourself to be enough?
Who else do you need or desire?

This story explores sensuality, longing, fantasy, and the emotional complexity of desire and intimacy—often through vivid metaphors involving the Wind, the Sun, and the Moon as lovers. The quoted reflection prompts readers to examine their own sense of wholeness and whether they seek external validation or partners to feel complete. It's a meditation on self-acceptance, eroticism, and emotional vulnerability.

So you can read these stories and possibly come away with a completely different message from us or even the one that the author intended.

Check it out on Amazon!