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Things going wrong

  • Posted on May 8, 2014 at 2:20 am

Like anyone, I’ll admit, I’m human. I make mistakes, and unfortunately, one of those mistakes is letting this blog and my writing slip away from me. I’m usually much more responsible than this, and it sort of irks me that I couldn’t keep all of my balls in the air. But with starting a new business (as a Mary Kay Consultant) and a new job (as a Zales Diamond Consultant) I have found that I DO apparently have limits to what I am capable of juggling.

Sadly, this means I’ve also lost track of a lot of my friends. One of which, my friend Chris, who helped me set up this blog. I had to completely reboot my computer, deleting all information I didn’t save, and apperantly, his skype contact was some of that info. Don’t ask me, technology greatly dislikes me, and sometimes the feeling is mutual. Anyway, I’m begging you, Chris Votey, please reach out to me again? I really do miss speaking with you.

As for the rest of you, it was fun trying out the A-to-Z challenge, and I’m sad that I failed it. But honestly, I’m just glad I worked as hard as I did. It was progress, and that in and of itself is nice. Plus, it gave me some ideas for some really great retellings of various fairy tales! So, please, keep an eye out, as I’ll be posting more works. Plus, the time spent blogging previously will now be put towards writing The Princess of Dolls, which I hope to have out soon! ^.^

Please, look forward to it!

Tristan and Ysolde

  • Posted on April 24, 2014 at 12:54 pm

“I thought you said he was your dad!” He cried, ducking under a tree branch. Her hand was sweaty and slick in his, and honestly, Tristan thought he was dying. The shotgun went off once more, and he ducked instinctively, nearly sending both of them careening into a tree. She yanked on his arm and he twisted, ankle sliding in the mud, and sending him into her arms.

“NO, I said he was LIKE my dad!” She corrected, yanking him upright, and then ducking under a different tree and tugging him along. She’d always been a bit stronger than he was, and now he was grateful for it, because the beacon of her wheat-gold hair in the moonlight was enough for him to follow through the woods.

Another shot rang out, and the tree next to his head exploded, and Tristan yelped. His heart pounded, his chest ached for breath as his feet tried to keep up with hers. Over a rock, under a tree, around an oddly shaped shed that honestly wouldn’t have hidden them at all. He was glad when she jumped down into a gulch, at least until his leg went out from under him and he landed ass-first in mud. He had to bite his tongue not to curse out loud, and scrambled to his feet, the mud sucking at his shoes like a  child taking a toy.

“What do you MEAN, like your dad?! He’s not even related to you!” He hissed, surprised she could be that graceful at three months pregnant. With his kid. Oh god, that was his child in there, being shot at by her creepy caretaker.

“He adopted me when I was little, okay?! I never thought anything of it until he started taking me to look at wedding dresses when I turned fifteen, okay?!” Her voice grew higher, terrified, as another blast blew through the little shed behind them. “Then I met YOU!”

Yeah, him. The odd twenty something hiking through town with nothing but a backpack, and some odd jobs. He’d managed to win her heart, because she’d won his the moment he’d seen her. He could still see the smile she’d given him in the farmer’s market, and wow, was it beautiful. She threw a strained version of it over her shoulder at him and he saw the glint of moonlight off her teeth.

They burst out of the brush and into the highway leading out of town. He stopped, because if they could get a ride before he caught up… She tugged impatiently on his hand, desperate to get him to follow her into the woods on the other side. But there was a truck coming, he could see it, maybe they could get a ride out into the next city, where he could get a job, and she wouldn’t have to marry some crazed sixty year old man.

Pain. Blinding, absolute agony, ripping through his thigh, and he went down, knee buckling. The concrete beneath him was hard, and he could feel a pebble pushing into his face. He thought he might have taken Isolde down with him, and he wasn’t sure, but the boots on the blacktop were his, the old man’s, and oh god. Oh god, there was a shotgun in his face.

“NO! Please, don’t, I’ll never run again, please just DO-” He could hear her shrieking, and then the sound of the trigger. He never heard the boom of the gun, just saw a flash of light.

Snow White

  • Posted on April 22, 2014 at 12:53 pm

((based off a nightmare I had last night. This is gonna be fun!))

The entire world has gone mental. No one seems to realise that killing and eating each other isn’t something that should be done. They just don’t care. It’s terrifying. And as Snow huddles in with the other survivors, she can’t help but wonder if it’s her fault. Her Step-Mother had laughed and laughed when her father attacked them both. Now her Step-Mother sat across the way, talking with the leader of their little caravan.

Snow looked next to her, to the various members of their community they’d saved. Two old men, who seemed to do nothing but bicker back and forth, one of them sneezing every other minute. A young doctor, and his brother, who happened to be a bit touched in the head. The narcoleptic and his friend who seemed to be halfway to a nervous breakdown simply by the way he was smiling. The other member brought from their household seemed to be lost in himself, refusing to talk to anyone. She wondered if he was going to be alright.

They’d hidden out in the mayors old house. A two-winged thing, she’d checked and double checked all the doors, absolutely determined to make sure every. single. one. was locked. They couldn’t turn on the lights, not after what she’d seen happen tot he neighbors. They’d been torn apart after several people crawled in their windows. All because the wife had turned the light on in the kitchen. Not even candles were safe. She shivvered, cold in her tshirt and jeans, and her boyfriend, Reggie leaned over, wrapping an arm around her.  She leaned into him, and listened to the sounds of chaos outside.

The group didn’t talk, not really, because if they did, it would attract attention. Outside, a dog that had miraculously survived barked, wildly. The two trucks and the van they’d managed to steal were sitting out front, plain as day, but none of the aggressors seemed interested in driving, so they didn’t worry too much.

Her belly rumbled, and Reggie pulled her closer. She shivvered again, wanting to cry. There was nothing she could do, nothing to be done around the house, nothing to be done about the fact that her father had tried to rip her face off. Reggie’s father, judge King was dead. torn apart by several members of the local gun club. She could still remember how she’d had to drag Reggie away from the carnage. So many people dead.

Their hope was that they could make it until morning, and then just… drive. For as long as possible. No one knew if this had gone beyond their little town. God, she hoped not. She prayed for it. She never prayed for anything, not since her mother died, and she prayed for it.

Snow got up, shivvering still, and did her rounds, checking the doors. Touching each lock to make sure it was in the right position, checking to make sure none of the windows were open or un-curtained.

The front door was unlocked.

It was swinging open.

She heard a shriek, it sounded like the Doc. She turned, and darted towards the sound, stupid, stupid, should have run away. The door swung closed and locked. She didn’t look. She should have. She would have seen her step mother’s cruel red smile.

Her last sight was of all of her friends being torn apart. Her Reggie died, beaten to death with his own arm by one of them. Snow White died screaming.

Rumpelstiltskin

  • Posted on April 21, 2014 at 12:52 pm

I’ve developped this idea for Rumpelstiltskin, that I intend to make a full-length novel out of, and possibly a series. So here’s a snippet of that, since I wanted to write something from it anyway. To explain, since one of the main characters doesn’t HAVE a gender, and is as such genderqueer, That character uses pronouns Xie/Xir In place of His/Hers or He/She. The book will also have this sort of preface, to avoid those whom might find confusion in such a thing.

As the Stillskin, Xie had always been obedient. The Stillskin had never been allowed to move without the Summer Lady’s absolute permission. But this new Lady, this Sweet Rumpel, she was never giving orders. She would ask. She asked if the Stillskin would be alright left home alone, and when the Stillskin had shook xir head, she had listened. She brought the Stillskin things to do, cloth to sew, new books to read, patient teaching to impart upon the faerie-lost one.

The Stillskin knew that Rumpel need not do these things, not after the trouble that Stillskin had caused. For some reason, Rumpel cared. She brushed the Stillskin’s hair, and helped xir bathe, and all of it as gentle as can be. None of the trickery. Xie still hadn’t gained xir words back, and Stillskin still wasn’t able to hide behind a glamour, like the pretty faeries who sometimes stole kisses from the maids in the market. Xie wished xie could.

Stillskin loved her. In a way the Summer Lady had occupied the Stillskin’s heart, now Rumpel did. If she asked, xie would give xir life for her. Like the Dullahan, Stillskin would serve Rumpel until the end of days. Perhaps this was enticed when Rumpel gave xir a spinning wheel, and enough hay to begin again. Xie always felt safer, happier, when spinning the straw. Spinning it to gold, like the Summer Lady had asked xir to. But now, xie spun for Rumpel.

Spinning was perfection, the hay passing xir fingers, calming and cool, and turning to gold. It was one of the only things that xie could still do. Xie thanked whatever powers let xir keep that gift. It was the only way xie could be useful to Rumpel now.

Princesses Dancing (Twelve of Them!)

  • Posted on April 19, 2014 at 12:49 pm

((forgive the lateness, this one got away from me a bit.))

Twelve sisters, all in a row, dancing to a chintzy pop song, lipsynching while the lace and frills sway seductively. Each one had a cute heart shaped face, each one dressed in heels, low for the younger, all the way up to six inch stilettos for the eldest. They were perfectly in synch, having practiced for years at the behest of their parents, and each one, every single one, was almost done with this whole routine. It was beyond idiotic, and the girls couldn’t wait for it to be over.

Maya, the eldest, danced because she’d loved to when she was little. Then Aya had been born. Her mother had thought it wonderful for them to dance together. After Aya, Yako, Yano, and Yaya were born. And then Koyomi, Noami and Yakiko were born. Mitsumi and Mikumi were born twins, and then followed Mizumi and Minami. The twelve of them grew up together, their mother obsessed with making them stars.

It was only when Maya was sixteen and Aya came home one night after sneaking out that they found anything that made any sort of sense to them. Singing and dancing in front of everyone was just… boring. It was so every day for them. Princesses of Pop as they were, none of them thought of it as fun any longer. So when Aya came back from the streets of the city and told them all about how there was a club where no one danced, no one sang, but everyone snapped and spoke in rhyme and it was dark and beautiful, they all put on their best non-stage clothes and snuck out.

It was beautiful. They sat down and ordered coffees that they weren’t allowed to have normally, and then they all listened as people poured their hearts out in solemn tone, accompannied by bongo drums and snapping fingers, and it enchanted them.

Maya was the first to fall. He called himself Adam. He wasn’t though. He was just as japanese as she was, and she knew it. But she couldn’t help it. She wrote him poetry on her arms, so that he would read it when she met him at night, and then he would kiss away the ink. Aya was next, and her Danny was good with words. He told stories that made Aya sing with laughter and joy. Each one fell quickly, boy after boy, princes of darkness, of the poetry of the coffee.

They hoped never to be found, when they left every night. But when they slipped down three spots on the charts, they knew. Someone would find out. They didn’t care. Never did they care. It would be a long time before the Princesses stopped dancing this dangerous knife-edge dance. They didn’t want to let time slip through their fingers.

Open Mic Night at Disney

  • Posted on April 18, 2014 at 12:48 pm

Isn’t it odd, how every disney princess sings? Why in the world is it necessary to SING how you feel about your situation? Maybe it’s a stress reliever? Should we all be strapping on our dancing heels and prepping our voices? I’m not sure, but I rather enjoy singing along to the radio in the car? It makes sense that it would be something they would enjoy.

Plus, stereotypically, princesses were supposed to have learnt singing and dancing at early ages, so it makes sense they would want to use this talent before eventually being forced to settle down into queenship.  I’m not sure where it came from, but the idea that women can no longer sing and dance after married is kind of dumb. I mean, I’m not married, but I sing and dance when I want to, not the other way round.

Just a half formed thought for you. See what bursting out into song does for you!

Nightmares in Human Shape

  • Posted on April 17, 2014 at 12:46 pm

It seems never ending, the lessons we can learn from Fairytales. But often, villains look human for the most part. A few are even more human (and handsome) than the prince himself! And we are expected to remember that fact. Because it’s truth. Often, in real life, villains are human shaped, and kind, and manipulative, and every bit our friend until suddenly they aren’t. It’s rather interesting how that works, don’t you think?

The evil stepmother, or in some cases just mother, is always human. Although she might be a sorceress, or an evil duchess, or even an evil old witch, she’s still human. And her magic isn’t the only thing she’s got going for her. Our trusting naivete allows her to actually trick us into believing she has the best at heart. How sad is it, when we see these heroines fall for it time and again?

The childhood friend can sometimes become this. Someone we’ve trusted for so long that we barely have to think anymore about the oddly ominous things they say. They’re close to our heart, and dear to us, so we can’t believe that they’d do something wrong or evil or indecent in any way. It makes sense, doesn’t it? That this person would ultimately betray us. Usually out of a form of jealousy. Either of what we have, or of someone else’s new closeness to us. How strange that we should see this most ugly of human emotions on the faces of those we trust.

The greedy leader is worst, though, because often, we are too small, too singular to actually make a difference against them. But sometimes, we manage. Sometimes, we can call enough people together to actually gain a voice, to actually shout out “WE WILL NOT TAKE THIS ANYMORE!” and step out of whatever chains this horrid person has put upon us. It’s always nice, then the searing freedom earned.

All of these archetypes call out to us to be defeated, to be broken. Because they are us, only twisted, us, but broken and wrong and just… not right. They are us at our worst, and we must always put forth the best will we have to avoid becoming such foul villains. We hate them because they remind us of our own humanity. They wear our faces in the dark, and we can see, so easily, the path that it takes for us to slip down and into their shoes. Never once do we realize that by seeing them as they are, we are choosing not to become these beasts, these wolves in sheep’s clothing.

So continue writing, drawing, showing these enemies in front of us. How else are our children to recognise the threat when they have never been taught not to trust blindly. How can we protect the princesses of the future if we do not teach them that anyone can possibly be an enemy? I, personally, prefer the adventure of not knowing, and of believing the best in those around me. Sometimes I am hurt, but I always get back up, stronger and surer.

Milk Maid’s Dreams

  • Posted on April 15, 2014 at 12:45 pm

Molly was a milk maid. She milked cows and tended to them sending them into the field. She dreamed all day, while her hands worked hard on what she was told to do. Molly had been sold a cow by a man named Jack, and that in and of itself made her happy, because now, just for some beans, she’d gotten her OWN cow. She didn’t need to work for Mister Onery any longer.

The cow was odd, however. It would only eat from her hand, while she sang a simple song. It was a song she was used to singing, but still. It made for good entertainment. She fed the cow, and the cow grew fat. How about that!

Then, she found out that when she milked the cow, she could make cheese. Then, as she made cheese, she sold it in the market. Soon, she was not a milk maid any longer. She was the Cheese Woman. She was making her own money, and when she moved towns, her father could say nothing, for she took the cow with her. She was making her living, her life.

But one day, the cow fell ill. It did not produce any milk, and Molly found herself in dire straits. She didn’t know what to do. So she went to a doctor. He said he did not heal cows.

She went to a lawyer, and he said he did not heal cows, but he could sue doctors. She did not need a doctor sued, and she did not have the money to pay the lawyer.

She went to the castle, and asked a man there if he could heal her cow. The man, kind, said no, but he could talk to a lawyer. So she took the man to the lawyer, who then sued the doctor, who then treated the cow.

By taking on so much just to save her livelyhood, Molly found a friend, the man at the castle, and it doesn’t matter who the man in the castle is, because he helped her, not because she could repay him, but because she needed help.

Ladies Locked in Towers

  • Posted on April 14, 2014 at 12:44 pm

String theory envisions a multiverse in which our universe is one slice of bread in a big cosmic loaf. The other slices would be displaced from ours in some extra dimension of space. – Brian Greene

Multiverse theory has always been one of my favorites. A theory that states ultimately that not only are we not alone in our universe, we are in fact, not alone in our circumstances. For every choice we make, there are other universes in which we never made that choice.  In each of these universes, other things have happened, other people in our lives, other riches, enjoyments or sorrows. It’s nice to think that that sort of thing is happening out there, don’t you think? I do.

So why bring it up during my Fairytale themed week? Because it, in itself, explains part of the existance of fairytales. In each of the fairytales we know, something happens, the hero/ine makes a choice. Right? Let’s take Rapunzel for this one, since I named it Ladies in Towers and all.  You should feel lucky, this was originally a feminism rant, but turned into string/multi theory instead. Yay, right? But no, now I’ve decided to use it to explain why Fairytales exist in a scientific mumbojumbo. Ish. I am not a scientist. This is my disclaimer.

Now, let’s say Rapunzel’s mom chose not to have her husband steal the lettuce (seriously, who craves lettuce? No nutritional value whatsoever.) and instead raised her daughter on her own. Well, then that daughter would have been a peasant, and never would have married her Prince. Or had those twins. Or had her prince’s eyes gouged out. But that’s another story. LITERALLY. It is another story entirely, if you change just ONE. TINY. THING.  This trope is called For Want of A Nail and is often considered to be the start of a thousand fanfics.

Okay, so then say Mom DOES eat the lettuce, and Rapunzel ends up in the tower again. Well, she has so many choices from here! When she’s old enough, she could have just climbed down herself. But that doesn’t make for a good story! Or does it? I’d like to see a Rapunzel who was strong enough to leave her tower on her own. It makes sense, to have her stay up there, because up there, she is safe. Outside is only desserts and heartbreak and misery and Oh yeah, a life.

But think about this. Any fairytale could have gone differently, if only given one, tiny, change. You could gain an infinite amount of plots, if you put this theory to work! Beauty and the Beast where Beauty chooses not to find her father. She marries Gaston and ends up having children, and only later, does she realise she missed out on life. Such a tragic tale!

My theory is that Fairytales make for wonderful fodder for change, only because they ARE. SO. CHANGEABLE. How many versions of each fairytale do you know? But so long as they are the SAME consistent theme, they are STILL the same fairytale! It’s amazing! Hence, String/Multiverse theory in practice. We humans are such creative creatures, aren’t we?

Kraken in the Deep (or monsters just out of sight)

  • Posted on April 13, 2014 at 1:42 pm

There is a Kraken in the Deep. Monsters that dwell just out of sight, out of mind, and reaching out across nightmares with tendrils so pervasive that it seems almost as if they interlace the entirety of those dreaming worlds. They range the backdrop seeking, moving, while unnamed, unthanked actors fill your mind with dreary, drowning, dizzy thoughts, and you are paralyzed. These actors are the dead, recently disposed, none of which could move on before being trapped here between your thoughts and those horrid creatures, in the Deep. In the Dark.

Few set foot there, fewer still survive it when they do. Certain people thorughout the history of time have managed, but always they come back… twisted, not quite right. Not just in the head, either. Some come back with twisted bodies. One limb out of proportion, one limb rended too high or too low. The whole thing is beyond human comprehension, but perhaps that’s why the Kraken seek us out. Their minds need ours. Need that tantalizing transcendent thought process that allows us to ignore the lacing of their tentacles wrapped around our lives. Perhaps they crave what we have, life, love, adoration, notice, notariety. If this is the case, then why do they not speak in tongues other than whispered threats veiled beneath the sweet candy seduction of the world?

Or perhaps they are simply feeding. Like a frenzy of sharks, tearing us mind from mind, limb from limb, perhaps that is why they gather at the edges of our periphery, of our notice. Like Alice flailing down a dark hole, perhaps we too, are children lost in a garden far too dangerous for our comprehension. These creatures in the dark, these beings that dwell in the Deep places of the world. Perhaps they like us. Perhaps they wish us peace. In death, in dreaming, in desire. But that may not be the case. Long have their appendages scoured our minds, reaching in and finding new places to poke and prod.

These places, they fill up with seabrine and deep anguish. These places they deposit their stories next to Poe’s raven and Shakespeare’s Midsummer’s dream. Places impossible to reach with a normal hand. Places that one cannot possibly experience alone, ever, never. These places, they fill up with sorrow and world-ending-heartbreak, or perhaps hunger. These places, are where dreams are made, dreams that taunt, tantalize, torture. These are the Deep places, in our mind, and in the world, and in the bits just out of sight, we are broken across them like waves on rocks, algae clinging, seaweed choking us in these newer, deeper places. We drift, along these currents, and perhaps that is where creation comes from.

Perhaps, we are simply the Eve to a new Adam. Perhaps these creatures need us more than we know.

Or perhaps they just want a good show with their dinner.

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