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First Light

  • Posted on October 17, 2014 at 12:29 am

Memory is a fickle thing, inherently wrong, yet personal in the greatest of ways. All of our memories are biased, based upon information our mind stores and corrupts. Stories we tell ourselves become memories, despite never happening. Things that happened turn out a different way when we think back on them.

Most personal to us all, and most telling of whom we will become, is our very first memory. The first bit of light our mind stores away for us in the world. These memories hide from us, little snippets of time. And then, like magic, a scent, or a sound, the touch of a familiar fabric, or the hum of a certain frequency reminds us, and it comes crashing back like nothing was ever missing at all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The prickly poking of hay. The scent of his mother, soft and creamy like milk just warmed up, and the sound of his father’s quiet voice. Later, Dirk would learn that the conversation was their first discussion about whether they should go back home to Thosfig, back to their tribe. His nose itched, and he rubbed his little fingers against it to make it go away.Noticing how sharp his little fingernails were, he curled them into his palms. Crickets chirped somewhere, and he could hear crackling, like fire. His eyes felt heavy, and he didn’t want to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Pain. Yumil remembered pain first. A too-tight grip of an adult hand around a small wrist. The red of lines cut into child-soft skin by fingernails dyed with pigment from berries.  Yumil remembers looking up at her, her tawny hair shining in the sunlight. She is beautiful, and frightful. She calls him a bad boy,voice hissing. Yumil feels his stomach twist and clench, fear climbing inside. She is angry, and to Yumil it’s as if she has always been angry and will always be angry. He finds anger burning inside himself to match, hot and terrifyingly close to tears.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She can’t remember the words anymore, but Eamon remembers the soft feeling of her mother’s chest. Her cheek fits against it perfectly. She remembers the hard push of her sister’s knee against her own leg, and the laugh in her mother’s voice. She recalls the lines of her sister’s hand and how it felt to rub her thumb along them until Lette shrieked with laughter, like it had tickled her. Eamon remembers how warm she felt, wrapped up in the two of them. A mix of flowers and cool water always brings this memory to her mind, and she smiles.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Grass tickling her nose, and a small round bug crawling along between the blades. Red like string scattering across her vision, as she was lifted from the earth. Her hand still reaching out for the little black bug, bigger hands tight against her ribs They squeezed a little painfully, but only enough to make her whine in the back of her throat. A murmur of her name, and Lette looks up. Her father’s green eyes smile down at her like the water of a murky lake. She smiles back, and giggles. His hand, scratchy with callouses, brushes back her hair.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Blurs moving past him, dark things swimming around the edges of his vision. Espin remembers crying, crying so loud and so long that he was sure no one heard him. He remembers unpleasant smells, something he later knows is the smell of sickness and waste. He remembers the crying making it worse, stopping his nose and how panicked he felt. A cool hand on his forehead was all that kept him awake, and he cried, and cried. Sleep would be kinder. His stomach lurched, and he felt hotness sear his throat and splash out his lips. Nothing eases his pain.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Her big brother’s back, warm and strong. Anelace was tied to it, she could feel the soft cloth against the back of her neck, feel the bounce of his step as he walked. He talked to her, telling her stories, and she burbled back to him. Her fingers found his coarse woven dreads, tugging for attention. She remembers how he smelt like sunshine and camels. He was so big, and strong, he carried her like she was smaller than an ant, and it made her feel small and she thought he must be the most powerful thing in the world.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She was always angry. So angry. His mother was angry at him, yelling and screaming, and Jorgan hated yelling. He wanted to hide and forget. It made him cry, which made her so much angrier. She called him hurtful things he can’t remember later, things that might be true. Her palm struck his cheek, and his world went spinning. Pain blossomed in his jaw, his teeth rattling, as he toppled over. His cries came louder. The snap of a belt made his chest squeeze, and fear silenced him. His father’s footsteps, shaky and unstable, curled him into a tight ball.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

What glimpse does this first light give?

photo courtesy of flickr.com

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?

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