Community Creative Writing Course

Thank you for stopping in. Check back soon, more details to come. 

Original

Supernatural Class

The course was called, 'The Supernatural and Everyday History.' I wasn’t supposed to take it but I did anyway. With a title like that, who could resist?

link to original here

It was a folklore class and our objectives included learning about how folk belief impacts our everyday life, how folklore reflects cultural attitudes, and how likewise our cultural attitudes have shaped historical events.

Historical events like the Salem Witch Trials, where the dialogue between Susannah Martin and her inquisitor included this excerpt:

INQ: What ails this people?

SM: I do not know.

INQ: But w’t do you think?

SM: I do not desire to spend my judgm’t upon it.

INQ: Do not you think they are Bewitcht?

SM: No. I do not think they are.

INQ: Tell me your thoughts about them.

SM: Why my thoughts are my own, when they are in, but when they are out they are anothers.

So while others asked her what she thought of the ‘possessed girls,’ she was never accusing. She refrained from judging them. Still, Susannah was convicted of being a witch and executed at the age of 70.

Folklore is defined as: 

1. The unwritten literature of a people as expressed in folk tales, proverbs, riddles, songs, etc

2. The body of stories and legends attached to a particular place, group, activity, etc: Hollywood folklore ; rugby folklore

There’s a lot of folklore out there about witches. There’s a lot of folklore out there about faeries. About ghosts, dragons, mermaids, and I could go on. I think it’s very interesting where our legends originate, and how they adapt. Why did our ancestors come up with this intricate story about a god in the clouds hammering away during thunder storms? (side note -- obviously it had little to do with Chris Hemsworth and a huge population of females getting their swoon on, but that’s a nice example of how folk belief impacts our everyday life now too, no?)

But I think it’s even more interesting what we do with the stories.

Do I accuse others of doing things they may or may not have done? Purely based on what I think I saw happen? Or what I’ve heard happened as reported by such-and-such media corporation? Yes. I have been a ‘possessed girl.’

I would rather be a Susannah Martin, though. I would rather hold back my judgment and allow for multiple sides, multiple opinions, to be right. Even if it means giving up on the idea of being honored and respected by mankind.

And yet, perhaps letting go of our need for Man's respect is how we open the gate to the supernatural again.We become like children in all the 'right' ways, allowing for multiple possibilities. Perhaps? I don't know. There's more to be thought out here...

What do you think?

I do know that I hope there was an angel to hold Susannah’s hand in her last moments. An angel, or an elf, or a whole legion of supernatural beings to welcome her home again.

Likewise, I hope you have an angel, or an elf, or a whole legion of supernatural beings to hold your hand and walk with you throughout your day. I hope you can feel their joy and laughter, and that you can have at least one – if not many – moments of magic today. 

Here’s someplace to start:

Fairy Tale Friday: Three for the Price of One

link to original here

Back in March, Michelle at Buttered Toast Rocks (a sentiment I have to agree with) alluded to her favorite fairy tale – Donkey Skin – which I’d never heard of. When I snooped around for more details I found a deeply touching story. Beautiful, dark, and finally in the end – sweet.

It brought up issues of incest and hugely unequal power struggles, though, that at the time I wasn’t sure how to broach.  There are these harsh realities in life that are so hard to look at. I squench my eyes shut and measure my breathing, trying not to think about them. Things that shouldn’t happen, but do; that immobilize a person, or that make them wish they could simply disappear into oblivion.

I imagine that’s what the princess in Donkey Skin felt. 

Though I’ve never dealt with incest, I have had to deal with the backlash of terror and emotion that comes from being abused by someone I loved and trusted. I know I’m not alone in this feeling, and I know others can agree that that’s the worst part, isn’t it? That you open up the very softest parts of yourself to this person, but they use your tenderness for their own gain/pain/pleasure? How can that even be? It doesn't make sense. The ground becomes uneven under your feet as you ask question after question to try regaining your balance...

So while this story has been in my brain since March, I’ve tried to let it rest. Until today, that is, when my fairy tale wanderings inevitably led me back. This is my abridged journey:

link to original here

A few initial searches led me to this story. I’d never heard of Cap O’ Rushes before, but the interesting animation caught my eye. And then it turned out to be a fun little thing that reminded me of Cinderella. I knew I didn’t want to go there yet, and there were bits of Cap O’ Rushes that caught my whimsical attention – the meat and salt comment, the time period, the ring in the soup. 

What to do with that, though?

I butted my head multiple times against the “Love like Salt” idea, which is apparently a whole fairy tale sub-type unto itself. That had potential. But I kept looking.

Something in the dialogue of the Cap O’ Rushes YouTube page mentioned Sapsorrow, a variation on another old German fairytale, Allerleirauh. Both of these are in essence Donkey Skin, only Sapsorrow is a softer, more forgiving version.

Chunk out 23 minutes of your day and take a look:

I like this version because it is still beautiful though dark, still sweet in the end, but the father doesn’t seem to want to hurt his child. That one twist is what makes all the difference to me. I’m finally able to talk about Donkey Skin.

I find the similarities in these three stories interesting:

• The discontent and misunderstanding father. Usually it’s the mothers/step-mothers who play out the ‘evil’ card, eh? -- What about you? Do you get along better with your mom or dad?

• Instead of becoming slave to her changed and uncomfortable circumstances, our heroine uses her intellect to find an alternative solution. -- When you're in a situation you don't like, do you just shut down til things change? Or do you figure out how to get out of it on your own? 

•  Her alternative also involves using natural resources to hide her identity and beauty, whether they be rushes from a bog or skins and feathers from her animal friends. -- What part does nature hold for you in your healing processes?

• Laboring in the kitchens is her saving grace in multiple ways: working further supports her disguise, it’s here that she learns about the ball, and it’s also here that she either slips the ring into the soup or hears about the shoe. -- Does it bother you when you have to work, or do you find strength in getting your hands dirty?

• There is a point at which the prince finally gives a signal or sign that if the princes will trust him enough to come out of hiding, he will protect her from whatever it is she’s afraid of. -- Do you have signals for things with your friends and loved ones too? Scratching your nose means you're ready to leave the party, or something?

• The princess is the only person who can truly answer that sign completely and comfortably, not because she’s a princess or because she’s beautiful, but because the shoe was made for her and no one else. The ring was given to her and no one else.  It is a role that only she can fill.-- This last one's a doosey, init? The thought that we alone can fulfill our parts, our roles, in this chaotic thing called life -- whatever that may be for each of us. And? And that we have a choice in the matter. We can try on the kicks, or we can chose not to. 

So similarities are interesting because, while I may not have lived any of these fairy tales, I’ve felt similar feelings. And I’m sure you have had similar feelings too. How is it that we can all experience such different lives, but still be connected in these similar emotions? 

Why do we still pass on these stories, with little changes made here and there, from one generation to the next? 

What is so powerful that it makes a person not want to talk about a story completely unrelated to their own life, but is felt deeply nonetheless? 

Dare I say it’s magic? What would you dare to say?

Moment of Magic today:

link to original here

Obviously I'd pass on trying on this type of glass slipper. It's beautiful, don't get me wrong. I love that my life doesn't require me to wear high heals, though. Not ever. Or at least if it does, I still choose not to.

Fairy Tale Friday: Snow White and Rose Red

“There is no satisfactory equivalent to the German word märchen, tales of magic and wonder such as those collected by the Brothers Grimm: Rapunzel, Hansel & Gretel, Rumpelstiltskin, The Six Sans, and other such familiar stories. We call them fairy tales, although none of the above stories actually contains a creature called a ‘fairy’…”

link to original here

So begins Terri Windling’s introduction to Patricia C. Wrede’s spectacular rendition of Snow White and Rose Red. This is by far my favorite version of said fairy tale, and now that I’m revisiting my copy, I’m wondering if my love is in part because the introduction is so spectacular. 

And I’m not one for introductions. If the first page of a book starts with "Introduction" enlarged and bolded across the top, I’m more likely to put it down in favor of doing a load of laundry instead.

And I’m not one for doing laundry. Ask Hubs…or on second thought, don’t.

Terri Windling is the creator and editor of the Fairy Tales series, so she writes this intro to give background on fairy tales in general. Some of her points:

•  Fairy tales were originally created for adult audiences, and were very popular, used widely as fodder for many well-known authors' and poets' work. Both the aristocracy and people of the masses loved them (you probably already knew this?).

• It wasn't until the Age of Enlightenment, when more emphasis was placed on rational and scientific ways of thinking, that literary fantasy went out of fashion. “[Fairy tales] came to be seen as fit only for children, relegated to the nursery…” (maybe you didn’t know this?).

• A lot of the tales date back thousands of years, back to when stories were oral rather than written, and much of the magic I imagine was in the face-to-face telling; the leaning into each other, waiting breathlessly for what’s going to happen next; the flicker and smell, the warmth, of fire as people drink and eat and gather around the hearth (I kind of knew this, though in truth, I hadn’t thought about how important it was).

• Yet much of the magic, the heroism, and the courtly romance has been lost in watered-down versions of the stories. Some have been altered so much that the originals have been pretty much forgotten. Do we all know that the little mermaid really dies at the end? Something having to do with sea foam…?

Which is one of the reasons I brought Snow White and Rose Red to the forefront again. Most people I know don’t recall this fairy tale. I didn’t, when I first found Patricia’s version. I was at that tenuous age somewhere around 14 or 15, where I was sure I knew pretty much everything there was to know, and yet I could be shaken off my foundations with one ungracious “puuff” from teacher, friend, or foe.

This fairy tale shook my foundations, but in a good way. “I thought I knew all the fairy tales," I said to myself, then, being a voracious reader. "There’s more?” 

Tonight, with a sigh that releases some of the desperation I didn’t know was there, I smile a little. "I thought I knew it all," I chuckle to myself, now, trying everyday to be a voracious live-er. "But thankfully there’s always more."

link to original here

Huge thanks to DR and Sleepy Joe, who boldly took up my little challenge from last week’s Fairy Tale Friday. In doing so you did multiple things that are very meaningful to me – 

      You remembered. You took some time out of your lives to think about and then create something beautiful and unique, something no one else could have created. Time is hard to come by, these days. Beauty, uniqueness too. I can’t find these stories anywhere else but on your blogs? Truly awesome.

      Then you shared your stories. This is a big deal, I know, because you’re putting pieces of yourselves out there for others to read, draw judgments about, opening yourselves to potential ridicule. But you’re also opening yourselves to the idea of community, that you’re part of something bigger, and that you’re words and your humanity are an integral ingredient of what makes up the whole. 

      By sharing you invite me, and other readers, to your virtual hearth. I’m bringing my own beverage, I hope you've got something yummy too? We may be thousands of miles apart, but tonight the flicker of the screen lights up my face, I’m leaning in, and as I go through your variations of the Snow White and Rose Red story, I can tell that  somehow you've tapped into the magic that was there before. 

Maybe the originals aren't entirely lost, rather locked away somewhere inside ourselves? What do you think?

Here are their links:

DR -- http://duckonawire.blogspot.com/2012/03/writing-assignment-challenge-1.html

Sleepy Joe -- http://sleepyjoes.blogspot.com/2012/03/fairy-tale-friday.html

Happy reading!

Total pages logged as of today: 183 but visit my Deadline Updates page for more info

Moment of Magic today:

Refer to all of the above. I'm basking in it all tonight.

Fairy Tale Friday: The Goose with the Golden Eggs Pt. 2

link to original here

Alas my fair readers, I’ve purposely mislead you, for a goose is not a gumball machine. Even heart-of-the-city-girl that I am, I know the difference.

This folktale is most often linked with the idea of greed, but I think there’s something else embedded in the story we’ve lost. If it was merely about the egg, why wouldn’t we say it was a chicken or a duck who laid the golden egg? There are far too many references to geese in our older stories. Mother Goose. The Golden Goose. Aphrodite rode on the back of a goose.

There’s something, something about the goose. I just can’t put my finger on it. Here are a few bits that have sifted to the top of my research:

• “The history of the goose is steeped in both mythology and ancient symbolism (original link here).”

• “Apparently [the goose which laid the sun egg] was at one time sacred… The sun god Ra, of Egypt, was supposed to have been hatched from the egg which rose from the primordial deep (original link here).” 
• “In China geese are still a symbol of marriage, because of their lifelong pair-bond (original link here).”

And to bring it to a more personal level, this is an experience my friend shared with me about her geese:

“My husband and I wanted geese and one of my former students who lived down the street had two they needed to find new homes for. The reason? The school bus stop was in front of their house and, while the children waited for the bus, the geese would chase and bite the kids. A new home was needed immediately. That's where we got lucky. So did the geese. So did the kids.

These geese were named Hondo and Jane. They were an item and spent all of their time together. On the morning of the first snow of the year, I went to my car to go to school and saw Hondo dead in the street. (Apparently they had both been sitting in the middle of the smooth, now white, pavement because it made a nice resting place, but a passing car or truck must have struck them.) Jane was nowhere in sight, but there was a trail of blood leading to the pasture behind our house. 

My husband followed the blood and found Jane at the end of the trail. She had a puncture wound from the vehicle. Scott brought Jane into our unfinished basement and called the veterinarian who said most people wouldn't even bother. They'd just put her out of her misery. We decided we could clean the wound and apply the usual human medicine…Neosporin…and hope for the best.

Jane spent several weeks in the basement and never once made any attempts to bite us or hit us with her wings. She seemed to know we were trying to help her. After all of that time looking in her eyes, we could tell there was more there than dinner, and we never ate meat again.”

-- Mary Bedingfieldsmith

Now. I’m not necessarily saying you should stop eating meat (though it wouldn’t really hurt?). And I’m not saying you should start believing in God(s), fairies, and dragons (though that couldn’t really hurt either?)

What am I trying to say?

I’m not sure, exactly, except that it’s much too easy to just intone, “Don’t be greedy.” As evidenced by the results of the poll, and by peoples’ comments from Part 1, there’s a lot more involved in this scenario.

The heartache and moral for me in this folktale is not that the man has lost his magic gold dispensary, but that the goose has lost its magic life.

Because life is magical, whether we see it and acknowledge it, or not. Call it what you will, but there is a rhythm, a synchronicity here, and we’re all part of it somehow. I may not have been able to exactly identify what’s embedded in this story, today, but I can feel it there. I can tell there’s more. 

And that is magic.

What about you and your experiences? What do you think the significance of the goose is in this folktale?

Total pages logged as of today: Visit my First Draft -- Deb Stats page to find out

Moment of Magic today:

I watch their shoulder muscles move as they fly and think, "Oh, how exhausting." Birds seem so frail. This is another reminder to me that things are never exactly what they seem.

Fairy Tale Friday: The Goose with the Golden Eggs Pt. 1

link to original here

For those unfamiliar with this story, this is a pretty good link to get you started.

Now indulge me here please. For many of us, the closest we’ve ever been to a real goose is when we’ve gone to feed the birds at the local city pond.

Have you ever noticed that regardless of how “domesticated” the geese are, they will be the first ones to chase you with their broad wings spread out, flapping angrily, their loud scary honking right behind you with their sharp beaks snapping, for at least half the length of the pond? The ducks don’t do that. What’s up with the big guys, huh?

Anyway. Let me change things up a bit with this folktale. Say I give you, free of charge and just because I like you, a machine that every morning clinks out a piece of gold about the size of a goose egg.

Imagine a large gumball machine, or one of those square vending machines at grocery stores you can get trinkets and fake tattoos from. Only instead of a gumball, out comes a solid gold goose egg. Again, for those of us with nothing to reference this information with, here’s a visual of a goose egg compared to a chicken egg:

link to original here

I called an appraiser about this (totally played up the incognito bit; homework for today’s post was all kinds of fun) and he said it would depend on a lot of things – the weight of the piece, whether it was solid gold all the way through, blah, blah – but on the fly he would price it anywhere between two and three thousand dollars. Maybe more. He’d have to see it to give me a true price.

So one piece of gold, worth upwards of three grand rolls out of this machine, into your happy hand, every morning. Talk about the best part of waking up, eh?

“How long will it do this?” you ask me.

I shrug my shoulders, “I don’t really know. Sorry. Indefinitely?”

So chances are, the machine could stop tomorrow. Or maybe it’ll keep going until you’re on your death bed, and then you hand it down to a close relative who asks, with puzzled look, how long it’ll clink out the golden orbs. Whereupon you shrug your shoulders like I did, saying, “I don’t know, really. Sorry. Indefinitely?”

But what if…just what if? You were to take apart the machine to see how it works? It couldn’t be that hard, could it? Just to see if you can find the source of all that gold, and then have thousands, hundreds-of-thousands, maybe even millions of dollars worth of gold all at once in your hand. Rather than having to wait day by day to receive the eggs. Or not receive them, because again, you have no idea when it will stop.

link to original here

What if you could reproduce the machine? Awesome, no doubt, eh? Then you could make money off the eggs, and off the machines you create from it too. You could sell the machines, or you could keep them for the extra eggs, or both.

Then again, what if you took it apart and it just broke? No more eggs, no more nothing. Ugh, could you imagine? I'd be so, so... I don't even know the word. "Grumpy" doesn't even come close.

Would you do it? Would you crack open the machine? Or would you just accept the daily offerings of golden nuggets, glad to have them, heart full of hope that they'll continue to come indefinitely?

Vote (look up, top-left for new poll) until next Thursday, March 15, and then Friday our story will continue.

 Total pages logged as of today: Visit my First Draft -- Deb Stats page to find out

Moment of Magic today:

I'm falling short here. I've had a bad day. Anyone? Want to share? I'd very much appreciate it.

Fairy Tale Friday: The Little Red Hen

Link to original here

I remember thinking this story was so sad when I was little. The poor pig, cat, and duck, yes, but poor hen too. Maybe it’s because one of the lessons we push most on kids is sharing? I don’t know. I just remember thinking that bread must have had a rather bitter taste. 

I imagined the little red hen sitting pulled up to the table, hunkered over the loaf, slathering gobs of soft, melting butter on each thick, warm slice. Mmm, my mom made bread for us back then, so I knew exactly how exquisite was that smell. The hen would no-doubt be in a veritable heaven, shoveling the whole, crumbly loaf into her little beak one golden piece at a time. 

But then I knew all that rich, home-baked goodness would be too much, and I imagined her getting sick on it, belly bulging and over-full. Her eyes would close and she’d hold her stomach, fighting to keep all that bread down.

Now I’m older I get the story. A little bit, anyway, because I’ve had a few experiences where I’ve put a lot of work into something but then someone else reaps the benefits.

That feeling sucks. 

And yet? Reading back over this folktale, I still can’t help but be sad for everyone involved.

The pig, cat, and duck should have helped, yes. But the hen should have forgiven her friends as well, and shared what she’d worked so hard to create. To me it seems obvious that this would be a much better ending to the story?

Now that I’m older, and I don’t have to just accept the fairytales as they’re given to me, in my head I imagine this other scenario of how that last scene could have played out:

Link to original here

The little red hen accepts the cat, the duck, and the pig as they are, and opens her door for them to join her. The friends all sit together around the table, jovially slathering big blobs of butter on their slices, laughing and telling each other stories about their adventures in the mud, the pond, etc.

The friends are apologizing to the hen for not helping, but they’re also gushing in their compliments about how good the bread is. She feels happy that they appreciate her effort, even if they didn't contribute to it. And she can tell they’re sincere because of the way their eyes glow, their smiles linger, and they unconsciously hum as they lick their fingers.

How much better would that bread taste? Sweet and rich, warm in their bellies. And no one gets sick, because there’s just enough for all.

Total pages logged as of today: Visit my First Draft -- Deb Stats page to find out

Moment of Magic today:

Fairy Tale Friday: The Frog Prince

Alpha, about a year ago -- oh how he hated this suit.

Okay, so what we’ve got is a prince who, for whatever reason, has been cursed to wear a frog suit and it makes him sad.

Now, while I have no problem coming up with a few perks to being a frog – off the top of my head? Strong green legs, for one – our young prince doesn’t like it. Maybe because no girls will kiss him, which I’m made to understand is something guys really like, so. I guess I get why he doesn’t appreciate the frog suit.

But I can also understand why nobody wants to kiss him. When I imagine the texture of something slimy touching my lips, I think of a horrible smell, putrid decay, stickiness stretching into long strings. 

And of course it’s almost impossible to keep stuff out of your mouth once it’s been on your lips (it says here the average woman will consume 6 pounds of lipstick in her lifetime? I have no idea if that’s really true, but I do know one of my first instincts after putting chapstick on is to lick my lips.) 

On top of the slime, there’s also the chance that the frog may be poisonous.  I’ve often wondered if that played a part in the original story.

Regardless, no one’s kissing our prince, though inside he is a sweet, kind, person. Or maybe he’s cruel? Maybe he’s a techy without many social skills. But then, why am I assuming a techy would automatically have fewer social skills? Perhaps that label is a frog suit, of sorts.

Fairy Godmother -- link to original here

Perhaps all labels are curses we put on each other to rationalize our want to disassociate from things we don’t understand. And we’re all just waiting for a fairy godmother to lift the curse and make it better. Or a princess to come along and see past the suit into the “real” person inside, hoping she’ll kiss away the ugliness to make it better.

My initial reaction to the label/frog suit idea is: “Duh, just do away with the labels. Obviously what we’ve got here is a prince, not a frog.”

But I know that’s not a very realistic approach to life because, even if something seems obvious, it’s hardly ever entirely the way it seems. Theories are always good in theory, eh?

Labels have their place in society. They are a great organizational tool, among other things. I suppose what I don’t like about imposing frog suits on people is that we use the suits to justify cruelty and hate. “It’s okay if I’m blatantly offensive to this guy, because he’s    (fill in the blank)   ."

I don’t know what the answer is. Do you?

I do know, though, that I hope someday my little prince will be loved, frog suit or not. I hope he will be accepted and encouraged, rather than pushed out and discouraged. I am his mama, and I see the prince; but even if others see a frog, I hope they’ll respect him anyway. 

And lest you be disappointed at my (mis)handling of “The Frog Prince,” take a look at a punnier version put on by the Fractured Fairytale folks:

Total pages logged as of today: 160 (Apparently the pep-talk worked and I'm that much closer to deadline. Counting down to 5 days, 4 chapters left.) 

Moment of Magic today:

Here are some of my visuals for tonight's writing --

Again, what stories do they create in your mind? I dare you to write one down and see where it'll take you... 

Link to original here

Link to original here

Link to original here

Fairy Tale Friday: An Alternate Sleeping Beauty

It’s really all just a big open space, with the only thing distinguishing our kitchen from our living room being the different flooring. Purple shag for one (don’t be jealous) and wood-laminate for the other. I’ll let you guess which is which.

This makes it relatively easier to keep my eye on Alpha while I prep dinner. For this story he was wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, and riveted to Disney’s 1973 version of Sleeping Beauty because he’d never seen it before. Granted, he’s only two, so he hasn’t seen a lot of things yet. 

Now, bear with me please. This is one of my top five favorite fairytales, so even though we’ve already gone over it somewhat here, I can’t help but bring it up again.

Especially when the following happened:

Hubs came home from work all cheery and jovial, which meant the minute his bag and coat came off, he was cracking jokes. Only, I was making dinner and Alpha was watching a movie. Even for the most innovative of entertainers, that’s not an ideal audience. 

Of course his jibes turned then to the movie. This is about where it was at:

Swords and fighting and dragons, oh my! This is the “boy” part! And yet he was still making fun of it.

One of my favorite fairytales of all time. 

I’m going to go ahead and admit, here, I was feeling a bit rankled. Needless to say, our vegetables ended up being a little more finely chopped than they needed to be.

Now fast-forward the video to around 7 minutes and 45 seconds. This is the “girl” part. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter goes my heart. Sigh.

Hubs is saying, “Oh, gross! Alpha, don’t watch.”

Alpha is watching anyway.

“Alpha. Don’t even think about that kind of stuff til you’re, like, 20.”

I wonder if Alpha understands.

“Ew, they’re kissing. Uuugh!” Hubs won’t let up.

 But Alpha stands up to look over the back of the couch at me. Pointing back at the movie he says, “Mom!...something, something…” (He’s still working on his full sentences).

I just smile at him cause, guh, he is so cute.

“Yeah, that part’s for Mom,” Hubs says.

Alpha is still trying to communicate a point, though, only I’m not sure what. So I keep smiling at him, and he keeps pointing back and forth between the movie and me. 

Finally his eyes take on a determined look and he gets down off the couch, walks over to me, and takes my hand. With a little-boy tug he pulls so I’ll squat down to his height. When I do, I’m rewarded with a kiss on the cheek.

A very princely kiss, and a, “Cute, Mama.”

Suddenly I was awake to the lovely glow of the evening, and how great that moment felt. Awake and alive. And grateful. Alpha went back to finish his movie. I went back to finishing our meal. Hubs went back to his fun-loving jests. 

Now I have another reason to love the Sleeping Beauty story.

Life moves on. But fairytales, and the memories embedded into them, are forever.

So what stories do you have connected to fairytales?

Link to artist here

Total pages logged as of today: 145

Moment of Magic today:

I'm very tired. If I can get a nap in today, that will be magical. This is me making a wish.

Fairy Tale Friday: Princess and the Pea Revisited

Last Friday I suggested we go back to a pre-Hans telling of this story and asked for renditions of alternate versions. Here are a couple of the responses I received:

 First is a short-short story told in the children's book collection of "The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales" by Jon Scieszka.

And I love this book.

This version may still rely on the idea that a true princess will be extremely delicate and sensitive, but it's a twist. Points definitely go for the twist.

I love that in this version the prince is an avid enough bowler he has a ball hanging around he can use for just such an occasion. Of course, right?



Next is a Broadway musical comedy, "Once Upon a Mattress." Again, it is an adaptation of the Hans Christian Andersen story, but again, it's a little bit twisted.

Points.

Here's a good place to get started on that version if you're interested:

Finally, since no one else was biting at my bate to create an original pre-Hans version, I decided to have a little go at it. For the sake of time management, and child management, I tried to keep it to a page. Here's what I came up with:

About a Pea

The embers glowed orange and red as she held her hands out to the warmth, listening. Her father snored loudly from the back room, his brother competing with him even in that. Uncle Jeffery was visiting for the weekend from his service at the palace, and the two broad-chested, loud-mouthed men had roared late into the night getting drunk off each others’ stories and her father’s dark ale. She didn’t want to be present for their hungover beatings when they woke.

And this time she wouldn’t be.

Standing up, she tucked her long, thick hair under her hood and dusted off her dress where she’d been kneeling in front of the fireplace. Though it was her best, the gown would look worn and tattered where she was headed, so she stilled her hands in resignation and quietly made her way to the door. 

She ran back through her story: she’d explain away her disheveled appearance by saying there’d been a shipwreck down south, unfortunately she was the only survivor, and it’d taken her over a month to make her way up to the Capital on foot. 

It would be easy enough to convince them she was one of the Emperor’s many princesses from the kingdom across the sea, where this country garnered spices and slaves for a cheap price. She had the olive skin and black hair to confirm her story because her mother really had come from that warm, far-off place. They would look at her dark full lips, her big almond eyes, and nod, like people did in the market when she traded her father’s wares and her own fine embroidery for grain and vegetables. 

No one at the palace would question when she said she’d heard about the royal couple’s search for the perfect bride to marry their sole son, prince and heir to the throne, and that she had come to try their mysterious test. At least she hoped they didn’t.

Pausing at the door, she listened again, turning to a small hand tapping at her arm. Kneeling down, she scooped her little brother into her arms. The little brother whose birth had finally released their mother from this torment, her relief to be leaving them preserved for all time on her stiff, dead face.

“I’ll be back for you, I promise,” she said, kissing away his silent tears. He hiccuped and hid his head in the crook of her neck. They rocked together, but finally she pulled back. “I have to go.”

“What if the prince doesn’t like you?” he whispered, his somber almond eyes wide with worry.

She almost laughed. Of all the reasons she had to fear tumbling through her head, she hadn’t even thought of that. “Nothing can be worse than Papa, huh? Stay away from him today until the worst has past,” she said, holding him close one last time and then putting him on his feet. “Be brave, little mouse. Remember our plan, and I’ll be back for you within a fortnight.”

He nodded, shutting the door softly behind her. 

Sliding into the shadows she hurried quickly upwards, toward the palace, shuffling through quiet cobbled streets past dirty shop fronts and rancid refuse. All this could change. Looking around, she shook her head, angry, and made a promise to herself to take care of this; to care for these people. She would not forget where she came from. She’d fix what was putrid in her life, then she’d fix what was rotting here too.

She smiled deep, hope blooming in her belly for the first time since their mother had died. Maybe she didn’t have royal relatives, but now, thanks to Uncle Jeffery’s drunken rants, she had a royal secret. A very important one, about a pea.

Total pages logged as of today: 130 + 3 pages of other writing. Points?

Moment of Magic today:

1. Stare at the red dot on the girl’s nose for 30 seconds

2. Turn your eyes towards the wall/roof or somewhere else on a plain surface

3. Keep blinking your eyes quickly

Fairy Tale Friday: The Princess and the Pea

Link to artist here

They say Hans Christian Anderson was the guy who made this fairy tale popular, though there were other versions circulating before his rendition. They also say he was the first to include the idea that the real princess was sensitive to even the tiniest discomfort, and that's why she felt the pea under the mattress.

Previous versions suggested she was clued in on the farce by a helpful insider, so the next morning she passed the test because of her ingenuity and foresightedness. Huh.

If you ask me, I'd rather have a queen who's cunning and smart than one who is squeamish and tender. I want to be proud of my strong queen (hello Ms. Obama on the Ellen Show recently?); not shrug and sigh, hoping the next one will be better.

So I vote we go back to a pre-Hans telling of this story, if anyone out there has a good rendition? Better yet, if anyone wants to write a pre-Hans/pro-proud Princess story I'd love to host it in my post next Friday. Anyone? I dare you, if that helps.

Until then, sigh, here's a pretty version of what we've got (I love the creator's voice):

Hours logged today: 1/researching   Pages logged today: 1/researching    Total pages logged today: 126

Moment of Magic today:

In the dead of winter, I'm reminded of when this bee came to hang out with us in our kitchen. It was a warm night, the smell of sun still in the dark air, baby (only one at the time) in bed, and time to just breathe. 

I love summer. I love the memory of this bee.

Fairy Tale Friday: The Crane Wife

I'd never heard this story before, so when my friend Duckie suggested it, I was stumped. It sounded good, though, and Duckie knows what's down, so. 

Google to the rescue. 

But apparently there are many versions of it? After a little bit of wading through various lengths and details I found a relatively good abstract here and is brought to life by the Decemberists in a three-part set of songs. These are the lyrics, but for sure go read the story somewhere too:

The Crane Wife 1, 2 and 3 – The Decemberists

1: It was a cold night / And the snow lay low

I pulled my coat tight / Against it falling down

And the sun was all / And the sun was all down

I am a poor man /I haven't wealth nor fame

I have my two hands / And a house to my name

And the winter's so / And the winter's so long

And all the stars were crashing 'round / As I laid eyes on what I'd found

It was a white crane / It was a helpless thing

Upon a red stain / With and arrow in its wing

And it called and cried / And it called and cried so

And all the stars were crashing 'round / As I laid eyes on what I'd found

My crane wife, my crane wife / My crane wife, my crane wife

Now I helped her / And now I dressed her wounds

And how I held her / Beneath the rising moon

And she stood to fly / And she stood to fly away

2: My crane wife / Arrived at my door in the moonlight

All starbright and tongue-tied / I took her in

We were married / And bells rang sweet for our wedding

And our bedding was ready / We fell in

Sound the keening bell / And see it's painted red

Soft as fontanelle / The feathers in the thread

And all I ever meant / To do was to keep you

My crane wife, my crane wife / My crane wife

We were poorly / Our fortunes fading hourly

And how she loved me / She could bring it back

But I was greedy / I was vain and I forced her to weaving

On a cold loom in a closed room / Down hall

Sound the keening bell / And see it's painted red

Soft as fontanelle / The feathers in the thread

And all I ever meant / To do was to keep you

My crane wife, my crane wife / My crane wife

There's a bend in the wind / And it rakes at my heart

There is blood in the thread / And it rakes at my heart

3: And under the boughs unbound / All clothed in a snowy shroud

She had no heart so hardened / All under the boughs unbound

Each feather it fell from skin / 'Til threadbare, she grew thin

How were my eyes so blinded? / Each feather it fell from skin

A grey sky, a bitter sting / A raincloud, a crane on wing

All out beyond horizon, oh / A grey sky, a bitter sting

And I will hang my head, hang my head low

And I will hang my head, hang my head low

 

Hours logged today: 0/editing   Pages logged today: 0/editing    Total pages logged today: 116

Moment of Magic today:

It's Friday. Need I say more? Have a happy weekend and thanks for coming around to read my blog.