Unfairy Tale

It has been awhile since I have written anything. For this, I am sorry. I have been in a foul mood as of late. And thus, begins my decent into a spiral of loathsome and dark tales. The following is an excerpt (really its the beginning) of a short fairy tale I am working on. I hope you enjoy. ~ dreamersrapture

Once upon a time, there was an enchanted land disconnected from our own world. It had the ordinary things one might expect of an enchanted land, magical creatures, talking trees, sorcerers and elves. But, these were of a fearsome sort. Different from the lands of the bedtime fairy tale, this was a world of dark enchantments. It was called Darkarrow.

The beasts that roamed Darkarrow were evil in nature. Faeries would flit from forest to sea spreading misery on everything they happened by. Centuars would roam somber through the Forest of Stench, miserable, and fight anything that crossed their path. The Goblins were perhaps some of the worst and trickiest creatures. If one stumbled into their traps they would rot there, or if one was lucky enough to be found, they would be cooked for dinner. (This was better than starving to death and then rotting.) The other beasts were more foul and horrid, therefore, shall not be mentioned.

Advertisements

Jack & Lucy

“Jack, the Witch is coming. Be very quiet.”

His face was stone cold, not even a twitch of a muscle. She pushed Jack over a little, “Hide under the bush.” She leaned over protecting Jack from sight. “The Witch will come for you, and then she’ll put a spell on you, so you’ll never wake again, ” the girl whispered in his ear.

She held his hand down, “Stop moving. You don’t want that to happen do you?” His eyes, dark as coal, stared straight ahead not giving anything away. She shoved a chestnut curl from her face, and looked up just in time.

“Jack! Look out! The tree is collapsing!” The girl pushed Jack rolling with him from harms way. “The Witch will surely have heard us, Jack. We’re no longer safe.” The girl’s pudgy hand brushed aside dirt and leaves, “We need a new hide out.”

A voice came from the distance, “Lucy, lunch is ready!”

“Jack it’s the Witch! She is going to eat us!” There was scuffling and then a great shaggy mane could be seen from the entrance of the girl’s hide out. “The beast has come to drag us down to be cooked. Look at his dirty paws and great big teeth. Our end has come Jack. We must escape.”

Lucy scrambled from under the hideout pulling Jack at her heals. They left in their wake a mess of collapsed sheets, blankets and chairs littering the ground. Skidding by a large sheep dog who seemed unconcerned by the events. Lucy ran smack in a tall woman walking up the stairs with same chestnut curls.

“Ahh! The Witch, The Witch, she got me!!! I’m going to sleep forever.” She promptly pretended to faint in her arms.

The woman peered closely into the little girl’s face, “I will put you into a deep sleep and eat all of your lunch.”

“No! It’s my lunch!” Lucy said as she snapped awake. She tugged on Jack, let’s go get some food.

Jack didn’t budge. He was staring at Lucy from the top of the stairs with his coal black eyes, a somber look on his face. Lucy turned to look at why Jack wasn’t following her and she screamed. In her hand a small brown paw dangled lifeless.

“Mother! Mother! Jack! His arm!” She pelted full speed to the fluffy bear sitting at the top of the stairs and cradled him in her arms.  “Don’t you worry Jack, mother can fix you right up. I won’t leave your side.” Lucy hugged him firmly. Gingerly, she led him down the stairs to where lunch and a hospital bed awaited Jack, her faithful companion.

Inspiration

Sometimes my words are empty. They come out with too much air in between and not enough mass. I’m losing detail. My inspiration is drying like rain on a summer day in Arizona. It evaporates before it even touches the ground.

I have taken a wrong turn somewhere and now I am lost down a darkening forest path. There is no light, the trail is thorny and muddled with debris. I can only escape through writing my way out. I stand till awaiting a sound, a whisper, any clue of direction. The trees stand silent, leaves tranquil, forbidden to answer my pleas. The animals retreat to the shadows, alas I must find inspiration in darkest corner and furthest reaches. So I sit where I have been stumped and write.

I let the words guide my pencil until they dry up like the rain. Then I know, the ideas will spring forth once again, and I will light my way from this tumultuous, winding path. Where I will emerge into the pages of a story dripping with freshly spun yarns.

picture courtesy of deviantArt

Gremlin

Sticks and stones. Sticks and stones. Sticks and stones.

My demons are the way words crawl up and down my skin trying to find a way to enter. Hiding in the creases of my elbow until there is that one chance cut, and they can scuttle into my blood stream-flow into my body. Words are sneaky like this. Even if you are less observant than myself.

“Rachet.” “Gay.” “Homo.” “Fat.” “Dumb.” “Ugly.”

Don’t tell me it just slides off you. Words don’t slide, they hook into the crook of your wrist. Stick like glue onto your legs and stomach, stay until one day you grow tall and confident, peeling them off your epidermis. Yet, sometimes you can’t. We can’t. I can’t. 7th graders don’t.

“Snitch.”

A person who tells on another person, because they stood up to do the right thing. The word of the week. Her wrist bleeds out gay, short, fat, dumb. Her pills drown out ugly, homo, rachet. Words that the students’ batter into her head everyday as they shove her into a wall. So he writes a confession to the teacher full of names. Snitch. When really, he is a hero.

Dead. Is what she might have been. Lying lifeless, the words beating against her pale, ageless body, dangling from her toes trying to be set free.

It is the words clinging to our lips, spewing from the fire.

Sticks and stones. Sticks and stones. Sticks and stones.

Names are forever.

Limbo

The circus came to town while Maggie was asleep. A ringmaster stood atop a charcoal colored, oversized bucket in the center ring and shouted, “Come one, come all.” They did. They came from near and far. The people filled the grand stand seating until only one little seat was left way up high above the rest. Tucked back in the corner, where it was impossible to see the ringmaster shouting from his perch in the center.

But, Maggie was asleep. Wildflowers painted across the sky bleeding through clouds. They poured down onto the pirate ships where swashbucklers looked up caught off guard. A mop in one hand, Roger cried for his sword. What were these abominations falling from the melancholy clouds? Maggie cried, “I will save you!” She took the wildflowers, knelt down and dug in the fresh dirt that now covered the non-existent pirate ship. The flowers took hold and grew tall. Maggie looked up to Roger, but he no longer stood scared with a mop and sword. He had left the flowery ship and so did she.

Lions pranced across the circus arena chasing a terrified tamer. He led them dancing through hoops of flame. The audience roared and came to their feet with applause. The lions took little bows one by one; their manes drooped and dragged across the ground. Still, one seat remained empty not a shadow of a person to be seen.

Maggie snored soulfully, but her arm seemed to be missing. She was racing down a speedway. One hand on the steering wheel, the other had been removed from her body. The car whipped around a corner and through a hole into the space continuum. Driving onto a large sapphire space ship that glittered with glass paneling, she skidded to a halt and hopped out of her car. “Captain, the asteroid will collide with us at any moment,” A short man in a turquoise uniform approached Maggie. She gave the order. They would have to self destruct and use the escape pod.

The audience turned to the empty chair. Whispers echoed through the stand,”Where is Maggie?” They said, “Where, where, where…” Clowns took the stage, suits oversized and brightly colored. They clomped in their giant red shoes, gagging and giggling with silly faces. An audience member was chosen for a prop. Into the cannon he was loaded and shot from afar. Plop. He landed in a pool of pudding, vanilla.

The pastures were green as envy. Maggie’s palomino galloped uncontrollably barely touching the wild grasses. She clung to his hair leaning forward as the sunlight streamed across her bare back. They burrowed deep into the earth and she looked at her body which was no longer her own. Her head was attached to a small thorax from which extended six legs. Maggie was suddenly two times as strong as she used to be. “Help us!” Ahead of her, a small pebble was crushing two of her fellow comrades. She loaded the pebble onto her back freeing the miniscule ants, who thanked her profusely.

The circus was leaving town, while Maggie slept. Onto the trucks the lions leapt. Clowns crept quietly into the night. The ringmaster thanked his audience. They clapped and left to near and far. Maggie did not know of the circus. Although they whispered her name, she slept, attached to machines. In a bed soft, with blankets warm. The stillness did not disturb her dreams. Machines sounded. Beep. Beep. Beep. Her mother wept at her side, head in her lap, for her daughter to wake.

Jordans Pt. 2

I’d like to believe that reality will one day become easier. That the hard times will pass and happiness will overwhelm us. Peace will reign and everything will be good. But, it is not what is true. We muddle through our day to day, we hold on to those we have and then we pray that they don’t leave us. At least not now, not when it is too soon, when it is too fresh. Why pray? Because it is easy. It is nice to have something to cling to when life leaves you tumbling down a dry dirt road so full of prickers you wish you never stepped foot in that forsaken desert to begin with. Yet, it really wasn’t your choice. At least there is someone waiting for you, holding your hand as you spin uncontrollably into the storm that we deem to be life.

Bianca had only her friends. I have learned by my experiment (said Henry David Thoreau) and it has been my experiment, that seventh graders cannot be trusted further than you can spit. Their developing brains cannot allow them to understand the complexities of life, therefore they will be best friends until the end… the end of the week. Of course, they would never reveal this to you themselves, but it is exactly what happens on a daily basis. This was the case for Bianca as well. She may have had her friends, but they were never her true friends. So again she was left alone on the outside of the world looking in with no one to take her through the storm that she was about to pass through.

I have also come to understand that there are people who are evil. Maybe their own parents were like Bianca’s. There was no one to teach them right and wrong. She was looking for love. A person to hold her and tell her that life would be something. She would be more than just a woman lying on couch drowning the sorrows and horrible memories of a life time of wrongs. But, how do you explain to a thirteen year old what her step-father did to her was wrong and going to find herself comfort in the arms of a boy who was kicked out of middle school is not the answer?

Bianca was living the life that no child should ever have to find themselves a part of. She took solace in the fact that her one friend came from similar circumstances. Middle school changes people and it did that to her friend. She slipped Bianca drugs in her drink. Bianca overdosed in the middle of class that day. She had no idea what was happening. She began having seizure like attacks and was rushed to the hospital. Her life was falling further and further into a darkened hole and the rope was fraying. Every time we pulled her out a few more strands fell loose. It was the boy that would end up changing her life not once but twice in the same year.

Word Demons

I am followed. Words follow me around they are in the shadows of my mind. They play at my thoughts and taunt my dreams. All day lexicon begs me to write. My imagination drips with endless characters. They waltz into my lessons marching like ghosts between my students. They look back at me their silent faces and pleading eyes watch me while their bodies are covered in word vomit. Places they wish to be from, settings I will one day write.

I feel some thing wet splash across my face, and I look down at my toes. I see the words rain, and storm rolling across the carpet like tiny army ants. i stare back at my students, can they see the words too? The words they are haunting me. On my way home darkness cowers around me. Black, vile, ominous— is this another story trying to fight its way onto the pages of my notebook? Everywhere I look, the images are replaced with words.

I can no longer see a leaf. The leaf is covered with the words: floating, crisp, Autumn, golden, dying. The word demons follow me. They Invade my every breath. Until I only breathe in words and everything else has left me, and now I write.