[Fairy Tale] Elowyn Wisp - 2

You can learn of the rules here.  I felt this story deserved a title at this point.  None of the members of the group suggested a continuance, so I moved it forward.  A second story will occur on Fridays starting this week or next.

"Thank you!" said the Mother Wren as it sung a hymn to the sky of the purest dulcet tones, pleated with gratitude for the lives of her babies.  She sang so long and so sweetly that for a time the man forgot his cares and wept at the beauty of it all, but when she was done, the Wren asked,"What brings a fine strong human like you to these woods?"

"I am seeking my daughter." He asked hopefully.  "She is a small human girl with beautiful black hair and eyes as the sea at storm.  I have misplaced her."

The Wren larked sadly, a soulful cry, and replied,"Alas good sir, I have seen no human girl!"

"I shall never see Elowyn again..." he sighed, resuming his search though his heart was not in it.

"Elowyn?" the Wren asked hopefully.

"Yes.  That is the name of my daughter."  His cap came off his head and by his grasp lay in his hand.  "Have you seen her?"

"I have, but I saw no human by that name, only Elowyn Wisp, daughter of the Garland."  The Wren was confused.

Not being the brightest man, he did not ask questions but jumped up and askance,"She was here!" He beamed and jumped, "She was here!"

"She was, not more than half the day passed!"

"Which way?" He looked east and west, then up again at Mother Wren.

"That which way the sun flows!" She sang and pointed with her wing.

And off the Man went after Elowyn, but deep the sun set and dark the moon rose in the silver hue of the starry night and no sign nor hint of Wisp there were. But not passing to sleep, through thicket and wild bramble the man pressed on, never giving up hope. For three days and three nights he did this till at last a curious noise he heard aways forward.

In a Dead Man's Shoes

Posted here because Live Journal is becoming more and more of a pain to log in to every year, and I would rather write the poem in the wrong place than not at all.

In A Dead Man's Shoes
By Emmit Other

The Rhombus Trick
Is really more necessary than my nonchalance appears
I was done
Burned out
More than a multi month recovery
The kind that takes a decade
Maybe more
From which one might recover
But I have seen the killing of a brilliant gentle soul
I have the painting no one else wants
Or cared about
But it has an audience of one
Of a mother's love of her son
Frozen in time
Before mammon and El conspired
To crush a dream
The poet in me thrives
Because I don't give a fuck what you think of me
These words are mine
And you are welcome to them
Freely given
Freely written
But with prose there are Expectations
Of a lever great enough to change the world
Even to move the world just a little bit
Off of the rodeo traintrack of self deceiving doom.
But writing is that balance
Between delusion that you can win
And self awareness that you need to polish the turd
Until it shines
But after the GMVZ8pt2
There was no shine left in the can
The sham show was what it was
So understand folks
Rhombus is as real as he needs to be
To keep the parade party started
Because the alternative
Is a life of service to something
That couldn't care less if you live or die
And spawn that mostly go through the motions
I will not fade gray or die away
I shall sparkle on wondercuss
Half of the legitimate ones are phonies anyway.
I am in plenty good company to keep.
March on dented sqaure.
March on.

[Script] Unfood - Page 13

CONTINUED: 13. GERALD (cont’d) most experienced cheaters. There will be absolutely no way for you to sneak food on board. Wide shot of Gerald again pandering to the camera on the desk. GERALD The confederation will get you. Count on it! ACT 1 SCENE 4 EXTERIOR – PARK - DAY The BLOB is grossly overweight wearing an extremely fine and intricately woven robe. He is meeting with Freight who is dressed very disheveled. Freight is riddled with guilt. FREIGHT This sounds too good to be true. BLOB Can you afford not to? My sources are pretty damn good. FREIGHT No, I can’t afford not to. But that doesn’t mean that this is too good to be true. BLOB My loss is your gain. FREIGHT You say that, but tell that to my crew. BLOB Ah yes, your crew. I’d heard about that. Terrible tragedy really. FREIGHT Shut up. BLOB I can go if you want. Freight doesn’t say anything, but just sulks. He rolls up a cigarette. He lights it, takes a puff. A short while later they hear sirens in the background and curses. He puts it out. (CONTINUED)

Mr. Right Writes Letters

So I heard a bit more on this story. The only guy who knows it likes to dole it out a bit at a time...really, it pretty obvious he's making it up as he goes along.  I'm not sure how that makes it a legitimate tale but stories are weird.  Maybe there is an invisible duck whispering it into his ear or something...

Mr. Right was right yet again.  The details of the offense are unimportant.  The gentleman who offended him was a vile cur, all Mr Right's relations told each other so, and the act was so vile that it even threatened his fiancé, the would be Mrs. Right.  So all were in agreement that his incredibly well planned action to notify and lecture the authorities was a sound and well acclimated one.

100 pieces of paper in 100 days with 100 stamps and 100 envelope.  It was a lovely solid number that everyone enjoyed.  Mr. Right was not Mr. Kind, but everyone who was anyone felt a certain solace knowing that Mr. Right was off doing something Right in a solidly moral clear way.  But Mr. Right did not enjoy doing this by itself.  Being Right didn't offer much comfort and being an example was important but if Mousekind was to be his business, would it not be better to be Kind?

Mr. Right decided that some of the letters should be about Mr Wrong (the vile cure who had endangered Mrs Would Be Right) but spent the bulk of them writing to people who needed it.  Mr Right would never be Mr. Kind, but if enough of us TRIED to be Mr. Kind, maybe the world would be a better place. 

In the end, Mr. Right was no less Right, Mr. Wrong was still Wrong, and Mr. Kind was still Kind, but the over arching kindness of the world was increased, and that made Mr. Right happy.  Which was the right choice.

Grenademan Vs The Zombies Chapter 10 Part 1

The world finally sees the results of Jarvi's and Chaos's Apocaylpse.  The circle fights them as best they can.

Written by TC Ricks

Edited by Fiona Skye

Sound Editing Grayson Bergmann

Performed by Rhombus Ticks

Check out this episode!

[Script] Unfood - Page 12

CONTINUED: 12. JUDGE (cont’d) it is. You knew what you were doing. And now you are going to pay for it. ACT 1 SCENE 3 SCENE – BUSINESS OFFICE – INTERIOR – DAY A man sits at a desk and slowly moves in front of it. GERALD Hello there. My name is Gerald Danes. I’m hear to speak to you on behalf of the new Confederation government. He sits down on the desk and crosses one leg over another. GERALD As most of your are aware, public health care is a right in in the Confederation and as such, you’re all going to get access to it. But as you are also aware, there are certain individuals that feel it is their prerogative to take advantage of the situation. For them... He stares back at the camera in a close up. GERALD Being fat isn’t merely a problem but a badge of honor. They flaunt their ability to bribe the system, to corrupt it in a mockery of the purity of what it really is. But we can’t allow them to succeed at that. Every time we have tried to regulate their weight, they have found a way to get around it. Patriotic music plays in the background. He salutes and salutes at the camera. GERALD Well no more! Now we have come up with a solution that will take care of the problem once and for all. Now we have created the Fat ship. This mobile prison is specially designed to foil even the (MORE) (CONTINUED)

[FairyTale] Introduction and Elowyn Wisp - 1

Hello.

For quite some time I have been trying to resurrect a wonderful project I started with some of TC's friends and family members earlier this year to find new fairy tales.  But due to life and a series of other happenings, these got started but were never finished.  These tales were to be released under the Creative Commons License....

The original people involved in this project were TC Ricks, Andrew Greenberg, Greg Sanford, and Julie R Ray.  Others showing interest were Bill Bridges, Josie Burgin Lawson and Fiona Skye.


New Fairy Tales by New Fairy Tales Group is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

The original project was to start a story and then turn it around, round robin style with each new author adding to the original story.  There are currently four 'seeds' and I'll be randomly selecting two and pursuing those until done.  Anyone who wants to participate may submit a possible answer to anyone else in the group by the following day...

For example, after I post one of the four seeds here, all written up to this point, anyone on the list can continue and anyone else on the list can vote for the next version they like most.  No one is required to continue it at all, and you may write a continuance under an alias and be added to the group list in this post.  Elsewise, I will write a continuance a week by default until 'done' and then finish at least the first four seeds, maybe more after that if the group so decides.

If you want to join (or leave) the group, email me at redanvilcreative at the google mail.

Anyway, here is one of the four seeds, selected at random.

Untitled (For Now)
Once there was a man and woman who had no children, despite their best efforts. One evening, when the woman was feeling especially melancholy, she took a walk down by the pond, gathering wildflowers and humming a soft tune as she went. Her fingers moved absently, weaving a garland of the flowers as she walked and thought, until she found herself on a path in the forest. She glanced down and was surprised to see that she had woven a small person of her flowers- with a head, two arms, and two legs. She felt a stab of foreboding in her belly, but just then she saw a flickering of light a little way off the path. She could not help herself wandering closer to see what the light was. When she came closer, she could hear singing and music, and see the shadows of people dancing about. Far to the edge of the revelry lay a small bassinet. The woman crept closer and saw inside the smallest baby she had ever seen. She thought that she could hold it in just the palm of her hand, and, picking it up to see, she lay her garland down in its place. No sooner than she had it, she could not put it down again, and quietly she walked back the way she came, cradling the small baby, a girl, she saw, with all the love a mother could give. When she arrived back at the small cabin she shared with her husband, she walked in boldly and said, “Husband, look, I have born us a daughter. Her name is Elowen.” He never was a very bright man, and, it was a very small child, anyway, so he did not question her story. The woman handed the girl to her husband and suddenly felt very ill. She told her husband she had a pain, laid down in her bed, and if she woke up again, it was not in this world. The husband ever after said that she had died in childbirth.

The man did his best to raise the girl. He gave her milk from the cow and from the nanny goat, but she would have none. He made porridge sweetened by honey, but she turned up her nose. All her life she drank naught but the rain as it fell from the sky and ate naught but the dandelion wisps in the wind, but, grew, all the same, until she was but a little small for her age. Her father loved her, as he had loved her mother, but did not understand her very well. She, for her part, did not understand him either. Why did he become so upset when she brought home spiders and rats and other small things and made them a cozy place in her room? For all she could see, he acted as though he were afraid of the things, but she knew that could not be so. And why did he insist that she stay inside on nights when the moon was so bright, it was like the day? He would go so far as to lock her up in her room to keep her inside. Yet, she was a very clever girl and he was not such a clever man, so she always found a way to get out, and she would lay down by the pond and let the moon bathe her in its light.

It was on such a night that she saw off in the forest a small light. She was over taken by curiosity, and followed it down into the forest. As she walked, it seemed to move further and further away, and so she stepped away from the path and walked deeper and deeper into the forest.

The next morning, the man awoke and unlocked her bedroom door, but, in her place on her bed, he found only the dust of withered wildflowers.

A slight breeze came through the open door, and the old man hurried to collect the dust in a jar. He was not a bright man, but he knew his lands like he knew the back of his calloused hands. Purple wildflowers  grew by his house, and blue ones by his field. Patches of yellow wildflowers sprung up around his pond. Red and pink wildflowers were rare on his lands, appearing mainly where the pond bordered the neighboring woods. He took his walking staff in hand, gathered cheese, bread and a fresh egg from his speckled hen, and trudged off to the woods.

By the pond he found the faintest trace of small footsteps, the impression of the shoes he had made and the nails he had used barely visible in the dawn’s light. He followed them to the forest, where the tracks continued along the path. Suddenly they disappeared, and he searched to the right and the left of the path without success. He leaned on his staff, quietly peering into the woods.

The cry of a wren pierced the stillness. Not the pretty tunes of a bird seeking a mate, they were instead the shrill, insistent sounds of an angered animal. Looking around, he saw a nest on the low branch of a nearby elm. Near it, a black snake coiled at its base, a wren circling angrily over him. The wren flew quickly by the snake, its chirping louder as it circled around the serpent. Despite the racket, the black snake continued inexorably up the tree and toward the little nest. The high-pitched twitter of baby wrens, unable to fly, rose from the nest.

The man moved forward, almost without thinking, and used his staff to pry the snake from the tree. The snake wrapped unwillingly around the staff, and the man could not shake it free. It stared at him, and much to the man’s amazement, a low, rumbling voice emanated from deep inside the snake.

“Now what am I to do for dinner?” asked the snake. Almost without thinking the man reached into his lunch bag, and pulled out the egg.

“This egg came from a fine hen,” he said, “and was never fertilized. It holds no life. Take it instead.” The man laid it on the ground.

“I prefer warm, live food,” said the serpent. When the man did not move, the serpent finally unwound from the staff and dropped to the earth. There he studied the egg before opening his jaws to swallow it. Finally satisfied, the snake crawled into the underbrush, a round shape visible in his stomach.

The baby wrens continued to chirp, and the mother still circled the nest, but her own cries had quieted. Not wanting to disturb the bird any more, the man took one more look and prepared to return to the path. Then he noticed one small footprint, distinctly Elowen’s, right by the elm.