Cinderella: A Diolouge for Your Dolls (Continued)

2

*Cinderella sits alone in house as father and devious market woman go out on a date*

Cinderella: I can’t believe they weren’t to Farmer Hansel’s kitchen and didn’t take me. I’m hungry. I know my rights. I deserve to eat supper with everyone else. I’M SPECIAL.

*silence*

Cinderella: Plus, all sorts of horrible things can happen to kids when they’re home by themselves

*crickets*

Cinderella: SHE’S A WITCH AND I KNOW IT! That makeup doesn’t fool me! I can tell that there’s a wart on her nose when there is and there is!

*Cindrella sighs*

Cinderella: I can’t believe I have to sweep! You know what, my mind is made up. I won’t clean the house and that will show him. I’ll run off and fall in love with a prince! You know what they say, the best revenge is revenge with a smile. I’ll plot their demise. I’ll marry a prince…from a different village! THEN they’ll see…

*Suddenly Cinderella remembered the words of her mother: “Promise me that you’ll be a good…girl.” dies. She tried to ignore the words, but finally gives in to the memory.

Cinderella: Alright. I’ll be good. But I’ll take a nap first before I sweep the kitchen

*stretches out on hearth to take a nap*

3

Meanwhile, at Farmer Hansel’s Fine Dining…

Father: And that is how I became the best tax collector in the village

She: I’m blown away

Father: Well, I mean, it’s nothing, really. Just all in a day’s work

She: How fascinating a man you are *giggles*

Father: I know, right? Haha.

She: Hahahah.

*drinks more beer*

Father: Ah, nothing like a good beer.

She: I personally prefer wine

Father: *gasps* only the people from the Gingerbread Village like wine!

She: Aye, my homeland\

Father: *startled, backs away*

She: Does my lineage frighten you?

Father: Isn’t that…um, I mean, um, Gingerbread Village, didn’t the tragedy, um, happen there?

She: Which tragedy?

Father: *gasps* Aghsg! i mean, well, the one I heard about was the cookies that sort of…ran off the baking dish and into the enchanted…I mean, the forest

She: Ha! Because the pan was so hot that’s why. Why, you don’t honestly think those cookies were alive when they jumped off the pan and ran into the woods, do you? I mean, they’re not real men, gingerbread men…

Father: Ha! No, of course not! But one can’t help hearing things. And then, what was that foolish event…the story of the two boys and girl who barely made it out of their grandma’s house because there was a giant cookie made out of a wolf that ate the girl?

She: ah! You’re mixing two tall tales. The girl, Red, did get eaten by a wolf, and Hans and Gretchen did get lost in the woods and scared terribly by a poor granny, but her house was not made of sweets, and she certainly didn’t put those two imps into an oven!

Father: Oh! I see! *drinks nervously*

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Good Mornin’, Ye Fine Folk

Hello, all.

Yes, I’m still alive.

Hopefully all of you are as well!

Sorry no fairy tales have been posted in a while! ;(  I was going to post something today, but had to write an essay.

Write (haha) now because school is distracting my mind (like it wasn’t distracted before) writer’s block as been real, y’all. Like, literally. Because of the block, I’m trying the remedy of writing all sorts of stories and putting them on my writing blog.

If you don’t mind reading something from another fictional sphere, please check my newest post!

And, that’s about all.

Now, it’s YOUR turn! The comment section isn’t just here for looks, guys. PLEASE comment how you’re doing below!

Thanks a thousand trolls. 🙂

–The Author

Cinderella: A Dialogue for Your Dolls

Mother: I feel faint. Bring me my daughter, Cinderella

Father: Of course, anything dear *goes and fetches Cinderella.”

Cinderella: Hi, Mom! Oh no! Are you sick?!

Mother: Yes, but promise me, Snow. Promise me that you’ll be a good… girl.”

*child weeps. Funeral.*

Scene 2:
Family goes out months later:

Evil stepmother walks out in public square. She sells wine.

She: would you like to buy some wine *tosses wine on Father* oh no! Whoops! Your wife is going to kill me for getting this on you…

Father: well, actually I’m single and once the frost passes and the sun of spring turns into the hot of day, i plan to remarry and hey are you free tonight?

Cinderella: *exclaims* Dad!! She’s a witch and hath bewitched you

Father: Quiet! *laughs bashfully at shopkeeper* hhaha, children are so precious

She: aww, most certainly. I love little girls

Cinderella: ah!!!

Father: shhh!

Cinderella was about to do something horrid but she remembered the promise she gave to her mother and restrained herself.

Painting the Roses Red: Part 1

(The fictional story of Napoleon told through his dog, a Newfoundland.)

Guess what “The Author” (AKA my charming self, and no, I’m NOT related to the Charmings…) found in Wonderland? My source said it’s a juicy story all about dogs, and love, and rose gardens, and Josephine…sadly, the source was only allowed to bring the first chapter out of Wonderland, and so it reads a bit dull and DOGmatically. But the source said if you like it, she’ll contact Caterpillar Smoking Weed, the mayor of Wonderland, and see if we can skip to chapter 39 to get the romantic, juicy, dime novel stuff! And of course, if that doesn’t work (diplomacy is expensive) we may have to write a new Cinderella play… ENJOY!

Update: Caterpillar Smoking Weed said we had to “catch the rabbit” to earn chapter 39. We didn’t.

It is quite a horror, the way history has a tendency to repeat itself. It’s like when I look into a mirror. The mirror reflects off of my glassy black eyes, so that you can see the mirror inside my pupils, over and over again through the reflection of the mirror. One time I saw my reflection in a pool of blood in Toulon. I was only a small pup at that time, but I remember my mother telling me we would see be free from “all the horrors of this world.” I never saw them afterwards, but I imagined they went to the sea below, where mother said father had gone, and his father, and his…

A lot of humans came. It was all bloody and such. And then, a young human who seemed to be the leader of this new group of humans saw me and took me with him, and he cleaned the blood off of me.

I heard rumors from the camps about how my master was always saving people. See, from what I gather, there was this thing called the Directory. They sort of stopped the Reign of Terror, which I don’t know much about, and tried to make the world a happier place. That’s why they liked my master. One time he was saving people in Egypt, (from the British again…of course!) only it wasn’t going so well. So the Directory called us back home to sweet France (what I relief! It was frightening in Egypt!) Monsieur Directory seemed very nice although he was criticized for being rather stern sometimes. Strange, too. His head was called Abbe Sieyes, and it used to be a former revolutionary champion of the Third Estate! My master talked mostly with the Directory’s head, which I suppose makes sense because the mouth is in the head. IN 1799 Monsieur Directory named my master a “temporary consul” which I suppose means leader because that’s what everyone says it is.

My  friend, Monsieur Bones, asked me how I felt about it. “You must be proud of Monsieur Bonaparte. He is helping organized this new regime!”

I told him, as every Newfoundlander ought, that I loved my master no matter what, and I said it very politely, too, like a proper Frenchdog.

The head, Sieyes, was always talking and said “Napoleon Bonaparte (that’s my master, you see) would provide “confidence from below, and authority from above.” It sounded something grand, and although I am not exactly sure what confidence means, I always felt happy at his feet, which I suppose meant that I had confidence from below. At this time I did not see my master as much as I wished, and would always wait for him wherever he left me. Sometimes, he would throw a bone for me or tell me “bon chien.”

Mother Hulda (Part Three)

http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CAYQjB0&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.comicartcollective.com%2Fdetail.cfm%3Fpage%3D151B0DA4-3048-77F0-1178163003E21B84&ei=-OMEVfGvN4yoNsSfgZgI&bvm=bv.88198703,d.eXY&psig=AFQjCNEF-4sPJrw1nifTHh5IfxAVa5JQFQ&ust=1426470261160277

I’m afraid that you won’t believe me, but I shall have to tell you anyway.

You’d probably find it easier to believe that 457 was a mermaid, or that the well was a giant jug of liquor, or that the moon is made of cheese before you believe that 457 didn’t die.

Because she didn’t.

Naturally, the ugly task master found that she was drowning and saved her, but I’m afraid that when he came back and saw her pale form sinking in the abyss, that he didn’t care at all.

So, 457 learned how to swim, then? I’m afraid not.

What happened is so unusual, that I thought about changing the story a little bit. Twisting reality with the lie of Queen Queensbury’s attractive son who decided to tour the dress factory and found the poor 457 could have been more appealing. But I’m afraid that the true story is much more…riveting. Well, I don’t know how to…well, enough of this prattle! 457 turned into a frog!

There’s no way around it! 457 was looking at herself in the water, wondering how it was that she could breathe under water and feel the sun and so forth, when it started raining! Imagine that! Raining 1000 feet into a well! But it was, and the unfortunate girl caught a glimpse of herself in a raindrop…what a fright she had! She had always been a little slimy and dirty, but she had NEVER been green! That was certainly a first. And her pale little nose now that once stuck up like a bent wire was just two holes now. And my! How bumpy she was. I’m afraid 457 spoiled it for you…but she wasn’t a frog, exactly…she was a toad!

Now, it wasn’t such a bad thing to be a toad, for 457. Firstly, because she didn’t know what a toad was, and secondly, because she could move around easier than when she had been all stiff and skinny.

Just as 457 was admiring her new appearance (and forgetting all about her mission of finding the thread), she heard a voice:

    Shake me, toad of the world above,

    Shake me of this heavy load.

    I know you’ve got many things to do,

  but my burden’s so heavy, I need a

    helper or two!

  TO BE CONTINUED…

Mother Hulda (Part Two)

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Sinking, kicking, dying. A young girl had jumped into the mouth of a deep well that seemed to have no bottom. For a spool of thread, the girl was hanging onto life by a thread, and if not for her bleeding fingers, nothing would have ever gone awry.

And there was another problem.

Drowning beneath gallons of water, slave 457 in the ownership of Queen Queensbury could breathe. Which makes thing quite technical, for if she could breathe whilst drowning,

was she even drowning at all?

To make things even more complicated, to be drowning there must be water. But no water surrounded 457, and she was at the bottom of a very full well.

She must be dead!

In fact, that seemed most probable, for a sun, a sun shined on her and forced her eyes shut. Something that felt quite eerie to 457, called the wind, tickled her all over.

And then there was a voice, and 457 quickly realized that she was still a slave.

(Note that the featured image is from http://topillustrations.wordpress.com/2012/09/18/household-stories-by-grimms-illustrated-by-walter-crane/ Stay tuned for part 3 next Thursday!)

Mother Hulda (Part One)

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Humming.

It was in the walls, in the blankets.
In her ears, anywhere and everywhere.

Hum, hum, hum.

Spin, spin, spin.

Faster, faster, faster.

Number 457 was kept within thick walls. She had only seen the sun once in her life and it had burned her eyes. Her cheeks were ashen and her eyes were set placidly on her hands.

Her hands that brushed the wheel.

A wheel that was turned by the pushing of her feet. Harder, harder, harder.

Press, touch, press.

The humming that the spinning wheel made did not bother 457. That was all she knew, after all: the words of workmen, and the humming of a spinning wheel.

All the thread that she spun from the white wool, she piled on the floor near her wheel.

Her chair was swimming in the thread.
The thread was growing fat in the room, for it was collected every morning.
457 was spinning all the time.

Why was she spinning? She was only thirteen years old, and she had worked for twelve years.

There was no escaping for her.

1-1000 were slaves in the castle of Agnes Queensbury. Queen Agnes Queensbury. 457 didn’t know who she worked for exactly, but she knew that she had to, or else, she would not eat, for starters.

Queen Queensbury was not exactly the kindest queen in the world. Despite the queen’s lack of kindness, however, she was still very nice. Very nice! For she wore the finest gowns in the land, and the finest jewels, and the finest wigs. She loved things that required lots of fabric, thus lots more of thread, and as she never wore the same outfit twice, the slaves were kept working.
457 was only number 457 out of the many workers whose fingers bled and callused for the queen.

But one day things did not go so well for 457. Out of the many slaves she housed with, she stuck out like a sore thumb after a rather small event.

457 was a girl with strong fingers, but delicate skin; tender and creamy skin like the skin women should always have .

Well, after about approximately 12 straight hours of spinning, her hands were bleeding so, that she had to wash her raw fingers in the well, along with the stained thread.

There was a well in every working chamber so that the workers would not have to leave the room for ridiculous, insignificant things like drinking or washing.

457 plunged her hands into the cold water, trying her best to avoid the consequential sting in her skin.

Next, she picked up a spool of freshly spun, and freshly bloodied thread and dipped it ever so gently in the water of the well.

Ah.

Never take anything for granted when things are going smoothly.

A terrible pain bit at her naked fingers as she soaked them in the unfriendly water.

And she dropped the spool of thread down, down, down into the darkness of the well.

Suddenly, the door to the room opened, and 457 was no longer alone.

“Why aren’t you spinning, 457?”

The question came from a very small, wiry man who hunched over like a sloth, an animal 457 had no idea even existed.

“Wash,” said 457, extending her hands hesitantly. Raw grooves oozed with blood in her snowy fingers, and the taskmaster, being a somewhat educated man, wondered how many cells were in her blood.

“Get back to work, then,” he said drily.

Despite the fact that her fair face seemed it could not grow any whiter,

it certainly did.  Blood drained from her cheeks, and she sat down at the wheel.

Her foot touched the pedal, the wheel began to spin, and 457 began to cry.

“What’s wrong?” The sloth man snapped. If evolution was not such a fairy tale, he very well have been the missing link.

As blood continued to ooze from her tender hands, she pointed to the well.

“What?”

She struggled between sobs.

“Answer me!”

“The thread’s in the well!”

His face grew hot with realization, and he glanced at the wheel.

“Why, you naughty wretch!” he exclaimed, and pondered what to do.

“Well,” he said finally, “you will have to take a swim.” As clearly had no idea what a swim was, he rephrased: “Go get it.”

Seeing as there was no escape, and that she had done something terribly rash, the poor girl meekly walked up to the well and slowly entered its mouth. However, both the taskmaster knew and 457 knew that she did not know how to stay afloat in the water, and with tears in her eyes, the girl went sinking down.

End of Part One

(Note that the picture above is from http://www.mamalisa.com)