Monthly Archives: November 2012

Giovanic dreams

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This is where I’ll be going in my sleep tonight. http://chloeprimealienspacevet.com/about-planet-giovanus/

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Fairy Tales

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Who likes fairy tales. Madly raises hand. ME! I enjoy a good fairy tale. From “The Bloody Chamber” to “Tender Morsels” to Disney to Grimms to Anderson and earlier. I am an addict. I would be hard pressed to pick a favourite but I think Hansel and Gretel have it for me. It partly inspired Teulu https://riedstrap.wordpress.com/2012/11/02/teulu/ . Of course I like general fairy stories as well hence my Juniper Part 1 https://riedstrap.wordpress.com/2012/10/30/juniper-part-1/ which I do intend to expand on in the not too distant future. Recently I found this little nod to Cinderella that I quite enjoyed reading http://princelogan.wordpress.com/thesleepingprince/comment-page-1/#comment-4 by Danny Carmona. What do you think? What’s your favourite fairy tale? Which fairy tales inspire you?

I love these website http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/folktexts.html  http://storynory.com/archives/fairy-tales/ I hope you do too.

Teulu

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teulu
Warning: Not for the faint hearted.

Once upon a time two children lived in the forest with their poor but kind parents. Each day the children would go out into the forest with their father to chop wood. One day the children became lost and could not find their father. They searched high and low but still they could not find him. Eventually they stumbled across a lovely cottage in a clearing. The dear children, now cold and hungry, went to the door and knocked. They were immediately captured by the witch who lived inside. She set the poor children to work as slaves. Oh how the small children missed their sweet father. Together the children planned to make good their escape. That evening as the witch stirred her witchy brew over the fire the children seized their opportunity and rushed forward pushing the witch into her cauldron. The witch howled as she boiled and bubbled. The children ran from the cottage and straight into the waiting arms of their loving parents who had just discovered the cottage… Except there was no forest, and there were no loving parents, and come to think of it there was no wicked witch. There was a dirty hovel and there was a lovely lady who lived next door who would take in the frightened, shaking children whenever they were in need. She offered the children sanctuary and they adored her in return. She was a bright star in a bleary existence. The children visited the lady often until one day they woke in their hovel to the sound of screaming and the smell of smoke. The children ran outside and saw that the kindly old lady’s house was on fire. The lady was inside. Their father sat outside laughing. The children never saw their fair neighbour again.

*        *        *        *        *

She stood watching. Coolly, calmly waiting. Her prey was grappling at the back of a dank, derelict, dead-end alley. Desperately trying to climb the dilapidated, rain soaked walls. Old decaying bricks crumbled in his meaty hands. Knuckles bloodied and fingernails torn off with the futility of his actions. The big man crumpled to his knees and began a long, low, keening wail. Starving dogs howled in answer and locals hurriedly shut their windows against what was to come. The sight did not move her. It did not change her. It merely elicited further contempt. She walked slowly, measuredly up the alley, all the while keeping her eye on her mark. There was no need to rush. The end was inevitable. The fetid tub of human refuse at the end of the alley crouched blubbering like the coward he was. She stopped in front of him. Disdain twisted her perfect mouth into something ugly. She towered over the giant of a man despite her fine frame. He looked up at her, eyes filled with tears, pleading.

“Mercy?” He begged. “Please have mercy on my soul.”

She leaned over him; her blue eyes flashed ice cold in the dim light.

“Why should I?” She snarled.

“I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.” He gasped in big racking sobs. His whole body trembled with the weight of his impending doom.

She was on him. Knives out. One grasped in a fist at his throat the other at his groin. He froze. Helpless. He was nothing but a limp puppet in her hands.

“Where is my brother?” She hissed.

The man still locked in terror could barely move his mouth.

“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”  He knew this was not the answer that she wanted to hear and gasped in pain as she temporarily removed her knife from his trembling throat and thrust it in deep, just below the clavicle. “I really don’t know!” he sobbed, she twisted the knife. He saw stars. She leaned forward and bit him hard on the cheek bringing him back to his senses. “I gave him to Lester. He works for the blacksmith. He hired me. It’s all I know. I swear it.”

“Good to see your memory is back.” She spat his blood back into his face.

Tears tumbled freely down his bloodied face. Urine trickled down his legs.

“Please.” He begged. “I needed the money. My sister is ill.”

She twisted the knife again. He screamed in agony. Then managed to gasp down some sense of resolve.

“How can you be so ruthless?” He sobbed.

In an instant the knife was reefed from his shoulder and back at his throat. His eyes widened in fear. Her eyes fogged over.

 

The little girl awoke with a ringing in her ears. It took a moment for her to realize that she was being slapped and yelled at. She was cold, wet and frightened. She stared up and saw her father. She was in his bed. Why was she in his bed? She hated him. Surely she would not have climbed into his bed. No nightmare could have been so bad that the three year old would have willingly turned to him for comfort. She despised him. THWACK. Another great slap knocked the thought from her tiny head. Then she was being held down. Shoved into the damp bed. The infant struggled in vain against her enemy. It was no use. He was too strong. He was a monster. She whimpered.

“You’ve wet the bed you disgusting dog.” Her father spat into her face.

He picked up her tiny form with one hand and threw her across the room. She hit the wall and slid down limply like a rag doll. Her tears had dried up in fear and she sat staring up at her father unblinking in terror. She knew she was not to wet the bed. She knew she was to be in trouble. But she also knew she could not help it. He leapt off the bed and grabbed her hard, lifting her by the throat, shaking her.

“You disgust me.” He hissed. She tried to shrink back from him. “If you can’t stop from wetting yourself then you can’t wear pants.”

Her father ripped her pants from her body. Her mind screamed. This was wrong. She did not want to be pantless and alone with this demon. She began to struggle and kick. She had to escape. She did not care what the cost was. She did not realize that she was screaming until her father’s fat hand fastened across her mouth. She bit down hard. She tasted blood. Good. She knew he would not want her near him now. He would lock her in the hall cupboard. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her wet pantless form into the hall. He threw her into the cupboard. She blacked out.

Sometime later she roused to the sound of tapping at the cupboard door. It could not have been too long as she was still damp.

“Are you okay?” Concern flooded from her older brother’s voice.

Great big tears leaked down the little girls face and she began to shake.

“Gerhart, it’s dark and I’m scared.” She sobbed.

“Don’t worry little one. I have brought you Dolly for company.” Gerhart said tenderly.

She heard the closet click open and her brother gently handed in a chunk of wood. The little girl hugged it to her chest fiercely. She loved it. It was her only toy. A small log of wood that her brother had carved a face on, just a simple face, two small dots for eyes and a crude line for a mouth that curved up slightly at the ends. It was the best that the young ten year old boy could manage. The little girl loved the toy as she loved her big brother.

“What are you doing?” Her father’s voice shattered her lovely moment. “You’re trying to let that piece of garbage out aren’t you?”

Her father was crazed with anger. She trembled at the tone of his voice.

“No, no, no father.” Her brother was stuttering. “I just thought she could have some company. I only gave her Dolly.”

CRACK. The little girl heard the sound of her father’s heavy hand connecting with her brother’s kind face. Then big hands were reaching into the cupboard. The toddler shrunk back in fear. The hands grabbed the doll. She reached after it desperate to keep hold of some warmth. But her father was too strong. Her doll was wrenched from her hands. She tried to take hold of it again but her father slammed the door on her fingers. She yelped in pain and grabbed hold of her fingers.

From outside the cupboard the baby girl could hear the sickening thunk, thunk, thunk, of her doll thudding into her brother over and over again. He did not cry out. He remained stoic, defiant. He would not give their father the satisfaction of his suffering. Eventually all was quiet and the baby curled up and drifted off to sleep.

The child awoke to the soft filtered light of the morning sun drifting through the cracks in the cupboard. She smiled. Her mother would be home from working the night soon and would let her out. She sat and waited. Soon she was rewarded with the creak of the cupboard door and the sight of her mother.

“What are you doing in here?” Her mother asked. “Playing stupid games with your brother again?”

“Daddy put me in here.” The little girl replied.

THWACK. The toddler teetered from the hard slap to her face from her mother’s soft hand but she did not fall.

“Don’t tell tales.” Her mother barked. “It’s a sin to lie. And go put some pants on. You look like a slut.”

The toddler darted away and put pants on. She felt much safer now that she was covered. Pants were a good barrier against her world. She then tottered outside into the fresh air. She was finally away from the fetid stench of her parents atrocities. Her brother sat with his eyes closed underneath a large tree, peacefully cradling her doll. His face was a mash of purple, black and red. She tottered over to him and sat down. Gerhart opened his eyes and smiled as much as his freshly distorted face would allow him too. He handed her the doll. Its face was stained with her brother’s blood and charred.

“He tried to burn it.” Gerhart said simply. “I saved it.”

She hugged her doll tightly to her.

“Gerhart?” She asked her brother. “Are all mummies and daddies like ours?”

Gerhart looked sadly at his baby sister and ruffled her hair gently.

“I hope not.” He answered.

Her childhood continued much the same, moments of brutality interspersed with moments of tenderness and sometimes even laughter, until her brother was conscripted into the King’s Army on his eighteenth birthday. The young girl, then eleven, fell into a deep melancholy and withdrew from the world. She learnt to keep quiet and to absent herself from home as much as possible. The attacks were less frequent if she could not be found. Things plateaued until one day, when she was sixteen years of age; her father came to bait her as she prepared his dinner. He jeered and snarled at her as she cut his potatoes but she ignored him until,

“I hope you’re brother dies in his service.”

She turned and looked at her father coldly.

“Shut up.”

In a flash he was on her for her cheek. Never talk back. Never rise to the bait. She knew this. He picked her up and cradled her roughly in his arms like a baby. She shrieked, she howled, she felt helpless and scared like the trapped baby she had been not so long ago. He continued to crush her body to his and hissed into her hair.

“You’re my baby. I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it.” Her father was mad, he was raving. “You’re mine. I can do whatever I want to you.”

In a moment of inspiration or insanity she thrust up with her potato knife and sunk deep into his throat, severing his epiglottis. Her father stared at her shocked and fell to his knees. He still kept her locked in his arms. Her father’s lips trembled as he tried to formulate words. Blood came bubbling out of his mouth instead. The girl, her knife and her father’s corpse pitched forward onto the ground. She wriggled out of his death grip and was gone. She was running. Never looking back. She was free.

The girl’s life had changed from that point on. She had made her own way. She had found her own luck. She had met a wonderful man, they had a wonderful daughter and together the three lived a wonderful life. The memories of her past had all but been washed away by the perfection of her new existence. All was fair and just, until one day she received ill tidings. Her brother had gone missing. The next day she collected a few things and informed her new family that she must go away for a short while to visit distant relatives but that she would return to them soon with much love.

 

Her eyes cleared and she looked at the blubbering mess before her,

“It’s easy.” She answered.

Shhhhick. Her potato knife ran cleanly across the man’s throat and she was already walking away before he even fell.

NaNoWriMoFreOu!

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That’s right/write! I’m having a National Novel Writing Month Freak Out, now known as a NaNoWriMoFreOu. Day one and I  am having a total FreOu. So I’ve hit my target today. Hand written it so need to type it up but it’s there. And I’m pretty confident about tomorrow but what about Saturday??? I’m busy. I’ve got plans. Anybody else coming (http://www.nswwc.org.au/whats-on/festivals-2/emerging-writers-festival-roadshow/)? And what about the next time I have plans, or my baby won’t sleep, or a feel more like sitting about in my PJ’s eating a bucket of chicken. Now there’s a sexy image. Calm down lads, I’m married, with a baby and have another one on the way. I seriously could eat a bucket of chicken right now. Why did I mention a bucket of chicken? Now all I can think of is chicken! Why did I do this to myself? My story isn’t even about chicken! It’s about the psychologically disturbed, not that I know anything about that, but i do know a lot about deep fried chicken… I think I better go research this chicken issue a little more.

Anybody off to the writers festival on Saturday, see you there, I’ll be the one with a bucket of chicken. Come sya hi.