Storytelling: Long Live the King

Diary of Queen Guinevere
The 3rd day of March of the year 537
---
The King is dead.

I should go on to narrate all of his good deeds. Perhaps relate his good will and generosity or of the battles and deeds he had accomplished over the course of the long and fruitful life. But that would be a lie. He was not noble or kingly. He was a tyrant. The kingdom would surly have fallen if not for the efforts of the council and myself. I am sure, however, that there are people out there already writing records of his greatness. No. I refuse to let my husband, if I must call him that, be known as a noble king.

Let it be known that Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther, was a coward and a ruin to the kingdom.

Never before was there such a man who was more interested in the bottom of a keg then in the affairs of his own house. If there was a time he was coherent, servants would cower in the alcoves to avoid his wrath. Knight would avoid his rooms so that they would not be accused of treason for the lack of ale. Not that he was any kinder when he had been drinking, simply more tolerable and easily avoided.

Every night he would have a different woman in his bed. Sometimes they were servant girls, sometimes women from the village. But more often they were the wives and daughters of the nights and nobility. None of them could refuse him, for if they did they, and often their entire families, would be found the next morning dead and mutilated. If one happened to fall pregnant from his advances he would take her into the palace. Then he would proceed to pamper her and ensure her health. But, as soon as the child was born, not a minute after the first cry, the woman would be gone, left to fend for herself. If the babe was a girl, she would be left outside the city walls, a son would be raised in the castle. I myself am not free from this. Arthur had seen my beauty once, when visiting my father. He came back a week later and killed my entire family and forced me to wed him. I have lost many children to his cruelty. He also took his sister, Morganna, claiming her beauty was overwhelming and had enchanted him. Though he did not know it, she fell pregnant. The council and I helped her flee before the king could tell. She gave birth to young Mordred. He is now the saving grace of our kingdom.

He did more to damm the kingdom then spending all his money on liquor, luxury, and women. Our land is one that thrives on magic and Arthur took pleaser in wiping that magic out. He ordered hunts to slaughter herds of unicorns, the fay folk, dragons, and so many more. He ordered the execution of Merlin and Morgan Le Fay (who was also his sister), saying that they practiced arts that were bringing destruction to the kingdom.

It is safe to say that no one in the kingdom will be sad when news spread further beyond the walls of Camelot.

Eventually, his bustard son, Mordred, challenged Arthur on the battlefield. They fought for a very long time. In the end both struck each other through the gut with their swords, a treatable wound if acted upon quickly enough. We knowable in the healing art rushed to Mordred. We had heard from his mother that he was a worthy heir to the throne. We left Arthur there on the ground.

Now I will end this by saying this.

Long live the king

Sometimes going analogue is the
only way to go by Tobias Vemmenby
flicker

Bibliography: Death of king Arther-King Arthur; Tales of the Round Table by Andrew Lang, source

Author's Note- I truly do not know where this came from. I was reading about King Arthur and thought--as I was reading about his death-- what if history got it wrong. What if Mordred was the good guy and Arthur was a really nasty one? Somehow this rush job came to be. I apologize. I know its not my best work. 

Storytelling Week 10: Edge of Civilization

“Papa?”

“Yes, my little splinter?”

“Why are we so different from other people?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we are always alone. Our uncles and us. And we don’t exactly live like others do… in villages and such. We are always on the move. And. Well. All the other people have more children, and mothers, and wives, but it is just me and you guys. And none of you have wives, and I don’t have a mom. And then they talk about us and stare. And, and, and.”

“Hush, little splinter,” the man interrupted the child “Do not worry about it. We were chosen, that is all, you especially are a gift from the goddess. Do not fret about what the rabble are whispering about in the shadows, they simply do not understand.”

“But father, I don’t understand either”

“And it is not yet time for you to. I will tell you when you are ready. That is if you don’t figure it out yourself by then.”

He remembered the day the goddesses had blessed him with this innocent soul. He and his fellow druids were wondering about the wilds, communing with the goddess, when he was scraped on the leg by a thorn. He was in agony for months afterword. His leg had swollen so much that that he was unable to move about without aid. One day the healer among them took a spear head and sliced open the side of his leg to relieve the pressure. And from the wound had spilled the child. A beautiful girl, a gift to the men of the troop who would never marry. She was their darling and treasure, the legacy of an old forgotten religion.
“Father?”

“Yes, my splinter?”

“Why am I so different?”

“What do you mean, child?”

“I mean. I am half wild. Do not deny it. I know you take great pride in it. I can see it in your face.

I also see the men in the tribes we pass through. They stare at me with lust in their eyes, but none of them dare approach me because I scare them with my beauty and savageness. I can see the fear and dislike in the eyes of the women and elders. The curiosity in the children who are hidden in the skirts of their mothers.

It is more than just the looks. I know things that others do not. The way I live in woods, hunting and living with the animals. It goes beyond, even what you and my uncles do. And I don’t know how to explain it. It is like there is something in me that just can’t be changed.”

“Child, do not worry about it. I have told you many times of how the goddess gave you to me. That spirt you feel is a gift from them. It is not something to be ashamed of. Embrace it. It is perfectly okay for you to be like that. The only people who it should bother already understand.

Or is me and your uncles not enough for you?”

“Father, you know the answer to that. You guys are enough.

Besides, even if I wanted to be like all the other people, I don’t think I could stay among them. There will always be something just off enough that I would never quite fit in. I would always be an outcast”

“Does it matter? If you are happy where you are, stay there, if not go where you wish. You are not bound by the lives of normal men. You are blessed to be whatever you wish.”

The man watched as the child grew from an innocent babe into a fierce and beautiful woman. He taught her how to use the bow and spear. How to shape knives and hunt animals. How to live on the edge of civilization. He was there in the shadows as she talked with the wolves and the trees. He watched as she communed with the streams and stones of the wild. She grew quickly. She learned everything he and the other men had to teach, and then proceeded to either prove them wrong or teach them more as she grew. Her hunger for knowledge was insatiable and her love for the wilds uncontrollable.
“Father?”

“Humm?”

“I killed a man today.”

“Oh? And why did you kill this man? I assume there was a reason.”

“It was an accident. I think. I mean. I did not mean to kill him, not really.

He was trying to take me. He saw me and all he saw was a woman to state his desires. He grabbed me. And tore at my clothes. He was trying to violate me, and then probably justify marrying me by saying no man would want damaged goods.

And I was scared, but more than that, I was angry.

So, when he threw me to ground, I grabbed a rock and bashed it against his head. Then in my anger, I grabbed his knife and plunged it into his chest.”

“Oh, my splinter. You did the right thing”

“I know that.”

“Then why are you so distraught?”

“Because, I don’t feel bad about it. And that scares me. I do not want to be a savage, who kills without remorse. It terrifies me to think that I could kill a man and not feel anything about it.”

“Child, it is okay. The very fact that you are scared for that shows that you will be fine. Do not be scared of yourself. You are human, not a beast.”

“But”

“Child. You will be wild and untamed, it is who you are. But that fierceness does not make you a savage. Do not trick yourself into believing that.”

“But, father”

“Remember, child, you are a gift from the goddess. The person you are, is who you were meant to be. A remnant of the old religion. Where men once balanced on the edge of civilization. Do not fear yourself. Understand who you are and who you are meant to be. Do not be scared of your potential"

Wild Woman by kaelycea
DeviantArt

Bibliography: "Splinter-Foot-Girl" Tales of the North American Indians by Stith Thompson: Source 

Authors Note: To be honest, this mostly for me to attempt to write the dreaded dialogue. Most of the story wrote itself and took me along for the ride. Parts of this story align closely with the original- like how the girl was born and raised, but all the rest are very lose interpretations. In the original the girl marries a bull then runs away and is helped by trees and other animals. I just wanted the girl be curious and independent. I think I managed to get that through. 

Storytelling Week 9: Raven's Lament

They say the world is like a painter’s canvas, blank and empty, awaiting an artist touch to bring out the beauty calling from its expanse. This could not be truer than the world at its beginning. Then, the ground was only white where it was cold and brown where it was warm. The sun and moon shown upon an empty flat world. There was no life. However, it was world balanced on the edge of a blade, awaiting the right touch to fall into either absolute desolation or incomprehensible beauty. The day came where the world shifted, changing from its static circumstance just slightly enough. In the gaze of the moonlight formed a creature of shadows. It was like an ink dot upon unblemished parchment. Its feathers glimmered iridescent, throwing off colors not yet seen upon the world until then: blues, purples, and shimmering greens. Here was the raven, the first life upon an awaiting world.

As the raven took flight, he noticed there was nothing but flat empty expanse around him. It mattered not how long or far he flew. The only change was the shifting of brown to white upon the flat ground. After a time, the novelty of life wore off, and the raven decided to change its surroundings, he shifted into a form that allowed him to mold the world as he pleased. Then, he took up the earth and began to mold them into hills and mountains. He created great peaks and gentle hills, and where he took from the earth, ravines and canyons formed. As he continued his self-appointed tasks, water began to pool where previously it had only run unimpeded, turning into lakes and oceans. When the raven saw this, he was amazed, for he did not know that the rain that fell from the sky bright color beyond that of the sky. Now, the world was no longer flat, but the raven was still not pleased.

He saw the pale blues and soft greens the water had brought to the world. He sought to bring more color to the earth aside from that of the sky and of the ground. He started near the oceans. There he tore up the sand into fine particles where they were bleached by the sun, turning pale yellow. Then he went to the canyon. There at sunset each day, he took the colors of the falling star and painted them onto the side of the walls. He stole pieces from the rainbow and planted them into the ground, and there formed gems of every shade. Still, the raven was not satisfied. He went out and made grass grow upon the empty plains. Fauna that waved in the winds with colors from amber to emerald green. He shaped wild flowers of every species, from those that shown yellow to those that warned away with gleaming red. Even then, the raven was restless. His world was still incomplete. He continued to create. From his mind spouted great trees and creeping vines.

It is from one of this vines, that the world shifted once more. One vine continued to grow beyond what the raven expected or indeed knew, for he was busy elsewhere. As the vine reached maturity, a man stepped out from its bursting seeds. Curious, he began to explore the vibrant world in which he had been born. It took many days for the raven to return to this corner of the world, but when he did, he was greeted with the sight of man. curious the raven alighted in front of him and asked,

“Who are you?”

Raven by DoodleWithGlueGun
DeviantArt

Bibliography: Myths and Legends of Alaska, edited by Katharine Berry Judson (1911): source

Author's Note: I was inspired to write this story by the raven story about creation. I wanted to know what it was like for the raven before man sprouted from the vine. Granted in the original the raven had not created mountains  until later, or many other things that I attribute to him. It was interesting to me that the raven had such power of creation, but it took until man came out that he began to make animals. I suppose in my mind he did not know he could, because he was not aware that anything could work that way, he does not see himself as a animal but a part of the world.   

Storytelling Week 7: Eternal Beauty

Thousands of people come and visit her every year. She is a figure of awe and inspiration across generations. Everyone who has looked upon her face claims that they have seen the face of divinity. She has been here for centuries, no one remembers her past or her name, but legends have sprung up around her. There are tales, about how she must have saved the world, how she tricked the gods, or enchanted men with her beauty, and other such fanciful quests. Despite all this reverence, she is simply a beautiful corpse, there is no life in her lungs, no glimmer of mischief in her eyes, no flush of blood lies in her cheek. All the devotions and prayers in the universe will not change that she is simply a lifeless husk preserved in crystalline tomb. Nor will it change the truth, that all the stories about this nameless beauty are all wrong.

~~~~

Let us call this poor woman Princess Shītǐ. She was the only daughter of a wealthy king. When she was born, Shītǐ was graced with two things. The first being otherworldly beauty. Her skin was as pale as alabaster, her hair was darker then pitch with glimmers of raven within, and her eyes glimmered like liquid silver. She was perfect in every way, except one. Shītǐ was cursed. She had never ending bad luck. She would often be wounded in the most bizarre of circumstances and would narrowly escape death. Though she was quite intelligent she often made foolish mistakes that cost her dearly.

When Shītǐ was old enough, her father decided it was time for her to marry. She was to throw a bouquet of flowers over her shoulders and whoever caught it would be her husband. As she was walking down the path, she saw a young beggar man, called Cáifù, who was blessed by luck. Thinking that his luck may counteract her own dismal one she tossed the flowers over her shoulder at him. After he had caught the flowers, Shītǐ's father came up and asked her why she had chosen a poor urchin rather than a handsome prince. When she told him, he went into a rage and banished her from his presence forever. Distraught, Shītǐ fled to her new husband. They lived for several years in a small hut on the edge of town, just barely avoiding poverty, until her husband left to seek his fortune. Cáifù promised to return just as soon as he had succeeded in guaranteeing them a happy life. With this noble thought in mind, he left Shītǐ there, forgetting that she had no one other than him.

Many years later Cáifù returned, now rich and prosperous. In his travels, he had become wealthy and admired. That once destitute man was an emperor in his own right. But he had returned to his bride too late. Poor Shītǐ, was dying. Her life had drained out of her limbs. Her once lustrous black hair had turned silver with stress and worry. Limbs that had held power, now looked as delicate as the brittle bones of a bird. Her skin no longer glowed with an inner light, instead it was like marble, cold and distant. Shītǐ was still a thing of beauty, even as she lay dying upon her bed, but was a changed beauty from human perfection to something otherworldly. Cáifù rushed to her bedside, frightened for her in her fragility. Either it be by his great luck or her disastrous misfortune or some morbid mix of the two, he had arrived just in time for his wife to take her final breath and depart the plane of men forever.

Distraught, Cáifù took his wife's body back to his palace. He spared no expense in preparing her body. He placed her upon a bed of silks. She lay there resplendent in the finest of fabrics and adored with valuable gems, cleaned and perfected by the midwives. There the body of Shītǐ lays today, encased in transparent crystal for eternity. As for Miserable Cáifù, he went on to be a great ruler. Through his works, his people were able to overcome great battles and famines. His ingenuity brought his people into a new age where they thrived for generations afterward.

But no one remembers this. They only see the enchanting beauty of the woman and her misery. I guess it is true after all, time forgets everyone, it turns great men into memories and forgotten men into heroes.

Sleeping Beauty (Slightly Altered) by Charlie-Bowater
DeviantArt 

Bibliography: Chinese Fairy Book by R. Wilhelm: online source

Authors note: This story is more of "what happens afterword" the changing the original tale. In the original the beggar turned thief finds his wife and they go to his palace together-everything else is pretty much faithful to the original (physical changes aside). Unfortunately, in the original the princess dies anyway, just 18 days later. I decided it would be more tragic if she died in his arms when he had come back for her, not that big of a change. The important thing of my story was the irony. The princess did absolutely noting to earn her 'fame', not in life and certainly not in death. One would think she would be forgotten. Instead, her husband, who did many things that he should be remembered by, was forgotten. On a side not their names do mean something. Cáifù means wealth and Shītǐ means corpse.

Storytelling Week 6: In the Footsepts of Gods

In the first breath of the universe, there was nothing but tumultuous seas and vast expanses of thundering skies. In the second breath, there was light and from that light came Izanagi and Izanami. Together, these two entries lived on the light above the rolling seas. They forged a city out of golden sunshine, glistening with liquid life. But, Izanagi and Izanami were lonely. As beautiful as their city was, they were its only inhabitants. Though they had each other there was no life to be found, there were no trees, no flowers, no creatures, to give that place a sense of anything beyond itself.

Izanagi and Izanami often ended up on the edge of their city. Together, they would sit on the bridge that overlooked the rolling seas, longing for something that they had no comprehension of. Then, one day Izanagi took his spear, a long golden pole made of a single ray of sunshine, and dipped it into the seas bellow. He did not know what he was searching for in those untamable seas. Perhaps it was mere curiosity of what lay beneath its waves or maybe he hoped to find some other being to commune with, but he found nothing in those depths. As Izanagi brought the spear back to the heights, Izanami, his beautiful wife wept in despair. Those tears fell and were caught by the shaft of the spear. They rolled along the shaft until they reached the tip, and fell off into the seas. As the tears was captured by the waves they began to harden the waters around it. Land sprouted up from the seas, hard and craggy, untamed and raw.

Izanagi and Izanami were curios about this new construct. It was something wild, so unlike their kingdom in the sky. Though it was dark and foreboding it was calm and inviting. A dream that had been unknown to them until that moment. So together, they went down from the clouds and touched land for the first time. Where ever they walked life began to flourish. Grass sprouted from their footsteps. Their stay hairs became great trees. Every place their hands touched sprouted flowers and wondrous flora. As they spoke beneath the clouds, every breath made birds appear from the heavens, a sigh caused a fish to flicker beneath the waves, and one word made small animals burrow up from the ground. Entire conversations created peaceful animals of awe-inspiring sizes and shapes.

The two lived for many years in this place, until one day Izanagi fell ill and died. Devastated, Izanami wept for her husband for many days. From her tears came rivers, her grief carved valleys and raised mountains across the landscape. Her wailing caused great beasts to appear, mighty and terrifying. They prayed upon the peaceful creatures that had sprang from Izanagi and Izanami joy. Slowly Izanami calmed, but the damage had already been done. No longer was the world a thing of tranquility, it had become a thing of wildness and untameable beauty. Izanami grew tired and lay down next to her husband. As she fell asleep she thought that one thing was missing from this world, something that she and her husband could never have created. She never woke again.

Many years later something shifted. The bones of Izanagi and Izanami were stripped from the last of their flesh by the wandering creatures. From those sun bleached bones emerged humans, a new type of creature bone from the death of their parents but able to bear more of their own from that sacrifice.

Izanagi and Izanami by Kaworukunchan
DeviantArt

Bibliography- The Romance of Old Japan by E.W. Champney and F. Champney: Online Source


Authors Note: My story is very different from the original. In the traditional Japanese Story there is only a bridge on which Izanagi and Izanami live. Really the only think that I kept from the original story was that there was a spear, and a drop from that spear caused land to spring up. Izanagi and Izanami did not cause every thing else, it just happens. I wanted my story to go more into what could have happened. I wanted it to fist: parallel other creation stories but also to stand on its own as a unique story. For me the biggest thing I wanted it to be is that every thing was an accident, and unknown, even to the gods.

Storytelling Week 5 :The Peasant Goddess

As I stand here over the body of my husband, poor Osiris, with the power of Ra coursing though my veins, I think about how I came to be here. How did a poor, mortal, spell-weaver become the most powerful woman, nay most powerful being aside from Ra, in Egypt?

I suppose it started with my first husband. Before, I had been a wench. The lowly wife of a cruel man. There, I was treated worse then a slave. To him slaves had uses, where as I was little more then a glamours doll, beautiful to look at but not worth anything. I had been sold by my parents at a great price, not for my wit or abilities, but for my otherworldly beauty. There, I was the lowest of that man's many wives, the most beautiful, but the most useless at the same time. So, I ran away. I left his household, and suffered greatly for it. Men approached me, hundreds of them, thinking I was some common whore. When I denied them I was beaten and spat upon.

This continued for many months until a sorceress found me cowering outside the temples. She took me in and taught me her trade. I became powerful, an intricate artist, a commander of the spirits and a master of the physical realm. I changed, no longer was I a cowardly child, easily traded and beaten. Now, I was a woman, assured and proud. My beauty was no longer my damming grace, it was my greatest weapon. Then, as my power grew, I decided that I wanted to be known, I wanted to be remembered. Pointless pride overwhelmed my common sense.  I decided I was going to do what no other being had done. I would be the one to learn the true name of  Ra.

I enchanted a snake, wove it out of spirits, made it so potent that it would stumble even Ra. I sent my pet out as Ra walked among the gardens and it struck him on the calf. The other gods attempted to cure him. For three weeks they toiled against my poison until they called out to the land for a healer. I arrived and they sent me to attend the dying king. There I told him that I could only heal him if I knew his true name. He tried several times to deny me until he gave out and whispered it into my ears. Now I know why no other being knows the name. Certainly, I succeeded in my goal, I was the only other being to know the name of Ra, but I had not understood the cost!

Ra's name is power and whoever wields that name holds the power of Ra. As I heard his name, his power came into me. It burned through my veins like acid, reshaping me into something worthy of it. I became a god born from man, greater then the gods that Ra had formed in his early days recently freed from the black. Almost equal in power to Ra himself. Like him, I could now see into the universe. I could understand the complexities and interconnections of time. Creation lay at my finger tips awaiting my every whim. It was overwhelming and grounding at the same time. I healed Ra, as I had promised. Then, I left Egypt to find myself again in my new understanding.

I returned only when Ra asked. His son Osiris was taking up the throne and Ra was seeking a wife who would be worthy of his son. Someone who could help this naive king control his kingdom. By then, I had already been know. My reputation had proceed me as a wise and fair being. Someone who could take power without being overwhelmed by it. I was someone who would be good to the people she had come from, the poor common rabble. They were correct. After my marriage to Osiris, we became rulers of Egypt. Under us, Egypt thrived, the people were happy, life was good for all who lived by the Nile.

I suppose I got careless. I forgot about my enemies, and those of my husband. One day, while I was out bathing in the Nile, my naive husband fell into a trap from his brother Set. He crawled into a box and was killed then sent away from me. I will not deny being rash. I left Egypt in the hands of my son Horus. He was wise and strong enough to confront his uncle and regain control of Egypt. I went in search of my husband. But Set found the body first. He took it and chopped it into many pieces before throwing them into the Nile. I ignored the war around me, the pleas of my son to help him in his crusade. That may seem cruel, but I knew that he would succeed, just as I knew that Osiris would be needed again and that I had to bring him back.

Here I stand now, having dredged through the Nile for the scattered remains of my husband, before his bound body. Using the gift of Ra, the power of creation, to defy fate and give my husband back his breath.  To bring back to the good to Egypt. As the fire drained from my veins, Osiris breathed again.

Isis: Mother of Horus by Inna-Vjuzhannia
DiviantArt

Author's Note: To begin, I will say that my tale is a very different one then the original Egyptian version. I took several difference stories and kind of patched them together. There is a story about a sorceress named Iris tricking Ra into telling her his true name, but she does not become a goddess. Also, Iris is Osiris wife, but she was not originally a human, and she does go sort of crazy trying to find his body. Twice in fact, once when it was in a coffin, and another time after it was torn apart and thrown into the Nile. But she does help her son face Set, unlike in my tale. Even in the original story Isis is a very powerful woman, she rules over Egypt while Osiris travels and she does help bring Osiris back to life after he was killed with the help of Ra. My main goal was to combine the two stories and keep Isis a a powerful woman. I wanted to show that she is a incredible woman. I wanted a mythology story where the female was the hero, rather then the blame.

Bibliography-Egyptian Myth and Legend by Donald Mackenzie, online source

Storytelling Week 4: In Umbra Sanitatis

Warning: Do not read this if you are squeamish or disturbed by dark themes

in·san·i·ty: noun - the state of being seriously mentally ill; madness.

How did it come to this?

The people here were nice. They had been kind to him after his ordeals. Strengthened and nourished him after they had found him, weak and emaciated, still trembling from fear. He remained under their kindness for many days, lost in memories of men. Men who were not men, but monsters, of those who feasted upon the flesh of his brothers. He had chosen to say with these people, strangers, who had brought him back from the cusp of the abyss. He had aided them, taught them skills from his homeland, told them stories of his childhood and travels. Now, many months later, he was one of them, brought into this village by a wife. A beauty who was kind and soft. For him this was now home, a place of refuge and comfort from the torments of the world.

This was not how it was meant to be.

He had went to see his friend, who had lost his wife in childbirth. Going to give comfort as was the way of his old people. But his friend was unconscionable, rebuffing his kind words. Confused, he asked why his friend was so morose. In answer, his friend wailed the truth. No married couple went to the grave alone. His friend would be buried with his departed wife, alive. He watched as his friend was lowered into the catacombs alongside the body of his spouse. He watched as seven days worth of rations and many resplendent jewels were lowered down with the doomed man, and he feared for himself. Dread crept up his spine as he watched the village seal the mouth of the cave.

He went home, terrified and on edge, feeling as if death was grasping his shoulders and pulling him towards that forsaken tomb. Several years past, he remained skittish around the village. He could not leave. When he left to hunt people followed him as if they could smell his fear and would not allow him to flee. Everywhere he went someone accompanied him, like some guardian of the dammed. Then the unthinkable happened, his wife caught ill and perished.

What dreadful circumstance

They stood there watching him, waiting for him to break. Then, when he shattered and ran, they caught him. They dragged him terrified, screaming and thrashing, to that living crypt. They held him as he watched his wife be lowered into that chasm; as he watched the jewels and riches poured into that hole, as the food was placed into the crevice. Then they watched as he was placed upon that pallet and lowered into his tomb. Their cold eye followed him as he went bellow that final precipice, until he could see them no more. He watched as their shadows made demons upon the walls, heard as their voices mutated into a psalm for he dammed. He watched as the stone was moved to the mouth of the cavern. Then he was alone with no light to see but a small touch, about to be burned away entirely.

Trapped in the land of the dead.

He did not know how long he had been there. He was out of food and was running low on water. Already, he was more of a wraith then a man. He was a mad man, talking to the shadows. He had entire conversations with the the dead as his captivated audience, but the dead were not supposed to talk back. The smell alone was enough to drive someone to hysteria, the sweet stench of rotting flesh, that sickly fragrant aroma. The darkness was worse. It put visions in his mind, a none existent flicker of firelight, a touch or a wispier of a passing man, a shade from the beyond. He was living, but living as if he were dead.

Suddenly, there was light in his dark world, the rock had been moved from the lip of the crypt. A new death, the next unfortunate soul, was being brought to the cave. Then he smiled. Here was life, sustenance. He waited as the body was lowed. Hid as the gems were deposited. Prowled in the shadows, waiting as the new sacrifice was deposited into his cave. When the stone was once again rolled into place he struck, catching the young woman on the head with a femur. She fell, dazed. Then, he dragged a sharp stone across her neck, killing her. He hesitated, here was meat, warm and fresh. Then, like the wild men who had eaten his brothers before, he descended and ate upon her flesh. As he waited for his next meal, he took the bones and decorated his new kingdom, caught up in his madness. Soon, yet another was lowed into his grasp and yet again he tore into the man.

Never before had insanity tasted so sweet.

Catacombes by Spex84
DeviantArt

Author's Note- There is a lot of this story that I kept true to the original. This story is based off of Sinbad's Fourth Voyage. This if the only voyage where Sinbad had his own ship and this particular voyage caught up in a bad storm and wrecked. Sinbad did actually encounter a tribe of cannibals and was able to escape by starving himself. Then he was rescued by another tribe and married one of their women. As in this story he was buried with the dead body of his wife, as was the custom of the tribe, along side jewels and a weeks worth of food. Similarly, Sinbad did kill the next person to be put down in the hole. However, unlike my story he did not eat her. Also, unlike my version, Sinbad eventually escapes and makes his way home. Whereas mine stays in his 'kingdom'. What I really wanted to show is just how much strain all these event would have put on Sinbad, and write a story where he broke under it. When exactly he broke I will leave up to you. I do apologize for the morbidity but the story ended up writing itself.

Biblography- Voyages of Sindbad by Andrew Lang, Online Reading

Storytelling Week 3: Hagar's Plight

In the desert of Beer-Sheba, wonders a woman torn from the comfort of her tent out of jealous strife and sent into infertile lands with little but an old wine-skin and stale bread as compensation. Poor woe-begone Hagar, left to traverse the desolate sands with her young child clinging to the hems of her tattered skirts. Barley a day had passed before the sun had alight upon her skin, searing her to the bones, branding her, no longer as a woman but a waif. The sand tore into her, seeping into to the blisters and cracks in her flesh, chafing what little skin was spared from the sun, and making her all the more miserable for it. The wind stole the breath from her chest as it gabbed the sand to make punishing whips across her body. Her cloak long given to the child for its protection from the punishing element, forsaking her own in the process.

What despair she felt as the last drop fell from the wine-skin, it was as if the gods themselves had poured all their lamentations into her body. Agonizing, all-consuming, such a soul wrenching desolation. The desperate crystalline understanding that the inevitable was upon her was like searing hell-fire upon her soul. She had no tears give, all the water in her had left long before that earth shattering moment, but the agony was wrote plain across her face. Desperately, she plucked the child from the sands, frightened that he would turn into a mirage and be lost to her forever. Already, the child was but a memory of his former self, now wisp of a boy, barely clinging to the desperate call of all men, to live. It was as if he was fading before her very eyes, like he was being ground into dust by the torrid desert winds.

But wretched Hagar struggled onwards, desperate for some glimmer of hope. Over dunes of forsaken sands, where not even the bravest of caravans traverse. Across the sea of burning rocks she wondered. She saw no beauty there. Not in the ember lit sunset upon the sands. To her, it was a sea of promised blood, a reminder of the trickling blood from her sores. Nor did she the exquisite star captured sea of ice reflecting the stars and moon in the night. The night only held the promise of inescapable sleep to her. Then she stumbled across a mockery of an oasis, the promise of water was shown in the shrubbery, but not a drop was in the rocks around her feet. Suddenly, she shattered, all hope left her, snatched away by the forlorn sight before her. There, she decided the child would die, at least some shade could cover his fevered head. She, herself, would travel onwards, grasping a thin stand of possibility that she could live on, and the child through her.

As she turned away from that shadow of a child, laid under a palm tree, she felt an even greater agony then before. Her whole self was tearing itself apart, trying to wrench itself from her body. All her previous woes where but a nick in her finger compared to this new anguish. Still, she continued to depart holding her agony within her beaten body, but as she took her next step her foot went into the earth. Pushing past the crust of the world to its depths. As she lifted her foot, she heard the sound of water rushing underneath the craggy surface from the cavity. Desperately she seized a nearby stone and brought it down upon the ground, fracturing it and revealing the stream hidden beneath its facade. To her this was more than water, it was life. It was more valuable then ambrosia, then any precious gem. It was the promise of life, of the future, for joyful Hagar now had the blood of the world in her hands.

Wadi Shab Oasis in Oman
Wikimedia Commons

Authors Note- I took inspiration from the story of Hagar in the Bible. There she is a slave girl, who got pregnant on behalf of Sara, Abraham’s wife. But then Sara got jealous of Hagar and Ishmael, the child, and asked Abraham to send her away. Abraham did so, giving Hagar only water and bread for her journey. Hagar then wondered the dessert before giving up. She did indeed set Ishmael under some brush to die as she wondered off, but in that story God interfered and showed her water. Hagar is often overlooked in the bible, she is almost shunted aside in preference of Sara and Isaac. Even in other traditions the focus is more on Ishmael then Hagar. I really wanted to write about how strong Hagar was despite of her miserable circumstances, to demonstrate just how much she suffered and overcame. She is probably one of the most powerful women in the bible, because there was no man for her to rely on, she did it by herself. When I was writing this I listened to Fever Ray’s “Keep the Street Empty for Me” for inspiration on how Hagar must have felt, wondering all alone in the desert and to help set the general atmosphere for the story.

Bibliography-- Kings James Bible- Specifics Compiled by Laura Gibbs, Online Source

Storytelling Week 2: A Day in the Life of Gods

Hera and Jupiter from Farnese Gallery, Rome
Wikimedia Common

“I’m bored, entertain me.” Demanded Hera as she lay on Zeus lap.

“I’m busy, go entertain yourself”

“But there is nothing in the scrying pool to watch. Ares is playing with his knives and Hephaestus won’t come out of his room. Athena hates me and everyone else is busy!”

“Then go play with those mud monkeys you so adore, they are always entertaining. Go torment another hero. Start a few wars for all I care. Just go away.”

“Hump, fine then. I’ll just…”

A thought suddenly occurred to Hera as she slunk away. Why not do exactly what Zeus suggested? After all, what could it hurt? It’s not like wars were uncommon among humans. Fights between humans was always entertaining. Hera could turn it into a grand event. An epic battle for the ages, the best of this century. A showdown between the two greatest powers the humans had at moment-Greece verses Troy. Yes. That sounded perfect, but how to start it all off? Maybe a broken promise? No that would be forgettable. Maybe an insult of lineage? No those are to common, it wouldn’t be bold enough for something of this scale. What about love, nothing makes a better story then a slighted lover. Now to start off this party.

Hera wondered off to find Aphrodite and Ares to help her in her quest to make a war that captivate everyone on Olympus.


Hera’s Diary- Several weeks later

Well, that went well. Even better than I thought it would. Let me lay it out for you.

Aphrodite got Paris (a visiting dignitary form Troy to Greece) to fall in love with Helen (who was the wife of Agamemnon, a powerful Greek king. Then they ran off together. Then Ares, the clever boy that is, incited Agamemnon to go after her and bring her back. It gets even better, even Ares and I did not predict this. Agamemnon got all the other Greeks kings to follow him to Troy. Then, when Paris leaned of his pursuers, he fled to his family near Troy and begged for help and they accepted. Now, instead of two small city-states duking it out, there are two entire regions battling on the shores of Asia minor. Even better, it’s not a bunch of small fodder men battling, it’s the greatest heroes of this age: Achilles and Odysseys, Hector and Deiphobus. It is going to be epic


Hera’s Diary- Year 9 of the Trojan war

The past few years have been great. Epic battles and romances, violence galore. There has always been something exiting in the scrying pool to watch. It’s been great family time. I think this is the longest time I have spent with my siblings since Father ate us. Everybody’s been having a great time. Olympus has turned into an eternal party. There is betting pool, everyone is drunk and having a good time. This has got to be the best idea that I have ever had.

However, Thestis got all upset that her son, Achilles, was not getting enough pool time. It’s not like it’s my fault that Achilles got all upset over Agamemnon taking away his slave girl. It’s his own fault. He should not have gotten into a fight and then proceed to pout when he lost. He was wrong anyway. Agamemnon won that girl fair and square. Why should he have to give the girl back simply because her father was a priest? I digress. Thestis went and complained to Zeus. Forgetting that Achilles was not getting view time because he was not fighting. After all, who wants to watch a spoilt brat play harp and get drunk all day? Anyway, Zeus listened to the bint. Probably because they are sleeping together.

The problem is that Zeus is interfering with my project. The one he told me to do! What, is he now all out of work to do? Back to the point, he ‘somehow’ got the Greeks to charge Troy. He probably hoped that if the Greeks went to fight, Achilles would be too much of a war-hawk to resist following. Whatever, the brat was too busy pouting to notice, either that or he was passed out dunk, one of the two. That’s not the problem. The problem is that because the Greeks were losing, Patroclus, Achilles lover, got involved. You see, he stole Achilles’ armor and pretended to be him. Then, when he got found out someone killed him. I LIKED Patroclus! He was the only reason I ever paid attention to Achilles. Deep Breaths.


Hera’s Diary-The next day

Huh, that turned out well. I guess even Achilles has his redeeming features. I may owe Zeus an apology. His idiocy may have made things more entertaining. Achilles got so mad that Patroclus died, that he finally dragged his head out of the wineskin and did something productive. He went out to the battle field and scared away all the Trojans just by yelling at them. It was HILARIOUS. Then, the next morning he went out clad in new armor to face the Trojans in battle. Every. Single. One of them fled to the city, I bet the laundry is going to be cleaned tonight.

All but one that is, poor brave foolish Hector. I had thought he was intelligent. Hector waited at the gates to battle Achilles. Then, when Achilles approached, Hector was so afraid he ran. It would have been funny if it weren’t so pathetic. Eventually, Achilles caught up to Hector and slew him. Then he tied Hector to his chariot and dragged the body around the city. The body is fine, after all, that is the wrong type of gore for my audience, wouldn’t want to lose viewers.

Anyway, all this excitement has made me think that maybe its time to start winding up, nine years is enough, and Poseidon has approached me about plans for a new show. After all it's not like this war is going to change history.

Hera b Soa Lee
CGSocity

Authors Note- The original story concept came from Homer's Illid. My story starts off differently then Homers. Rather then jealously of several goddess over who is the most beautiful goddess, it was simply the boredom of one.  There are still aspects that are the same, like the involvement of Hera and Aphrodite and the 'theft' of Helen by Paris. Overall, I did not change the original story that much aside from the opening. The biggest change is that rather then being serious, I took a more light-hearted take. Rather then a clashing of family, where the Gods are incredibly divided. I thought it would be nice if the atmosphere was more like a Superbowl party, where there are sides but overall everyone is having fun. I came up with this during the scene where Thesits was asking Zeus to give the Greeks a reason to need Achilles. It stuck me during the scene that 1) Hera was a bit of a winy brat and 2) the gods were partying. I kinda wanted to see what the war was like from the perspective of these immortal beings, where 10 years is nothing. I know there is a lot missing, but I included what I felt like were key scenes, such as the beginning of the war, the fight between Achilles and Agamemnon, the death of Patroculus its results. While everything else is important to humans, it would not be to the Gods.  Originally, I had planned to write this more like a reality show, but I fell in love with this valley girl Hera and had to continue her story. I feel like this captures the essence of the Gods more then the other format would have. It showed just how trivial humans were to them. The pictures were easier to select. The first fit too well with the opening scene to discard, it gave the perfect scene to set up the story. The second was slightly harder. I wanted something that would show Hera, not as a vengeful goddess, but as someone who wanted to have a good time, who was so privileged that lives meant noting to her. I think the last pic true captures that, she seems to have a slight glint in her eye that screams bad news for us puny mortals.

Bibliography -Homer's Iliad (retold by A. J. Church) link to the reading

Week 1 Story:The Doubting Shade

As was the custom of my people, I was to go out into the forest on the eve of my birthday. One night alone, with no supplies and no food or drink, from dusk until the first glimmer of light at dawn. When I returned I would be different, in more ways than one. Not only would I now be an adult in the eyes of those around me, my spirit would be tempered, my resolve tested. There would be something different about me then when had I left. No one who succeed in this trial remained the same. Those who came back successful where changed irrevocably, like they knew some great secret, a burden that was accepted with defiant grace. Those who came back in failure were broken and though they lived among us, they drifted though the village like wraiths. Then of course, there were those who never came back at all.

Before tonight, I had never entered the forest alone, it was forbidden, and doing so would call for my immediate exile from the only home I had ever known. Better not risk it. However, I had been in the forest before, walking with my friends, gathering and hunting with my parents and siblings. I knew how to survive, I knew every trail like the back of my hand. The forest was not a scary place to me, it was home. As I stood at the edge of the village, waiting for the horizon to engulf the sun, it was not fear that caused my body to tremble, rather it was a strange mix of apprehension and anticipation that held me suspended in my body. What would happen tonight, what I would learn that I had not already known,. As the final rays of light faded, my grandmother hugged me, she was the only one allowed to wait by my side as the time approached, kissed my forehead and left without a world. As I watched her silver head vanish I knew this was it. I turned and took my first step onto the shrouded path.

I cannot say how long I walked until something changed. Before, the trees had been comforting, whispers of reassurance trickled from branch to branch. The undergrowth a blanket over the cold grown, capturing the moonlight like droplets of liquid silver. The air pressed upon me, not oppressive but gentle. The new sensation of silence was peaceful. I felt like was floating. As if I were walking on paths made of gossamer. I was aware of everything about myself. The way my golden was caught up by the breeze, a stay lock trailing down my neck and tickled my skin. I could feel the rocks beneath my shoes, small pebbles turning over as I trod along the path. Every breath seemed to be too loud, too foreign, and too human to belong in this tranquil forest. Every sensation amplified. I could feel everything, hear the smallest noise, see every subtle movement of the world around me.

Then, suddenly, I was not alone. Standing in my path was not some frightening entity. Rather, it was me. Those were my own eyes staring back at me, piercing blue, calculating. Suddenly, I was afraid and as she opened her mouth to speak, I wanted to run, to flee from this specter, but I was frozen, caught like a petrified mouse in a cats gaze.

“Why do you try so hard? What is it about yourself that you think is so special that you are worthy of anything? There is nothing about you remotely good or useful. That’s why the sent you out here, you know, to be disposed of. Forgotten. You are a drain of resources, you have no skills to call your own, and no one will ever want you. It would be better if you never went back, that way you will not be a disappointment.”

That drew me up. I began to think about all the things I hated about myself. The scars on my face and back from a hunt gone wrong. That my eyes were slightly too small or my nose to big for my face. That I was I was too tall, and no male would want to be dwarfed his bride. That I was nosy, and insensitive. Or how I would rather hunt then mend clothing. All my doubts and self-loathing came to forward, and I was drowning in it. I was caught in a tide of reservations and repugnance that was drawing me out to sea. But then I had a thought, one small glimmer caught my mind’s eye and I spoke back to my mirrored image.

“It does not matter. Even if I am unable at the moment I will learn. If I am not worthy in the eyes of others at the very least I will be worthy in the eyes of myself. I will turn my flaws into strength and beauty I will make myself invaluable others. I will never give up. I will try and try again. If I cannot do it by myself yet then my mother will teach me, my father will guide me, my brothers will push me, and my friends will support me until I can. Either way, I will succeed. So it does not matter at the moment, the future is open.”

My specter smiled at me, a secretive smirk, both bitter and hopeful. Then she disappeared fading into the morning mist. Dawn had arrived. As I wondered towards home, I thought about what I had seen and done. I had not gained some great secret like I had thought I would. There was no great mystery I had uncovered. I had simply realized what was already there.

~ ~ ~ ~

As I walked by myself,

And talked to myself,

Myself said unto me,

Look to thyself,

Take care of thyself,

For nobody cares for thee.

I answered myself,

And said to myself,

In the self-same repartee,

Look to thyself,

Or not to thyself,

The self-same thing will be.

~ ~ ~ ~

Author's Note- While the original poem from Andrew Lang is simply about someone alone having a conversation with himself or herself it reminded several sayings. 1) Man is his own worst enemy. by Marcus Tullius Cicero. 2) You are your worst critic. Which both helped to inspire the specter. Also I was somewhat inspired by Nathaniel Hawthorne's story Young Goodman Brown where an unsuspecting puritan man goes out into the forest at night, where he meets other people along the way, and when he eventfully returns home his is no longer the same man who left. This story clearly inspired the setting of my tale but the plot is taken from the poem.

Bibliography- "As I Walked by Myself" from The Nursery Rhyme Book by Andrew Lang. Web Source

"Young Goodman Brown" from Mosses from an Old Manse by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Web Source.

Image:"girl person walking footbridge" by Unsplash at Pixabay