SimonDoom
Kink Lord
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I am, but your mind went somewhere that hadn't even occurred to me. Kudos.
Writing exercise 8: fairy tales
- Thread starter StillStunned
- Start date
I am, but your mind went somewhere that hadn't even occurred to me. Kudos.
StillStunned
Mr Sticky
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Here's the start of a story I started a while ago, but I doubt I'll ever get round to finishing it.
===
“Stay away from Riverbend Glade.” Every gnome in the Forest knew the rule. “Stay away from Riverbend Glade, on peril of life and soul.”
No-one knew why this was. The Forest was full of dangers. Trolls lurked under the steep banks of the streams and brooks. Anyone wandering alone might be caught by dwarves to work the smoking mines, or by elves to be herded on board a flying ship and never seen again. Pixies and sprites could mesmerise a gnome to feed to their Life Trees.
And then there were the wolves, the bears, the boars, the great wildcats, the giant owls and eagles, and the rapids in the River and the swampy marshlands that in the summer stank of death and decay, where stingflies swarmed and great toads lurked in the mud, waiting to snatch an unsuspecting wanderer with their tongues.
So whatever made Riverbend Glade particular dangerous, the warning was taken to heart. No gnome from Low Hill or Round Top or Long Rise had ventured there in generations. Fishing boats always took the bend in the River along the far bank, and the area inside the bend was easy enough to avoid from the land side.
“Stay away from Riverbend Glade.” It was as much a fact of life as the sun rising in the east every morning and setting in the west, as the turning of the seasons from spring to summer and autumn and winter. “Stay away from Riverbend Glade, on peril of life and soul.”
===
“Stay away from Riverbend Glade.” Every gnome in the Forest knew the rule. “Stay away from Riverbend Glade, on peril of life and soul.”
No-one knew why this was. The Forest was full of dangers. Trolls lurked under the steep banks of the streams and brooks. Anyone wandering alone might be caught by dwarves to work the smoking mines, or by elves to be herded on board a flying ship and never seen again. Pixies and sprites could mesmerise a gnome to feed to their Life Trees.
And then there were the wolves, the bears, the boars, the great wildcats, the giant owls and eagles, and the rapids in the River and the swampy marshlands that in the summer stank of death and decay, where stingflies swarmed and great toads lurked in the mud, waiting to snatch an unsuspecting wanderer with their tongues.
So whatever made Riverbend Glade particular dangerous, the warning was taken to heart. No gnome from Low Hill or Round Top or Long Rise had ventured there in generations. Fishing boats always took the bend in the River along the far bank, and the area inside the bend was easy enough to avoid from the land side.
“Stay away from Riverbend Glade.” It was as much a fact of life as the sun rising in the east every morning and setting in the west, as the turning of the seasons from spring to summer and autumn and winter. “Stay away from Riverbend Glade, on peril of life and soul.”
StillStunned
Mr Sticky
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Hard Wood
It was a lovely piece of wood. A deep brown colour, with a grain so fine it was almost invisible, and when the carpenter rapped her knuckles on it, it gave a sound like a bell.
The merchant who sold it to her claimed it came from a faraway land, under the hot sun. It had travelled here on a succession of caravans, boats and carts to finally end up in the carpenter’s shop.
She knew what she was going to carve from it. Her husband had died young, unable to give her children, and she was lonely.
So for a year and a day she nursed the wood into shape. She carved the limb joints, smoothed the round edges, worked the wood with all the love she had in her. She etched the features and the lines of muscle. And when she was done, she painted the face: two bold eyes and full red lips.
Her neighbours scoffed at her. It wasn’t a child, they said. It was a puppet.
But the carpenter ignored them. Hadn’t she laboured long and hard? Hadn’t she brought it into the world with as much love as they had for their children?
The night that her son was finished, she dressed him in a nightshirt and laid him in her bed. The carpenter’s house was only small, and there had never been any need for a second bed.
She joined him, pleased with herself, comforted by her son’s presence beside her.
Still, she felt there was something missing.
Through a crack in the curtains she spied the full moon looking down at her.
“Moon,” she said, “you’re a woman. You understand how a woman needs love. Please, bring my son to life, if only at night so my neighbours don’t see.”
Perhaps the moon heard her. When it turned its gaze onto the hard form beside the carpenter, something happened. With a creak and a groan, the wooden form came to life. The bold eyes opened, the full red lips parted. Arms and legs trembled and moved.
As the carpenter looked on in amazement, her son spoke. “Mother,” he said. “I am your hardwood son.”
It was a lovely piece of wood. A deep brown colour, with a grain so fine it was almost invisible, and when the carpenter rapped her knuckles on it, it gave a sound like a bell.
The merchant who sold it to her claimed it came from a faraway land, under the hot sun. It had travelled here on a succession of caravans, boats and carts to finally end up in the carpenter’s shop.
She knew what she was going to carve from it. Her husband had died young, unable to give her children, and she was lonely.
So for a year and a day she nursed the wood into shape. She carved the limb joints, smoothed the round edges, worked the wood with all the love she had in her. She etched the features and the lines of muscle. And when she was done, she painted the face: two bold eyes and full red lips.
Her neighbours scoffed at her. It wasn’t a child, they said. It was a puppet.
But the carpenter ignored them. Hadn’t she laboured long and hard? Hadn’t she brought it into the world with as much love as they had for their children?
The night that her son was finished, she dressed him in a nightshirt and laid him in her bed. The carpenter’s house was only small, and there had never been any need for a second bed.
She joined him, pleased with herself, comforted by her son’s presence beside her.
Still, she felt there was something missing.
Through a crack in the curtains she spied the full moon looking down at her.
“Moon,” she said, “you’re a woman. You understand how a woman needs love. Please, bring my son to life, if only at night so my neighbours don’t see.”
Perhaps the moon heard her. When it turned its gaze onto the hard form beside the carpenter, something happened. With a creak and a groan, the wooden form came to life. The bold eyes opened, the full red lips parted. Arms and legs trembled and moved.
As the carpenter looked on in amazement, her son spoke. “Mother,” he said. “I am your hardwood son.”
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A beginning, the setting of a scene, magic as yet scarcely hinted at.
The Crowned Toad
Upstream from the city on the old river road, a day’s walk in older times, lay an inn. The Crowned Toad had been around for a long time, longer than many others claiming to be the oldest in the nation - or so it was said locally. The publican, James Healey, always gave a wink when questioned.
“The rocks have their memories,” he would say, brushing his hands over the old stone walls, “and who are we to challenge them?”
Famed for its brewing, it was - unfairly, perhaps - less renowned for its appearance. From a quarter mile away, a casual observer would not have noticed the paved road and electrical wires, leaving the Toad an architectural refugee from a Gainsborough landscape.
Inside, the ceiling beams were low, reflecting the shorter height of the builders so long ago. Hundreds of years of smoke from fireplaces, pipes, candles and lanterns had darkened walls and ceiling, leaving them a warm cream colour which even the most ambitious scrubbing or regular whitewashing could never entirely subdue.
Local custom permitted regular customers to bring in their own mugs and hang them from a peg or hook driven into one of the overhead beams. Generations, perhaps centuries, of pewter tankards lowered the ale room’s headroom to the point where tall customers soon learned to duck when walking inside.
Strangely, although neither James nor his staff had ever been seen to dust this mismatched chronology of drinking implements, the mugs uniformly maintained that clean glow typifying well-loved and much-used pewter-ware. And while strangers were always welcome in The Crowned Toad, any newcomer impulsively reaching for one of the serried tankards would find his fingers inexplicably stopping just short. Some determined newcomers would try several times before stopping, shaking their heads in puzzlement.
Regulars, on the other hand, could reach up almost without looking to grasp a tankard perhaps first used by a long-departed ancestor. Locals simply accepted it as a convenient reality and visitors were in no position to question.
The Crowned Toad
Upstream from the city on the old river road, a day’s walk in older times, lay an inn. The Crowned Toad had been around for a long time, longer than many others claiming to be the oldest in the nation - or so it was said locally. The publican, James Healey, always gave a wink when questioned.
“The rocks have their memories,” he would say, brushing his hands over the old stone walls, “and who are we to challenge them?”
Famed for its brewing, it was - unfairly, perhaps - less renowned for its appearance. From a quarter mile away, a casual observer would not have noticed the paved road and electrical wires, leaving the Toad an architectural refugee from a Gainsborough landscape.
Inside, the ceiling beams were low, reflecting the shorter height of the builders so long ago. Hundreds of years of smoke from fireplaces, pipes, candles and lanterns had darkened walls and ceiling, leaving them a warm cream colour which even the most ambitious scrubbing or regular whitewashing could never entirely subdue.
Local custom permitted regular customers to bring in their own mugs and hang them from a peg or hook driven into one of the overhead beams. Generations, perhaps centuries, of pewter tankards lowered the ale room’s headroom to the point where tall customers soon learned to duck when walking inside.
Strangely, although neither James nor his staff had ever been seen to dust this mismatched chronology of drinking implements, the mugs uniformly maintained that clean glow typifying well-loved and much-used pewter-ware. And while strangers were always welcome in The Crowned Toad, any newcomer impulsively reaching for one of the serried tankards would find his fingers inexplicably stopping just short. Some determined newcomers would try several times before stopping, shaking their heads in puzzlement.
Regulars, on the other hand, could reach up almost without looking to grasp a tankard perhaps first used by a long-departed ancestor. Locals simply accepted it as a convenient reality and visitors were in no position to question.
Tio_Narratore
Studies
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Dark? When my kids were in nursey school I was a parent volunteer. The teachers would become very upset with my telling of The Bridge of Avignon. I'd start off singing the song:
Sur le Pont d'Avignon, On y danse, on y danse;
Sur le Pont d'Avignon, On y danse tout en ronde.
But then I'd change it a bit:
Sous le Pont d'Avignon, On y mange, on y mange;
Sous le Pont d'Avignon, On y mange des enfants!
Then I'd tell the story:
Oui! Sous le Pont d'Avignon habit un grand monstre qui devour les enfants . . .
Whenever the children tried to cross the bridge, the monster would jump up from his lair and . . .
The kids loved it; the teachers always gave me nasty looks.
Sur le Pont d'Avignon, On y danse, on y danse;
Sur le Pont d'Avignon, On y danse tout en ronde.
But then I'd change it a bit:
Sous le Pont d'Avignon, On y mange, on y mange;
Sous le Pont d'Avignon, On y mange des enfants!
Then I'd tell the story:
Oui! Sous le Pont d'Avignon habit un grand monstre qui devour les enfants . . .
Whenever the children tried to cross the bridge, the monster would jump up from his lair and . . .
The kids loved it; the teachers always gave me nasty looks.
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Hella bridge in any case!
Tio_Narratore
Studies
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Yes, the bridge at Avignon is one of a very few that only go half way across a river.
StillStunned
Mr Sticky
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You have to slip it a little blue pill to make it go all the way across. But that never lasts for more than four hours.
TheWritingGroup
Writing Group
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If your bridge extension lasts more than four hours, contact a roadway engineer immediately.
-Rocco
StillStunned
Mr Sticky
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“Mirror, Mirror, bright and clear, show me someone naked near.”
The smooth surface shimmered, then resolved itself into a picture of a woman standing before a mirror of her own.
The Queen sat forward in her chair, tongue snaking out to lick at dry lips. A gift from her godmother, this magic Mirror was fast becoming one of her favourite possessions.
The woman who appeared in the frame now was her step-daughter, Princess Snowy. The apple of her father’s eye, and the darling of the whole court. There was a sensuousness about her that oozed from every movement, every look, every lingering touch of her fingers.
The Queen hadn’t been looking specifically for Snowy when she gave the Mirror its command, but the possibility had been in her mind. She was still working out what to say to get the best results. The damned thing didn’t seem to understand the concept of names, or even individuals.
But this was a piece of luck. The Queen let her gaze stroke Snowy’s pale skin, taking in the slim calves, the plump thighs, the roundness of her arse. As she watched, the younger woman turned and looked over her shoulder, bouncing the white globes on her fingers.
The Queen now had a full view of her front. A light patch of dark curls disappeared between her legs, and her smooth breasts shook with her movement. A pout appeared on the red lips, but the girl seemed pleased enough with what she saw.
Something made Snowy turn, and the Mirror followed her as she took five swift steps across her room to the door. She pulled it open, revealing Sir Hardwood, the garrison’s Under-Captain.
The Princess stepped away from the door, saying something and gesturing. Sir Hardwood kicked the door closed with his foot and knelt before her, a worshipful look in his eyes.
On the other side of the Mirror, the Queen sank low in her seat, spreading her legs and running her hands over the soft material of her dress. Yes, the Mirror was a wonderful gift…
The smooth surface shimmered, then resolved itself into a picture of a woman standing before a mirror of her own.
The Queen sat forward in her chair, tongue snaking out to lick at dry lips. A gift from her godmother, this magic Mirror was fast becoming one of her favourite possessions.
The woman who appeared in the frame now was her step-daughter, Princess Snowy. The apple of her father’s eye, and the darling of the whole court. There was a sensuousness about her that oozed from every movement, every look, every lingering touch of her fingers.
The Queen hadn’t been looking specifically for Snowy when she gave the Mirror its command, but the possibility had been in her mind. She was still working out what to say to get the best results. The damned thing didn’t seem to understand the concept of names, or even individuals.
But this was a piece of luck. The Queen let her gaze stroke Snowy’s pale skin, taking in the slim calves, the plump thighs, the roundness of her arse. As she watched, the younger woman turned and looked over her shoulder, bouncing the white globes on her fingers.
The Queen now had a full view of her front. A light patch of dark curls disappeared between her legs, and her smooth breasts shook with her movement. A pout appeared on the red lips, but the girl seemed pleased enough with what she saw.
Something made Snowy turn, and the Mirror followed her as she took five swift steps across her room to the door. She pulled it open, revealing Sir Hardwood, the garrison’s Under-Captain.
The Princess stepped away from the door, saying something and gesturing. Sir Hardwood kicked the door closed with his foot and knelt before her, a worshipful look in his eyes.
On the other side of the Mirror, the Queen sank low in her seat, spreading her legs and running her hands over the soft material of her dress. Yes, the Mirror was a wonderful gift…
Last edited:
StillStunned
Mr Sticky
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If anyone is still looking for inspiration for the Dark Fairy Tales challenge that starts on Monday, there's plenty in this thread!
dirk2024
I'm a snack!
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StillStunned
Mr Sticky
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Thank you! I'm thinking of completing the story for the challenge.I like the whole piece, particularly that opening line.
dirk2024
I'm a snack!
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Do it....DO IT NOW! (read in the voice of Arnold Schwarzenegger)
StillStunned
Mr Sticky
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You need to be more creative in urging me on. Take a leaf out of Wanda's book:
I haven't dared to open my sock draw singe the spring.
SmilingLez
Bad WiFi
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Can't wait! I am still putting the finishing touches on my deliciously dark dystopian ditty.
dirk2024
I'm a snack!
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Oh, my dear SS, I implore you to satisfy my wants and needs and finish that story. My eyes yearn to slide over your words and absorb their intent into my lust soaked mind.
Best I can do with short notice.
StillStunned
Mr Sticky
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GaryDickins
Scribbler
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- Nov 11, 2022
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Here we go...
= = = = = = = = =
King Friedrich leapt from his throne as his kings guard brought his beloved daughter, the Princess Fiona, into the throne room. Scaffolding was still erected by the walls of the chamber, repairing the damage the castle had suffered in the dragon's furious attack a month gone. "Fiona! You're alive! After the vile wyrm's attack, we feared the worst." Friedrich ran to his daughter, still dressed in the now ragged, torn, dirty, and reeking gown that she had been wearing a month ago when the dragon laid waste to much of the castle and the city's noble quarter.
More of Friedrich's kings guard escorted a bloodied knight in battered armor, bearing gashes from enormous claws, and missing parts of his armor that seemed to have simply melted off from excessive heat. The guards with him gave his name as Sir Broderic of Palgon. After the king demanded the Royal Healers be brought to tend the wounds of the knight and Princess, he heard Broderic's tale.
The knight spilled a half-dozen dark red scales from his pack, and he lay down his longsword, the last foot of its blade broken off. "Three days and nights I fought the beast, Your Majesty. The bravery of the Princess and smugness of the dragon were all that saved me. It chose to taunt me and snap at me with its jaws and claws rather than roast me alive. It seemed to enjoy proving its power to the Princess and thought to break her by toying with me until I expired. I do not seek the bounty, your Majesty. My only desire is the hand of Princess Fiona, if she will have me."
King Friedrich looked to his daughter. "Sir Broderic fought well and bravely," she told her father. "And he has shown me every courtesy as a true knight of the realm. I will have him for my husband if you allow it."
"So be it!" the king cried. He helped Broderic rise to his feet and hugged him. "I welcome you as my new son, and husband to my daughter and heir!" Friedrich said. "The wedding shall be in three days' time," he announced.
Fiona took Broderic's hand and led him from her father's hall. The scent of gold and and jewels in the vaults of the castle filled her nostrils and made her salivate. Broderic didn't notice the momentary slip when she blinked and golden reptilian eyes with vertical pupils flashed with greed. She blinked again and the azure blue eyes of Princess Fiona returned. "I cannot wait until we are married, my love!" she whispered in Broderic's ear, her breath hot on his cheek.
= = = = = = = = =
King Friedrich leapt from his throne as his kings guard brought his beloved daughter, the Princess Fiona, into the throne room. Scaffolding was still erected by the walls of the chamber, repairing the damage the castle had suffered in the dragon's furious attack a month gone. "Fiona! You're alive! After the vile wyrm's attack, we feared the worst." Friedrich ran to his daughter, still dressed in the now ragged, torn, dirty, and reeking gown that she had been wearing a month ago when the dragon laid waste to much of the castle and the city's noble quarter.
More of Friedrich's kings guard escorted a bloodied knight in battered armor, bearing gashes from enormous claws, and missing parts of his armor that seemed to have simply melted off from excessive heat. The guards with him gave his name as Sir Broderic of Palgon. After the king demanded the Royal Healers be brought to tend the wounds of the knight and Princess, he heard Broderic's tale.
The knight spilled a half-dozen dark red scales from his pack, and he lay down his longsword, the last foot of its blade broken off. "Three days and nights I fought the beast, Your Majesty. The bravery of the Princess and smugness of the dragon were all that saved me. It chose to taunt me and snap at me with its jaws and claws rather than roast me alive. It seemed to enjoy proving its power to the Princess and thought to break her by toying with me until I expired. I do not seek the bounty, your Majesty. My only desire is the hand of Princess Fiona, if she will have me."
King Friedrich looked to his daughter. "Sir Broderic fought well and bravely," she told her father. "And he has shown me every courtesy as a true knight of the realm. I will have him for my husband if you allow it."
"So be it!" the king cried. He helped Broderic rise to his feet and hugged him. "I welcome you as my new son, and husband to my daughter and heir!" Friedrich said. "The wedding shall be in three days' time," he announced.
Fiona took Broderic's hand and led him from her father's hall. The scent of gold and and jewels in the vaults of the castle filled her nostrils and made her salivate. Broderic didn't notice the momentary slip when she blinked and golden reptilian eyes with vertical pupils flashed with greed. She blinked again and the azure blue eyes of Princess Fiona returned. "I cannot wait until we are married, my love!" she whispered in Broderic's ear, her breath hot on his cheek.
StillStunned
Mr Sticky
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Great twist!
NotWise
Desert Rat
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How Birds got their Spots
A Native American fairy tale (sorta). "Brujo" is Spanish for a male witch.
* * * *
Evening Star was the most beautiful girl in the village. All the young men were her suitors. She vanished one day, and Deer Hunter—the bravest of the young men—went to Grandmother Spider to ask where she had gone.
“She was taken by the brujo who lives on Flint Mountain,” Grandmother Spider said. She gave him a pipe and a pouch. “Smoke this to break the brujo’s spell.”
Deer Hunter scrambled up Flint Mountain to where the brujo’s home was built against the rocks. He peered into the house and found Evening Star butt-up on the brujo’s blanket. The brujo pulled her head back with his grip on her long hair, and she squealed in delight as he slammed his hips against her.
Deer Hunter hid until evening when the brujo turned himself into a raven and flew south to Turquoise Mountain. “But I don’t want to leave,” Evening Star said. “The brujo makes me happy. He gives me all I need.”
“You are under the brujo’s spell,” Deer Hunter said, and he lit Grandmother Spider’s pipe. Evening Star’s eyes grew wider, and Deer Hunter grew bigger and harder with each puff. Deer Hunter made Evening Star squeal with joy until he broke the brujo’s spell, and she realized she would never be truly happy without her village.
They ran down Flint Mountain for safety in the village, but the brujo returned to find Evening Star missing. He flew into a rage and conjured up a great storm, and the young couple fell where hail pounded them to the ground.
Birds flew from all over, and they covered Deer Hunter and Evening Star with their wings to protect them from the hail. Spots appeared on the birds wherever the hail struck, and that’s how birds got their spots.
A Native American fairy tale (sorta). "Brujo" is Spanish for a male witch.
* * * *
Evening Star was the most beautiful girl in the village. All the young men were her suitors. She vanished one day, and Deer Hunter—the bravest of the young men—went to Grandmother Spider to ask where she had gone.
“She was taken by the brujo who lives on Flint Mountain,” Grandmother Spider said. She gave him a pipe and a pouch. “Smoke this to break the brujo’s spell.”
Deer Hunter scrambled up Flint Mountain to where the brujo’s home was built against the rocks. He peered into the house and found Evening Star butt-up on the brujo’s blanket. The brujo pulled her head back with his grip on her long hair, and she squealed in delight as he slammed his hips against her.
Deer Hunter hid until evening when the brujo turned himself into a raven and flew south to Turquoise Mountain. “But I don’t want to leave,” Evening Star said. “The brujo makes me happy. He gives me all I need.”
“You are under the brujo’s spell,” Deer Hunter said, and he lit Grandmother Spider’s pipe. Evening Star’s eyes grew wider, and Deer Hunter grew bigger and harder with each puff. Deer Hunter made Evening Star squeal with joy until he broke the brujo’s spell, and she realized she would never be truly happy without her village.
They ran down Flint Mountain for safety in the village, but the brujo returned to find Evening Star missing. He flew into a rage and conjured up a great storm, and the young couple fell where hail pounded them to the ground.
Birds flew from all over, and they covered Deer Hunter and Evening Star with their wings to protect them from the hail. Spots appeared on the birds wherever the hail struck, and that’s how birds got their spots.
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