Thursday, May 22, 2008

The Summers Part I - Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs inspired short story

The Summers (Part 1)

by

Dorlana Vann

“Can you hear me?”

Gwen glimpsed colors and faint images in quick flashes as she struggled to keep her eyes open. She knew she had been asleep, but she didn’t feel refreshed. The heaviness and fatigue reminded her of how she felt on Saturday afternoons after she had overslept. She heard her father’s voice again…

“Sweetheart? How are you feeling?”

As she managed to wake completely, she became aware of the hospital room around her. Under the layers of blankets, she shivered. When she tried to sit up to have a look around, her father, who sat in a chair beside the bed, gently discouraged her by placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Just take it easy,” her father said. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”

“Oh my goodness… You’re awake!” Her forced voice crackled, and her throat felt like it had been dusted with sand. “But how? And what am I doing here?”

“We were hoping you could tell us.”

“We?” With a slight movement of her eyes, Gwen focused her hazy vision until a guy standing next to her father came clearly into view. She studied him for a moment—a blue tattoo peeked out of the neck of his white uniformed short sleeved shirt. His hair blazed noticeable red, and gold dots adorned his pierced ears—but she didn’t recognize him.

“This nice young fellow from the ambulance saved your life,” her father said. “If he hadn’t given you mouth to mouth after the defrost, I would have lost you.”

“I’m saving this cookie,” the guy said, holding up a small piece of paper and a broken-in-half fortune cookie in the other. “It says, ‘a pleasant surprise is in store for you.’” He smiled at her, and she could have sworn his teeth sparkled in the light.

Gwen wished she knew his birth sign and couldn’t help but smile back at him. “Ouch,” she said and put her hand up to her lips that were painfully chapped.

Her father grabbed a small tube of ChapStick. “Here.” He smoothed it on her lips as he said, “When I came out of my coma last week, you were nowhere to be found.”

“I’m so glad that you’re all right,” she whispered.

“I’m great, but you… you gave me quite the scare. I asked Ava where you were. She said you were staying at my brother’s, but I was stuck here and couldn’t get a hold of him. I was frantic for a week—”

“I’ve been out for a week?” She looked back and forth from one man to the other. The visitor just smiled and stared at her and then stuck a piece of the cookie in his mouth.

Her father patted her hand. “It seems you were frozen for a week.”

“Frozen?” When she tried to sit up that time, her father didn’t stop her but assisted in propping her up a bit on her pillow. He grabbed a cup that sat on a tray next to the bed and helped her take a sip of the most wonderful water she had ever tasted. And then she said, “I don’t understand because the last thing I remember—” She stopped short as the cutting memories flooded in all at once. I can’t tell him.

“I know Ava is being accused of some things,” he said as his eye contact wavered. “The gardener told me some stuff that I’m having a hard time believing. Then your uncle came back from Alaska yesterday. That’s when he found you frozen in one of his ice tanks…”

“I know it was scary for your pops and all,” the E.M.S guy said, “but when that block of ice was lifted out of the tank with you inside, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so amazing and beau…” His light skin turned crimson, and in an abrupt move, he turned away from Gwen.
Gwen figured she had turned a shade of red herself, but her father didn’t seem to have noticed the little sparks. He continued talking.

“I have to find out one thing: Did Ava do this to you? She said… oh never mind what she said happened. I need to hear the truth from you.”

She looked into her father’s weary eyes. “Are you sure?”

He nodded his head. “Whatever it is…”

Two weeks earlier…

“You need to get the hell out of here,” the gardener said.

“Why?” Gwen asked, as she looked up at him. She had been reading a romance novel under her favorite tree by the pond.

“It’s not safe for you here... for any of us. At least not until your papa’s out of his coma.”

“But I don’t understand.” She stood up and wiped the soggy, dead leaves from her black jeans.

“This time she asked me to kill you.” The gardener shook his head slowly. “She tried to persuade me by saying you stepped on my gladiolus. She’s getting crazier and crazier. You didn’t step on them… did you?”

Gwen had heard whispers around the mansion all month. She knew that her step mom’s mood changed with the moon, but this couldn’t be true. “Oh, gosh.” She put her hand over her mouth.

“My magic eight ball was right; Ava must have put those knives in my bath on purpose.”

“And she made the chandelier fall in the dining room,” he said. “And she put the slivers of glass in the milk, and I’m really suspicious about those snakes in your closet. It has become a death trap for all of us. Just yesterday, poor Maria got a nasty cut.”

“Ava did all of that? But why?”

The gardener shrugged his shoulders. “She’s crazy, and she hates you.”

“Oh…”

“The staff had a meeting just a while ago. We were thinking that maybe it might be best if you didn’t call the police about all this. You see, a few of us have some… legal issues. We were thinking that it might be best if I convinced her that you were dead. We don’t mean to be so stingy. It’s just that we all have our families to support. You understand.”
Gwen gave a slight laugh at the obvious joke he had just made, but then he continued the charade without flinching.

“To prove I completed my mission, Mrs. Summer asked for your heart. Would you mind giving me your necklace?”

“What? Wait, I don’t understand...” Gwen said, grabbing the heart locket on the necklace in a protective manner. Ava had destroyed everything else that had anything to do with her mother when she had married Gwen’s dad seven years before. The necklace was the only thing she had left.

He said, “I’ll tell her that the necklace was in my way when I tried to cut your heart out.” He shook his head. “I’m telling you, she’s so coo-coo she’ll believe anything.”

“You’re not kidding?”

He shook his head. “It’s the only way.”

A single tear escaped Gwen’s eyes as she gave the gardener her most prized possession.

“Here,” he said, handing her a bag. “We packed this for you. It has a few things you will need on your journey. Good luck.” He patted her on the shoulder and then walked back to the house, leaving Gwen standing in the backyard feeling really lost and confused as to what had just happened.

***

“Gwen, Gwen, Gwen.” She heard voices and felt the pulling of things like her hair and boots.

“What?” she said, stretching up her arms, yawning, and then coming out of her sweet dreams. She rolled over and saw fourteen eyes staring down at her. “Hey,” she said. “Everyone’s home!” She had walked to her uncle’s who lived just a couple of blocks from her home.

“Going Goth, Dude?” Dewey, her sixteen year old cousin, asked. His body slightly swayed as he leaned on the door frame like it held him up. He was the oldest of her cousins by eight years, then the rest of them stair-stepped.

She reached up and touched her hair. She had forgotten they hadn’t seen her since she had dyed it jet black. “No,” she said. “I’m a practicing witch.”

“Far-out,” he said. He made a couple of jerky head movements, and then left the room.

“Gwen, you’re too big for my bed,” Gabby said. She had her arms crossed and a snarl on her face.

“I’m sorry, I was just so tired and—”

“Are you sick?” Davie, Gabby’s twin, asked. A stethoscope hung around his neck. He put it up to Gwen’s heart and listened intently. He nodded his head and took a step back. “Well, all sounds good.”

“I’m not sick you guys. I was just a little sleepy.”

“Me too,” said Sadie, the other bed owner, and the only blonde of the bunch. She curled up beside Gwen. Gwen smiled and petted Sadie’s long hair.

“Well, I’m sick,” seven year old Simon said, taking a whiff from his inhaler.

“You’re always sick,” Gabby said.

“Am not,” he said and then sneezed.

“Settle down,” Uncle H said. He had a friendly smile, even while being authoritative. “We’re all excited to see Gwen, but let’s give her some room.” They all moved back an inch, except for Sadie who had fallen sound asleep on Gwen’s lap. That’s when Gwen noticed eight year old Basil’s head poke out from behind his father.

“Hey Basil,” she sang, “Why don’t you come give me high five?”

Basil ducked behind his dad again.

“What time is it?” Gwen asked, looking around for a clock.

“Almost five,” Uncle H said. “So, how long have you been here?”

“Five hours…”

“Then you must be starving,” he said and smiled. “All right troop, let’s go clear and set the table.”

“Yay! Time to eat,” Simon said. He then let out three loud and extremely wet sneezes.

“Gross!” Gabby said. “Dad! He just got his boogers all over my room.”

“Go on,” Uncle H shooed. “Go on.”

“But this is my room,” Gabby said as she stomped out the door.

Uncle H went over and picked up Sadie and laid her on the pillow. “I’ll just let her rest until dinner is ready.”

Gwen nodded her head and then whispered, “So, aren’t you going to ask me what I’m doing here?”

“Come on.” He motioned with his head for her to follow him out of the room. “We’ll talk after dinner.”

Dinner consisted of Kraft macaroni and cheese, corndogs, and instant mashed potatoes. Gwen didn’t care what she ate for dinner; she delighted in being in a household with such animation and laughter. At her house, dinners were formal. If she wanted to eat at the dinner table, she had to dress, use table manners, and excuse herself when she had finished her meal. At her uncle’s table, all hands were in the middle at once grabbing for spoons and reaching for the salt. They were all talking with loaded mouths. There were spills galore, and no one got in trouble. Fantastic!

After dinner, the little kids stood in the kitchen, most on stools, and washed the dishes. Dewey had left right after he finished eating to go meet friends, and Uncle H had invited Gwen to go look at his newly remodeled shop.

The few steps across the backyard to her uncle’s workshop in the cold February night air didn’t compare to the freezing temperature inside the metal building. Her uncle snapped on a switch, and the florescent lights way above on the high ceiling illuminated the open area. “Welcome to White Ice, Inc’s new home,” he said.

“Wow, you finally moved the whole thing.” She looked around at the tables and huge machines that occupied most of the space. Power tools, chisels, aprons, and rubber gloves covered one peg board wall. And way on the back wall sat rectangular and square containers that Gwen knew made gigantic ice blocks for his sculptures.

Uncle H said, “Yep, sure beats having to go all the way into the city.”

“I bet. But I am surprised Emma didn’t take all of this, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw that she took everything else. The TV.…”

“No, we sold all of that on Ebay.”

“Your couch? Why?”

“Me and the kids are saving to go to Alaska.”

“Alaska? Isn’t it cold enough in here?”

“There’s this big ice sculpting competition—The World Art Championship. I thought we would enter the Amateur Open. There’s no prize for it, but I thought getting our minds off of everything would be reward enough. The kids are really excited.”

“I can’t believe Aunt Emma just up and left you guys. I’m sorry I haven’t been by. I feel really bad. I could have helped or something…”

“The last couple of months have been rough… but we probably needed that time by ourselves to adjust. But thanks.” He smiled, causing his big, rosy cheeks to puff up. “So, enough about that. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on with you. You doing all right, kiddo?”

Gwen shrugged her shoulders and turned away from him, pretending to examine the chain saw. She knew she had to tell him that she wanted to stay there. But if she told him what the gardener had said, he would surely call the cops. She couldn’t upset the staff.

Her uncle put his arm around her. “I know what’s wrong. You miss your dad, don’t you?”

She nodded, unable to hold back the tears anymore.

“I can take you to the hospital. I don’t mind. I need to get by there again myself.”

“I can’t… not yet.”

“Gwen, it was an accident. He tripped—”

“On my candles. I must have dropped them on my way to the garden. Why did I have to drop them at the top of the stairs?”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Ava thinks it is.” Oops! She hadn’t meant to say anything about her.

“Is that what this is all about?” He gently turned her around to see her face and then wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m sure she doesn’t blame you. She’s just upset, you know. Everyone just wants him to get better.”

Gwen wanted to tell him so badly that Ava had been trying to kill her and that the staff had voted her out of the house, but she kept quiet about it all and just asked, “Would you mind if I stay with you guys for a while? I can cook… help with the kids… clean up a little.”

“You know you can stay here, without doing all of that stuff… but I must say, the cooking part does sound enticing. Let’s just give Ava a call—”

“No!” Gwen shouted. “I mean, I already told her, and she said maybe it would be best…” She felt her face turn apple red from the little white lie she had just told, but he couldn’t call her. He just couldn’t!

He smiled. “Well, all right. We don’t have to call anyone right now. Oh my. Gwen, you look like you’re freezing. You have to wear a sweater when you come out here. Come on. Let’s get you out of the cold.”

Gwen sat on the Cinderella sleeping bag in the girl’s room wearing the T-shirt and shorts the gardener had packed for her. Being around her cousins made her realize how lonely she had become since her father’s accident. She shuffled the Bicycle cards she had borrowed from Dewey and then placed four of them upside down in a row as she whispered, “Will my father get well soon?” She flipped them over one by one: a joker, a seven of diamonds, a queen of hearts, and a king of clubs. “Hmmm,” she said, hoping the draw meant something good. She had to believe her father would get better any day and then everything would go back to normal. Maybe then, Ava wouldn’t be mad at her anymore. Maybe then, she could go home. And maybe then, she could go back to college — where she would have been at that moment, but Ava had told her there were too many hospital bills.

To be continued...

Because of the length, Part 2 will be posted next month.

Friday, May 16, 2008

Ghosts, Vampires and Snow White

Before I write a short story for this blog, I think of a fairy tale to use for inspiration, but I also like to include a supernatural element. I have written about ghosts, vampires, werewolves, luck, elves, time travel, warlocks, druids, mind reading and some others difficult to define. My favorites to write about have been ghosts and fairies. I’m curious to see what the reader’s favorites are to read, and/or if you are a paranormal writer, what do you find yourself drawn to write?


Since this month’s story was inspired by Snow White, I thought this would be an appropriate poem (rispetto) to repost. Can you guess the point of view character? (Which is also the title)

When I saw her stretched across the tidy beds,
Love’s potent sword struck my heart before I knew
Who this lovely stranger was or one word said
But I remained silent as I always do

With one bite, she fell ill on that dreadful day
In a glass coffin, it hurt to see her lay
I longed to kiss her ruby lips but froze
Joy but regret - the prince woke her and betrothed

Thursday, May 08, 2008

Guest Reviewer Chrissa Sandlin - Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales

Book Review:

Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales
by Bruno Bettelheim


Reviewed by Chrissa Sandlin


I am slightly disappointed by this book, interesting as it was. I became disenchanted with it toward the end, as the continual emphasis on a biological, nuclear family as the ultimate end of existence... not a metaphor, not a symbol, but the actual end goal of life itself became more apparent. Finally, I reached the following sentence regarding full self-fulfillment "of the female."

...complete selfhood comes only with having given life, and with nurturing the one whom one has brought into being...

Aside from the this, assumptions are made throughout regarding the multiple meanings accessible to preconscious and unconscious parts of the mind, sometimes later identified after discussion with a therapist. Not having training in psychology, I can't speak to the current state of these theories and assumptions; however, persons who have training may find these outdated. There is little mention of families not formed in a traditional mold, although much reassurance is provided that reading children "original" fairy tales more or less guarantees that the child will be able to take everything he or she needs at the appropriate time from these stories. I find this an interesting theory, particularly in the ways to identify the true fairy tale from a modern or lesser version. It seems to me there is hopeful note in terms of encouraging children to continue to a stage at which they can appreciate "art;" however, if they are not at that stage already when they are read the story, the multiple meanings are not accessible to them and there goes the use of the story.

I decided to read this mainly because of the defense of the fairy tale which it contains and to have a deeper understanding of the many layers on which a story and its symbolism may develop and I found it very useful in this respect. Mr. Bettelheim's continual reference to myths, number symbols, and the physical and emotional relations between them helped to deepen my understanding of the way we tell ourselves stories to continually reinforce beliefs and patterns and has caused me to reevaluate some of the material that I'm currently writing.

On the whole, I found this to be an interesting and useful book with which to explore the different expectations of stories and to further understand why some are more resonant than others.


Visit Chrissa’s blog: http://pollenandsting.blogspot.com

Thursday, May 01, 2008

What’s Up for May 2008 & Jaclyn’s Ghost Candle Winner!

Hi!

This month I’ll have sort of a retelling of the fairy tale Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. My goodness, this story gave me fits, but I’m happy with the results. Because of the length, I will be posting the 1st part of my short story, The Summers, this month and then the 2nd part next month. It is a possibility that it will have a 3rd and even a 4th part – but I haven’t decided yet. (The first 2 parts do make a complete story. If I write more, it will just be from another characters P.O.V. - the flip view :)) I’ll have it up by the end of the month.

Congratulations to KimW! You are the winner of the Laced Champagne scented Jaclyn Jade Candle. Please claim your prize by sending me an email with your mailing details by May 31st. I want to thank everyone who read the first chapter and entered the contest. I also want to thank candle artist JFay for creating such a fabulous custom candle and scent. You can visit her online studio at www.studio3bonline.com.

On a personal note, I want to share two reviews Jaclyn’s Ghost received last month. I’m very excited!
https://www.darkangelreviews.com/Jaclyn.html

http://kylee-p.blogspot.com/2008/04/jaclyns-ghost-by-dorlana-vann.html


Happy Mother’s Day to all!

Dorlana

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

SFT Presents: Guest Writer - Wendy Koenigsmann

The Song of Rusalka
by Wendy Koenigsmann



The rain is an unwelcome guest. I feel its damp penetration and its interlocution of mist and fog prey silently on the seas of the harbour, much as it were the seas of my mind, my mind, clouded, obscured, by something unknown, unknown and, somehow repentant, as if it wished to cast aside its grey veil for something much more horrible and horrific.


Meanwhile the seas turn to blood in my imagining, mouldering with the strains of the lyre and the harp that are plucked in the chamber, resounding in my hollow head like a strange dance from long ago, baroque and solemn.


I told you that the harp played. It played, yet incessantly. It was She who, with her nails sharpened like small knives, fashioned these songs that haunted me. Rusalka, always so silent and grey, as if she were prematurely aged and withered by time, the darkest, deepest eyes that seemed to know so much . . . pain, all pain, even my own -- and yet her skin was as fragile and moonlit white and smooth as a pearl of the greatest quality, like those the deep-sea divers find on the coasts of China. She, Rusalka, betrayed so much only by her eyes alone.


Every night I listen to her song. I try to imagine what it would be like if the strings should suddenly break under the morose and strict plucking of the lovely Rusalka. Her hands glided smoothly over each one, tentatively, I often stole by night to her song. I hid in the darkest recesses of the chamber, oftentimes behind the door, only to catch a glimpse of her loveliness. Such dark loveliness. I could not tell if she knew. Often, I thought that she did know. At times, she stopped and looked out the great window towards the sea below, beyond the crags of highly-piled rocks that threatened menacingly. She sang of love and death as she gazed out of the windowpanes, into the unknown. Into an abyss.


I thought I spied a moment of tenderness in her eyes, but then, the wicked gleam I knew so well would reenliven itself, and I would fall back with a near-silent sigh in the dark corner of the chamber. I began to see the most horrible things in my mind's eye. Turning away, I attempted to find my way through the darkened hallways, only to meet the strange gaze of silent denizens amongst its walls. Family portraits. Yet they changed, hideously. In place of the lovely Rusalka, I saw a livid Medusa's head, her mouth agape in the silent scream of horror. I panicked, I threw the glass of the vile elixir I had been drinking as it shattered against the stone wall, not thinking that Rusalka might hear me. This frightened me, for then she would know that I had been wandering about, and she would pursue me. Oh, anything except that, Beloved, I must flee from you now before the death toll, before the darkest hour. And so I fell near my door, retreating against a pile of lush drapes, and lay against them, they fell upon me as I drooped down in a heap.


A silent shadow seemed to come around the corner now. Was it she? I took to my senses and pulled myself up, now completely disgusted with my state. Had I become so much less of a man since I met her? I ran along the hallway, attempting to flee. I did not know where it was that I was going, only that I wished to escape completely. The absinthe, the laudanum, the opium, none of these worked so well as the retreating from Rusalka's stern gaze, her haunting gaze, for my heart seemed to plummet and my own soul shirked. This delirium became my new addiction.


"Friedrich?" she called. I tried to remain as quiet as I could, I did not stir. I could hear her footsteps upon the carpeting. I could hear her whispers. Suddenly, I threw myself over one of the small turrets and landed with a crash into the topiary below. In the garden, I felt the souls of the plants and vines commingling. They whispered. Friedrich. I cut myself with one of the thorns from the rosebush in order to quiet my thoughts. Now, she knew. My secret was no longer. I tried to stop the tears and imagined that she would find me, hiding within the darkness of the greenhouse. She would caress me, and tell me to be quiet. She would suck and kiss the wound on my wrist and implore me not to run from her any longer. If only I would comply, she would chide.


But behold. The moonlight was so bright that I could see well enough now. I made my way through the greenery, until I reached the doorway out of the castle. I ran through the vineyards, ran past the gates of the crumbling walls, until I was outside. Outside was were I wished to be, away from her, away from her sad songs and the sound of the detestable harp.


But it is true , I did love her. Many years ago, I met her by this very sea. I had been riding through the hillsides when her siren song called to me. I thought she was a most lovely woman, and despite that she was dressed in the strangest garments, I found myself bewitched. She told me very little about her family or her history, only that she had been the descendant of an old Feudal Lord, now long dead, and that within her swam the strange blood of the Easterner. She could not have hidden it any further, for in her eyes I saw the dark gleam of Attila's fervour, the hint of the old clan oftentimes spoken of by the people in the village. She was a stranger in this land, she added, and had been spending time by the North Sea, known for its delightfully remedic properties. Her health, she said, had been compromised as of late, and the seas would heal her of her malady, of this she was sure.


And so beautiful and unearthly she was, of course I acquiesced without repentance. In a few months, we were wedded, and she took my family name. As we both drank from the cups of gold filled with wine, I looked down at her, and saw, for the first time, the hint of an unearthly gleam that would later betray much more than I had imagined. I shivered, and tried to destroy the first ill thoughts that crossed my mind that night on our wedding.


You see, her flesh, seemed to be made of water. It glistened like something strange. It moved like waves, reeked of the strange perfumes of the seas, and her bones seemed to me the fragments of coral. As I kissed her I felt myself go under and the plush, solemn light of daylight went out like a spark underneath the dark seas of her strangeness.


It was many year later that, wandering through my ancestral home, I had found such strange things that I dared not speak of. In place of her coral lips and coral frame, I found, heaped in the bowels of the castle, bones of men. Hundreds of them. It was then that I knew.


Now, as I wandered amongst the seaside where we first met, I felt a kindling of regret. But the regret was not as strong as my urge to flee, and so I saddled one of the horses up and began riding past the coast of sand and fog, and past the last turret's proud top, until I could see very little of it left, until the entire ocean and the castle disappeared from my memory. I wondered, if I could learn to forget, if I could begin anew, and so I became a wanderer. No more a Lord myself, but a beggar, and a thief. I learned the ways first, of scoundrels, then began to fashion a new life for myself, once I had enough money, in a small town that sleeps lazily near Schwarzwald, the Black Forest. There, I married a wonderful woman and had many children. We were very happy. Despite that I left everything behind, even my own family name, I was no longer plagued by the fears that haunted me all along while I lived in the castle.


And so it was that for many years my happiness was undiluted by any recollection of the past. I seemed immune from the dangers that once besieged me. But then one day I heard that a carnival was coming into town, and my children begged for me to take them. This carnival was in the Black Forest that I spoke of. It was made up of a band of people from Hungary or Romania, else some other group of Slavs, for they spoke a similar language that I had heard Rusalka once speak. This frightened me. As first I made many excuses for not taking the children to the festivities, but they were so insistent that I made arrangements to take them one weekend, and kissed my wife good-bye with a bit of foreboding. Until then I had only known happiness and joy.I felt the past flooding my senses.


I had never seen the Black Forest before. Not even when I had all the riches of the world did I know this place. It was a provincial little place, often spoken of in legends by the peasants. I thought it was beautiful. Never before had I seen so many trees, so many beautiful trees. The scent of the forest was like a heavenly breath of perfume. As we neared the carnival, the children scampered away merrily. I seemed to regret now that I had once been so frightened. It was only a carnival in the forest, and the children were with me, what could go wrong? I neared the various tents and thought I saw an old gypsy point at me, push me towards the door of one of the tents. I entered tentatively. Inside were various strange things to be found. A man who ate fire, and yet lived. Little men and women, like the gnomes that were often spoken of by the villagers. I was entranced by these sights when a small child with eyes that were so light that they were almost white like sea-green diamonds looked up towards me. I shivered. Something about the child's eyes reminded me of Rusalka, and I began to feel my heart race. I tried running out of the place, but a hand caught me. I looked at the face, and it was the child. "Would you please, to buy some flowers, Sir?" I looked at the pitiful child with sea-green eyes and plucked a Pfennig from my pocket.


The child handed me a withered rose, with sad velvet skin as its lining. I took the rose hesitantly and watched the child turn away. I began to walk towards the exit when from one of the corners of these odd exhibits, something caught my eye. There was a large tank of water, sea water it appeared, in one of the corners. Something seemed to . . . lead me to it. I looked into the water, gazed into the depths of these waters, so like the sea that lined the dottings of my family castle up north. I watched and waited, half-expecting a mermaid to come out of the depths, but then, a white hand, delicate and white, reached towards me palm up against the glass. I recognized the fingers on the hand, for they were the same that played the harp endlessly for those years that I lived by the sea, it was the hand of Rusalka! I backed away, but then a chill settled into my spine, so that I felt nearly paralyzed and compelled by some strange force.

I waited for the white perfect face of Rusalka to appear near the glass, but at that moment, I saw the face of a monster appear near me! I cannot describe the hideous face, nor the sudden fear that catapulted me. A man puffing on a cigar came near me and smiled. "Do you like 'er Sir?" He smiled and laughed, his eyes reflecting my own face, askew in the expressionless face of horror. I felt hot blood pour down my wrist as I had been gripping the thorns of the pathetic rose the entire time. The creature behind the glass seemed to smile and the man beside me took the bloody stem and threw it into the tank, whereupon the monstrous Rusalka began to devour it. "I think she likes you" he told me. "What . . . is that thing?" I asked him, "Where did you find it?" The man took out a cigar and puffed away as he recollected. "It was many years ago. Me and my Bruders had been playing by the sea. We were but wee things then. My father had been catching fish that day and pulled her up in it. Seems she ate all the fish in the net, almost ate through the net itself, in fact," he whispered now, "I later heard she did devour one of the fishermen."

The monster in the tank now settled, and as she lay still in the water, I swear that her face turned the most lovely shade of porcelain, and her features turned back into those of the woman I had once loved. I put my hands on the glass and muttered under breath that I was sorry. So Sorry.


"But that was long ago," said the man. "By now, this girl ought to be about nearly fifty years old or more, but she hasn't changed. Well, except when she's hungry. Loves the taste of blood upon the lips this one, will eat everything, just about. Better be careful, I think she really does like you now."


I backed away from the glass. Rusalka's face was placid and human-like now. A mask. I told the man that I had to be going and walked away, unable to think or reason. All that I know is that, turning back once more, I only saw the plaintive gaze of the lovely Rusalka looking at me, only looking.


I began to run again, as I did so many years ago. The forest was dark and deep. The trees seemed to whisper my name and converged around me in the darkness, occluded my vision. The smell of the fir and pine now became a noxious poison, and I felt my breath fail me. Yes, she called me again, "Friedrich," as she always did back then. I turned towards the heavens and prayed for forgiveness, prayed that God would forgive me for my cowardice, for betraying my wife. Yet, at the same time, I muttered curses for the fact that I had been burdened with this knowledge, with this price that I would always pay. Why? Why did she come for me back then, and why did I find her yet again?


As I ran through the forest I realized that I had lost my way, and I could not find the right path back home. I had run so far that by now the snows fell in the hillside and I did not know where I was, to be honest. Would I forever be running from the past like this, I wondered? Would I now leave my wife and my children behind, and become a recluse in this forest, never to return? I felt a deep guilt again, at the notion, but what I had seen forever changed me.


For many years I lived in the forest, alone. I became a lost and ragged man, forever wandering the forest, forever eluded. I never saw anyone again, except in dreams. In my dreams I am often only a man living in a nice village with his wife and children. The smell of bread by the hearth. The laughter of children. In other dreams I am a noble who lives in a castle by the sea. The harp plays haunting sounds as I sip the absinthe in darkness. Either way, every dream is always the same, for in every dream I am always alone. No matter what I do, whether I am this or that, I am forever haunted by my own loneliness.


Many years later a wandering child came by the forest. The child had eyes like crystal glass, but green. Like the sea. I swear I had seen this child before. Where? The child was selling gazettes and asked if I would buy one. I had no money. I had nothing, I told the child. He looked at me sadly and gave me one of the papers, then walked away. I read in the paper that a carnival, which stopped in Odense this Spring had been discovered to have a living creature that had somehow escaped. They called it "The Rusalka." The creature was born of the sea and yet had the face of a woman. I shivered. It was my Rusalka. It was she. I looked for the child again and wondered, was it her child? But he was gone . . . had we had a child at all, for I do not remember much from my past, not much at all.


But no matter what, by now, it was too late to remedy things. Too late. I had betrayed her, betrayed my family, betrayed myself, most of all.


And as I realize this, now a broken man many years since then, I make my way back home again. To the North. To the castle. I walk into the cold waves, the taste of salt in the spray, the music of the sea in my heart. As I look into the water I can see her face still. Rusalka. I call your name this time. Yes, I will come to you now. I hear her siren's song and willingly succumb. No Rusalka, no more running.


No more running from life, from this life which has been nothing but vanity. For all was vanity before I knew you. I feel you bite at my wrist and the blood becomes one with the sea, both running with the taste of the salt, the lifeblood of our very birth. I let myself go into the waves and feel the watery kiss of Rusalka one last time. I feel her pulse replace my own. I hear her voice in the water push against my ears and fill my head with the empty, embryonic music of the water. The sea will become my tomb now Rusalka, and you my Bride for one last time.



Be sure and visit our guest writer Wendy Koenigsmann.



Find out more informations about being a guest writer for supernatural fairy tales.



Monday, April 21, 2008

E is for Excellence






E is for Excellence
As mentioned earlier this month Supernatural Fairy Tales was given the E for Excellence blog award by Faerie Kat. Thank you, Faerie Kat. I think you have an Excellent blog, too.




The Rules: By accepting this Excellent Blog Award, you agree to award it to 10 more people whose blogs you find Excellent Award worthy. You can give it to as many people as you want but please award at least 10. You deserve this! Feel free to recognize blogs that have already received this award. (Just copy the graphic.)
OK, I only have 5 today; I’ll recognize 5 more at a different date.


I think all of these blogs are unique and professional but still have that personal touch. They are very different from each other, but are all Excellent!

http://plotwhisperer.blogspot.com/

http://www.socalpotters.com/

http://stellascript.blogspot.com/

http://eavesdropwriter.blogspot.com/

http://poshtottyspalace.blogspot.com/


Thursday, April 17, 2008

Do You Believe in Ghosts?

Just a quick note to let you know that I'm blogging over at http://www.darktarotauthors.blogspot.com today. Join in the conversation about ghosts to be entered in tonight’s drawing (April 17, 2008); a Jaclyn's Ghost ebook will be given away at midnight (EST). Hope to see y'all there.

Dorlana