Good morning, afternoon, evening, and/or night!
And welcome to our 42nd prompt of the year!
Number 42 may indeed be the answer to “the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything.” (That’s from A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, in case you’re wondering.) But more importantly, 42 was the late, great Jackie Robinson’s number. In the third grade, my daughter wrote a report on Jackie Robinson which I’ve summarized for you here: “Jackie Robinson fell madly in love with Rachel Robinson and they got married. They had three kids. Jackie Robinson died when he was 53 years old. His wife was very sad.”
She definitely covered the main points.
Happy 42, everybody! Just 10 more prompts to go before we finish Year Number One!
So what does good old mary g. have up her sleeve for you this week?
FAIRY TALES!
Those scary stories I read in my youth and never liked at all! Wolves eating grandmothers, children being kidnapped, evil stepmothers doing evil stepmother-y things, beautiful women getting locked inside of towers, witches offering up apples to unsuspecting victims… Too scary for me!
Recently, though, I decided it was time to read a few modern fairy tales, and guess what? I actually liked them. (“He likes it! Hey, Mikey!”) I guess I grew up and stopped being such a scaredy-cat. Or maybe it’s just that the “modern” fairy tales of today read quite differently from the ones of my youth.
So, what is a fairy tale, anyway? According to everyone’s favorite global expert Wikipedia:
“A fairy tale (alternative names include fairytale, fairy story, magic tale, or wonder tale) is a short story that belongs to the folklore genre. Such stories typically feature magic, enchantments, and mythical or fanciful beings.
“Prevalent elements include dwarfs, elves, fairies, giants, gnomes, goblins, griffins, merfolk, monsters, pixies, talking animals, trolls, unicorns, witches, wizards, magic, and enchantments.”
Merriam-Webster adds this:
“a story in which improbable events lead to a happy ending”
And who doesn’t love a happy ending?
Well, today, we’re not going to worry about definitions. Use your own definition, the one that pops into your head when you hear the words “fairy tale.” And then allow your definition to perhaps morph a bit as you read the following examples of modern-day fairy tales. Some of these may seem, at first glance, to NOT be what we generally think of as fairy tales, but all of them have an otherworldly element, a sense of enchantment, a bit of magic—and so I’m saying they fit the bill!
This first story won the Barthelme Award from the literary journal called Gulf Coast. Written by Hugh Behm-Steinberg, it’s called “Taylor Swift,” and can be found online HERE.
Did you read that one? It’s such a marvelous little story! Do I understand it? No, I do not! But I love the world this story lives in. The possibility. The imagination. The cute little Taylor Swift with wings who wants to be real. Well, I guess I sort of understand it!
Okay, here’s another one for you. It’s from the Fairytale Review. This one is written by the great Aimee Bender. Called “Appleless,” you can find it HERE.
Well, that’s a wild story, right? The one girl who won’t be like the others—and look what happens.
Since I love Aimee Bender’s work so much, here’s another one from her:
“The Rememberer” can be found HERE at The Missouri Review. This is a beautiful and sad story, full of magic and magical thinking.
And one last story for today, again from Fairy Tale Review:
This one is by Joy Baglio and is called “Before.” It’s less of a fairy tale (though it still can be called one), and more the history of the “fairy godmother” archetype.
Okay, your turn.
TODAY’S PROMPT
Write a fairy tale. Not sure of how to do it?
Try starting with a character from another realm. As in the second Bender story, create a character who is some kind of animal. Then, see what happens.
Try writing about a character from a fairy tale we’ve all read before. Baglio writes about a fairy godmother. You could, too.
Write a regular story and then replace one of the characters with a fairytale character.
Re-tell a fairy tale that you’ve heard before. Give it a twist.
Write your own story called “Taylor Swift.” See what you can do with that title! Or choose another famous person. Try “Ryan Gosling.”
Let your imagination flow and be playful. Anything works for this prompt! Give us a talking squirrel or a walking tree.
Alternate prompt: Heavy baggage
As always, post up to 400 words in the Comments section. Write more, but post only 400.
Horse Story
I heard from someone that Karla had died. Which was shocking because, Karla? Which is dumb because of course, Karla, or anyone else for that matter. We all die. But the thing about Karla was her youthfulness. She was a force, a verb, and frankly, a bit out of control. It took me a few moments to process that she was dead. She and Ted, they loved to party. The night Karla died, Ted kept bumping up against Marianne. She’d slapped him away a couple of times, but Ted never took such things seriously. Besides, Karla was flirting wildly with my husband. Those long legs of hers and that hair. You had to look at her. She was laughing and laughing at everything my husband said. He’s funny, but he’s not that funny. She’d put her huge mane into a ponytail at the very tip top of her head and strands fell over her forehead and into her eyes. It was a crazy look, but Karla could pull it off. I busied myself refilling carrots into the little bowls I’d set around the yard. Tina and Frank were dancing, and I felt a tiny bit hurt that Tina was a better dancer than me. I hoped she’d go home soon, didn’t she have a newborn to feed or something, and then I could dance with Frank myself. Frank was skinny and funny looking, but he had charm like nobody’s business. And besides, my husband was busy making jokes for Karla, and Karla’s husband was busy with Marianne. Anyway, that was the whole party, everybody left and then I heard that Karla had died. My husband told me later that she’d broken a leg chasing Ted, mad about Marianne. And that was that, the end of Karla. My husband got bought the following year and at parties I throw now with my new husband, nobody gets terribly wild, which is a shame, but so far, we’re all still alive.
Passed from pillar to post. One look from those watery blue eyes and no man in our extended family could bear to disown her. Inevitably she was delivered to our doorstep by a fretful uncle whose stables she had burned; an accident, different from the one she described. The likely truth: A mid-coital kick, upsetting the lamp during a hay romp with one of the grooms. His smouldering body was carried out a day after. He was a servant, but loved, raised almost as a son. The uncle saw through her play of remorse. Still, what to do with her?
His decision: A few years deep under the roof of his brother, who was away fighting in a war and so would not be troubled by her presence. Down in the scullery to make amends, among the cinders of the bridges she had burned; just to remain in the legacy; to forestall being cast out into the streets where the effort of batting her eyelashes and opening her legs for a few coins would have been too great a burden.
“Watch that one,” wheezed Jánka, not my sister, as was so often assumed, but a distant cousin, her face marked for death by a plague that overreached and was extinguished before it could claim her.
Me, with my one eye and the scars of old burns down one side of my body, knew the girl all too well, and recalled how she laughed gleefully as I shrieked in the puddle of boiling water. Another accident.
A creature like that is never humbled. Within days she had befriended a neighbour; an elderly woman of means, with no children to call her own and no immunity to the deceptions of young girls. She lavished on her dresses and finery.
That evening at the ball, I watched her carefully stage her exit. I could have done no such thing. To leave a man wanting more, he must you first want you. No man will ever want me. When I forced my foot into that glass slipper until it fractured and was hastily removed before it could shatter, I longed for what I could not have: To reach up from the gutter, as she did, and effortlessly bring down the stars.