The Stallion’s Tale
“Oh Death,” laughed Goldie, “what a wonderful story!”
“Yeah, yeah…it ended well,” said the stallion. “Now it’s my turn!”
“Very well,” sighed Goldie.
“This one is called “The Death-Dealing Goblin of Derbyshire!”
“Lovely, Hoss…”
Once upon a time (or it may have been just yesterday) there lived a humble tinker named Sid. Sid was only a tinker but he really wanted to be a magician, the greatest magician that the world had ever seen.
He knew that the warlock who lived on the edge of the Dark wood had super powers so he decided to offer himself as an apprentice to him so he could learn magic! The warlock (whose name was Virus the Venomous) needed help so he took Sid on and assigned him the job of cutting wood and drawing water. He told him that he would teach him one magic trick a day, if he worked well.
Sid hated working like a slave but it would be worth it if he could be like the warlock. And each day, true to his promise, Virus the Venomous taught him a magic trick: how to disappear, how to fly like a starling, how to read minds, and how to raise the almost dead.
One day, a delegation of villagers came to Virus’ castle.
“Drat!” said the warlock, “They’ve come to drive me out again. This always happens when the crops fail or the village well goes dry!”
But Virus was wrong this time, the villagers came to Virus to ask him to help them with a problem that they had. Apparently, they were under siege by a particularly wretched Goblin, the size of a small house with glistening fangs, razor sharp claws, and a nasty disposition. He slaughtered the cows, ate the goats and terrified the sheep. They had tried to drive him of with pitchforks, burning torches and bull mastiffs but the Goblin had only laughed cruelly and dispatched the dogs with his bandy arms, tearing off their heads and using them as footballs, kicking them back into the village!
“Disgusting!” said Death.
“Now, now, dear, let him tell his horrible story!” said Goldie.
“Where was I?” said Hoss. “Oh yes, the dogs’ heads…”
The villagers wept and begged the warlock to help them, reasoning that it took evil-doer to deal with evil.
“I’ll help you if you can meet my price,” said Virus.
“What’s your price?” asked the village headman.
“I’m not going to tell you yet,” he smiled evilly, “After the Goblin is dead or gone, I will tell you my price.”
“I don’t think we have a choice, do we?” asked the headman.
“No!” laughed the warlock. “Do you accept my terms? If so, you must sign a contract with your blood!”
The headman did so and the warlock pointed to his apprentice. “Sid, here, will get rid of the Goblin for you.”
“He will?” gulped the headman.
“I will?” gulped Sid.
“He will!” said the warlock and that was that.
Poor Sid grasped his magic shoes, his magic spectacles and his magic game board and went to the village in search of the Death-Dealing Goblin of Derbyshire! He hoped when he got there that the Goblin would have gotten bored and left but no such luck.
He came upon the goblin picking his teeth (the goblin’s) and belching most foully. He had just eaten twelve cows and was feeling relaxed and sleepy.
“Ho, foul Goblin!” said Sid.
“Yeah, so?” responded the Goblin.
“Well, the villagers were wondering about the odds of you buggering off any time soon?”
“Such language!” protested Death.
“Just let him tell his story his way, dear,” urged Goldie.
“Thank you Goldie…anyway…”
The Goblin made a rude gesture at the apprentice to let him know that he wouldn’t be leaving any time soon.
“If you stay, I’ll make your life miserable,” warned the apprentice.
“You try me, and see what happen,” said the smug goblin.
Sid put on his magic specs and concentrated. Soon a blazing fireball leaped from the glasses and hurtled at the goblin. The goblin simply opened his massive jaws and swallowed the fireball!
“That’s pretty good,” admitted the apprentice respectfully.
“Fireballs good for tummy,” said the goblin patting his massive gut.
Sid took off his magic specs and put on his magic shoes.
“Feet, don’t fail me now!” he cried and he started to run around the goblin at supersonic speed. As he ran around the goblin, he pulled the air after him so that a tornado swallowed up the goblin, throwing him up in the air and dropping him into the middle of the river, Nymble.
The goblin came tramping back into the village where he bowed to the apprentice, “That good trick! You not half bad at magic.”
“Thank you,” said Sid politely. “Are you going to go now?”
“Me think not. Me toying with eating you instead!” The Goblin rushed at Sid and gripped him in his claws. Sid barely had time to cry out a slippery spell which made him so slick that he slipped right out the goblin’s claws with only minor scraping. He yelped with pain and ran at supersonic speed around the beastly goblin again, causing another tornado to dump it into the river again.
“Me starting to lose patience with this!” cried the goblin who rushed at Sid with mayhem in his bloodshot eyes. Sid realized that he could dump the goblin in the drink all day without dampening the creature’s bloodlust, so he turned to his magic game board.
“Knight to wizard’s pawn!” he yelled.
Immediately a huge, armour-plated warrior on a black stallion…
“It’s self indulgent to put yourself into the story!” chided Death.
“It’s rude to interrupt the story,” said Hoss (the hypocrite).
“Now, now…” tutted Goldie.
Anyway, the knight advanced on the goblin, lifted his sword and aimed a deadly blow just south of its hideous head. If it were not for the iron collar that the goblin wore, there surely would have been one less goblin in Derbyshire.
Howling furiously, the goblin adjusted his head, cracked his neck, flexed his shoulders and hurtled himself at the amazed knight.
“I say, old feller, can’t we discuss this?” asked the knight.
“Me doubt it!” cried the angry creature, eating both horse and rider in two large and messy gulps.
“Armor give me tummy-ache!” said the goblin, spitting it out and none too daintily either.
“Oh, oh…” said Sid, “Bishop to King’s knight!”
Immediately, a tall elderly man with a large metal cross advanced to Sid’s side.
“Look, I don’t know why you called me. I am a pacifist, you know!” said the bishop.
“Sorry, I panicked!”
“You should call the Queen, she has the most flexibility…”
“Yeah, good idea. Right! Queen to Bishop’s pawn!”
Out came the Queen, looking angry.
“I was just about to have my nails done! Do you know how long I had to wait to get an appointment at the day spa?” she said, wagging her finger in Sid’s face.
“Me waiting!” said the goblin.
“Sorry…” said Sid, “I’m working on it.”
“Call the King! He’s just in his counting house playing with his jewels!” said the Queen.
Sid summoned the King who as it happened was not in the mood for fighting. In exasperation, Sid dropped the game board in his bag of tricks and all of the game pieces (except for the remains of the Knight) disappeared.
“Back to me and you!” said the goblin.
“Well, it’s hardly a fair fight,” said Sid, “I mean, you hammered my knight, so what chance do I have?”
“That not the fighting spirit,” complained the goblin. “Kids today have to have life handed to them on silver platter.”
“Yeah, yeah…you’ve never had to draw water and chop wood for a warlock just so he can send you out against a fierce goblin. My life is plenty hard.”
“Me sorry…me not realize. This open up new train of thought for Goblin. Listen, you like killing people and eating animals?”
“Yeah, I guess so…”
“Maybe you want to be Goblin’s ‘prentice?”
“Uh…don’t I have to be a goblin too?”
“What? You think there a rulebook for goblins? That ludicrous!”
So Sid and the goblin went off arm in bandy arm and soon there were two death-dealing goblins in Derbyshire!
Goldie’s Story
“That has got to be the most amoral story I have ever had the displeasure to hear!” frowned Death.
“At least it wasn’t boring!” said Hoss.
“But Hoss, where is the moral of the story?” asked Goldie.
“The what?”
“You know, the life lesson? What we are supposed to learn from the story?”
“Learn from a story? Are you kidding me? Stories are supposed to be entertaining. The minute you paste a moral on, the story withers up and dies.”
“Hmm,” said Death and Goldie together, with pursed lips.(Do horses have lips?)
“Look Goldie, if you want a story with a moral maybe you should tell one!” said Hoss.
“Oh my, I don’t know any stories…”
“Oh come on, Goldie,” said Death, “You know lots of stories!”
“Hmmm, how about ‘Winning True Love’?”
“That doesn’t sound very promising…” moaned Hoss, fearing a serious plot-line.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
the Story Circle
I am writing a collection of short stories right now. Partly, it is a matter of necessity and partly it is to do something short and bursty. It's necessary because of John and Jill Enns. They invited Diane and I to RV with them in Oliver BC in the middle of writing the Unlikely Accomplice. When I got there, I really wanted to write but I didn't have my manuscript with me. What to do? What to do? I borrowed a laptop and imagined a campfire scene where the beasts of burden could stand around telling stories. It was so much fun and the stories tended to such length that I had to cut them from the book and put them in a book of their own. The story tellers are Goldie and Death, two sensitive mares who speak to the issues of the heart and then, for contrast, I created a black stallion named Hoss. Hoss lives to tell tales of action, violence, gore and the supernatural. If it involves zombies or werewolves, you can bet it's a Hoss-tale.
Here then it the first story from the Circle.
The Story Circle: A Collection of Short Stories with Good Morals Attached (Mostly)
“Who has a story for us?” whinnied Goldie, the strong palomino mare.
“I have one,” said Hoss, the big, black stallion.
“Oh no!” cried Goldie, “Your stories are always so crude and tiresome. I would like to hear something uplifting.”
“How about ‘Giselle and the Fortune teller’?” asked Death, the diminutive white mare.
“The very thing!” said Goldie.
“I don’t think my stories are all that crude…” said Hoss, “You can’t call ‘The Dung Beetle’s Wedding’ crude!”
“I most certainly can and do! Now hush, Hoss, and let Death tell her story.”
Giselle and the Fortune Teller
“Once upon a time, (said Death) there was a fine blood mare named Giselle. She belonged to the most prosperous farmer in all of Lincoln County and she was greatly loved by all of the children for miles around. She bathed in sugar and fine oats. There was nothing but joy in her life and blue skies as far as the eye could see.
Well, they say that nothing good lasts forever and luckily for us, they are quite correct or else we would have a short, boring story.
One day, the Travelers came to town, led by their swashbuckling leader, Carlo. Carlo had flashing eyes and teeth and a general disregard for the niceties of civilized behavior. His motto was “I see it, I like it, I take it.”
He saw Giselle, liked her (and who wouldn’t?) and took her for his own.
Poor Giselle, taken far away from all she loved, hitched to a cart like a common dray animal and forced to eat grass like any village nag. How she cried! Her proud spirit absolutely rebelled at this sort of treatment and she gave Carlo a nip on the shoulder. He laughed and bit her ear in turn. She was shocked. What sort of a man was he?
Carlo was Carlo, proud, confident, and utterly committed to his own pleasures. The only thing that Carlo feared was the loss of his freedom, so he and his people were always on the move, camping here one day and the next day moving on, always moving on.
Giselle felt like she had not a friend in the world and she would cry herself to sleep every night. And then, one day, Carlo came back to the encampment with an old woman.
“She is a fortune-teller!” he announced to all and sundry, “I took her so that she can tell her fortunes for us!”
“I told you,” said the old woman, “I am not a fortune-teller, I am just a somewhat wise old woman!”
“Wise Woman, Fortune-teller…it is all semantics! For us, you will be a fortune-teller for silver!”
“My gifts are not for hire!” she said sternly.
“Your attitude will change over time,” said the evil Carlo, hinting heavily.
“My attitude is as unchanging as the mountains and the heavens,” she insisted.
“If Carlo says to the mountain, move, the mountain moves!” said Carlo with complete assurance.
The old woman was beaten and thrown into a trailer. She wept not a lick and stayed completely composed which irritated Carlo not a little.
“You can stay there all by yourself until you come to your senses!” he thundered.
Giselle went to the old woman’s trailer and softly whinnied at her door.
The old woman opened a window and called to the young mare. Giselle stuck her muzzle in and the old woman caressed her and spoke kindly to her.
“You are a lovely horse, aren’t you?” said the old woman.
“Yes,” said Giselle.
“He has stolen you too, no?”
“Yes, I hate him!” (For Giselle was a horse of spirit.)
“Hate? That is an ugly word. For myself, I dislike his actions.”
“Not me, I hate him. He is a horrible man and I wish he was dead!”
“Oh, my dear foolish young horse. Don’t you see that hating makes you hateful?”
“I don’t understand.”
“We become what we offer to others. If you offer love, you become loving and lovely too. If you offer peace, you become peaceful. But if you go out in hate, it scars your spirit and makes you hateful. Do you understand?”
The horse tossed her head and said nothing. The old woman just smiled. She could tell that the mare was thinking it over.
One day, Carlo came to the old woman’s trailer and opened the door. He beckoned to her and out she came.
“Now, you will be our fortune-teller?”
“Oh, I suppose that I could give it a try,” she said serenely.
“Good, good…you are pleasing Carlo today. We will go to the fair and you will tell fortunes. Please put this on.” and so saying, he handed her a dress. She lifted it up and clucked her disapproval. The dress was black with silvery stars, moons and planets on it.
“It’s rather gauche, isn’t it, my good Carlo?” she suggested.
“If by ‘gauche’ you mean convincing and realistic, you are quite correct!” he said grandly. (He was a showman after all.)
“If I must, I must,” she conceded.
“You must.”
“Then you must do something for me.”
“What?” he said guardedly.
“Let me have Giselle to ride to the fair.”
“Why not?”
She went back to her trailer and put on the foolish dress and then off they were to the fair.
Carlo had set up a large blue and red tent emblazoned with the words: “Madame Cleo, Fortune-Teller, Predictor, and Clairvoyant! Reasonable Rates and Satisfaction Guaranteed! She sees all and tells all!!!” She sighed, patted Giselle on the nose and thanked the young mare for carrying her.
The old woman’s first client was a beautiful girl named Carmena Conchita Alonzo Alveres who was all of 17 years old and already fixated on her future bliss. Specifically, she wanted to know when she would marry and to whom and how many children she would bear so that she could do what it took to be happy, happy, happy.
The quasi-fortuneteller took her fine white hands in her, looked deeply into her eyes and told her the following:
“You will be happy only when you stop looking to things outside of your soul to make you happy. Happiness is a spring that leaps up from within, it is not a river that flows to you from without…”
“What kind of a fortune is this,” cried the lovely Carmena, “I want to know if I’ll be married!”
“Do you want to be married?”
“Of course!”
“Why?”
“Because that is what makes a woman happy!”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is,” snapped the lovely Carmena.
“Was your mother happy?” asked the old woman.
“She has no complaints…” she said hesitantly.” Was her mother happy? Now that she thought about it, she wondered if she really was.
Carmena left the tent without paying and wandered off, lost in thought. Carlo noticed and his temper flared up.
“She didn’t pay! Why not?”
“I suppose it was because I didn’t tell her what she wanted to hear.”
“Tell the customers what they want to hear!” he counseled, “You’ll never see them again!”
“I’ll try,” said the old woman.
“You’d better!”
Her second client was the town baker, an ugly man named Georges Hubert La Croissette. Georges wanted to know if she could tell him if his mother, the late Katherine was in heaven with the angels or not.
“Was she a good woman?” asked the pseudo-fortuneteller.
“She was faithful to the Church,” asserted the baker.
“Was she loving?”
“She went regularly to all required religious meetings.”
“Was she kind?”
“She was always saying the appropriate prayers.”
“Did she love God?”
“She certainly feared Him.”
“Did she enjoy God?”
“What? Enjoy God? What kind of a question is that?”
“Would you want to go to Heaven if you didn’t enjoy God? Heaven is all about basking in the light and pleasure of God.”
(“What kind of a story is this anyway?” asked Hoss.
“Will you please hush, Hoss.” murmured Goldie.
“But there hasn’t been any action since the beginning. It’s all talk, talk, talk!”
“Let Death continue her story, Hoss. You can tell one of your stories when she’s done!”)
Death continued from where she was so rudely interrupted:
The baker stormed out of the fortune-telling tent leaving no fee behind. Carlo raged at the old woman: “I swear old woman, I believe that you are doing this on purpose. Two unhappy clients and no cash!”
“But I am no fortune-teller, my good Carlo, all I can do is tell the truth.”
“Anybody can tell the truth,” he cried, “it takes genius to tell convincing lies. You are simply not trying to lie.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“If you don’t tell a good fortune for the next person who comes to your tent, I will take the horse away and sell her to the glue factory!”
“That would be foolish,” countered the old woman, “everybody knows that a horse like that could command ten pieces of gold. The factory will only pay you two.”
“I don’t care!”
“Oh, alright,” sighed the Old Woman, “I’ll try to do it your way!” Giselle gulped with relief, she didn’t know what a glue factory was but it didn’t sound very promising.
Madame Cleo’s third client was a middle aged woman named Alice. Alice was clearly no longer a spring chicken but she went to superhuman efforts to give the impression of youthfulness: her make-up was immaculate, her hair was just-so, and she dressed in the height of fashion (for a much younger woman). She came in clutching a jeweled purse and opened her heart to the old woman.
“Will I die alone?” she asked quietly.
The old woman knew that the approved answer to this question was a resounding “No! Love is just around the corner for you.” But instead, the following words came out of her mouth: “My dear, you aren’t alone; even now you are surrounded on every side by all the hosts of Heaven and God himself.”
“I’m not religious…” said Alice.
“That’s quite alright, neither is heaven’s bright host.”
“I just want an answer to my question: will I ever find true love?”
“Yes you will,” said the Old Woman.
“I will?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
The old woman hesitated and said, “I don’t know.”
“The sign says that you are a Predictor.”
“I know.”
“Can you see my future?”
“No, but I can see your present.”
“My present? What do you mean?”
“You are in your middle years, but you are clutching a youth which has already left you. You are filled with fear and yearning for something on which you can pin hope. I tell you, Alice, if you can let go of your fear, love will come to you.”
“That is the most interesting fortune I’ve ever heard.” said Alice thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s worth a piece of silver,” and she handed over the fee. “How do I let go of fear?”
(“This story is boring and pointless!” cried Hoss, “You can tell it was written by a mare. Where is the adventure, the pointless violence?”
“Hoss, you can tell your stallion’s tale when she’s finished,” said Goldie calmly.)
The old woman gave Alice a long look and said, “The first step is to admit you’re afraid. Healing comes when we admit we’re sick.”
Alice thanked the old woman and left with a thoughtful look on her lovely face. Carlo noticed the thoughtful look and stomped over to the tent. “You are killing me, old woman! People are supposed to smile when they leave you, happy to believe your lies!”
The old woman said nothing; she simply gave him the silver.
“She paid the fee?” asked the dumbfounded Carlo. “You lied to her?”
“She paid for the truth,” said the old woman.
“A highly novel way to do business…but I can’t argue with results!”
So all day long the old woman told the truth. Some stormed off without paying but many were content to ponder what the old woman said.
At night, the old woman and Giselle rode back to the encampment under the eagle eyes of Carlo.
“We will leave under cover of darkness,” whispered the old woman to her mount. Giselle said nothing but her heart was racing. Where would they go? Would Carlo not try to find them and punish them? She shivered as the words ‘glue factory’ played across her mind.
That night, the old woman, untied Giselle and they were off!
(“Pinch me!” said Hoss, “This almost sounds like action!”
“Be quiet, Hoss, or we won’t let you tell your story!”
“Sorry!”)
They rode throughout the night, finally stopping off at a small inn. The old woman stabled Giselle and collapsed on a feather bed.
Late the next morning, after a good meal, they made for the coast reasoning that Carlo would hardly pursue them overseas. Of course, this just indicated how little they understood the Chief of the Travelers. His rage burned hot and riding his own black stallion, he pursued them wherever their trail took them.
The problem with going on board ship was that the old woman had no more money. She refused to sell the mare to the many who offered but how were they to raise money?
Finally, she decided to offer her services to the inn-keeper as a fortune-teller. She saw the irony in her decision but argued with herself that the end justified the means. Her soul was appalled at this sort of rationalization, but it was overruled by her mind and the pleading eyes of the mare.
She sat at a table at the back of the inn with a colorful scarf around her head and a pot of tea in front of her. She wondered if she would get any business that day. If only she knew!
At that moment, in stormed Carlo breathing fire and demanding beer from the inn-keeper. The old woman hunched down behind her table and covered her face with the scarf.
Carlo drank deeply from several pitchers of foaming black ale and wiped his mouth with his greasy sleeve. In a state of advancing inebriation, he looked over at the fortune-teller’s table and his mind tried to churn out a cunning plan.
He lurched over to the fortune-teller and plunked himself down in front of her.
“I wanna fffortune,” he slurred.
The fortune-teller said nothing, just held out her hand. He dropped a silver coin into her hand, and belched.
“What do ye wish to know?” she asked in a querulous voice striving for an Irish accent.
“I’m lookin’ for an ol’ woman an’ a horshe. Dey gotta be shomewhere!”
“Drink this tea,” ordered the fortuneteller. Carlo drank it down and burned his tongue. The old woman pretended to read the tea leaves.
“Ah…I see it all now…you are a man of authority…”
“Dam’ shraight, I am…”
“You seek a harmless old woman and a horse named…something that starts with a G…”
“You’re amashzing!”
“The leaves say that they have already boarded ship for the islands of the Northern Sea.”
“I’ll geddem!” he bellowed and staggered out of the inn to find a ship captain who could take him there.
The old woman laughed and went out to find her horse. They lived happily ever after!
Here then it the first story from the Circle.
The Story Circle: A Collection of Short Stories with Good Morals Attached (Mostly)
“Who has a story for us?” whinnied Goldie, the strong palomino mare.
“I have one,” said Hoss, the big, black stallion.
“Oh no!” cried Goldie, “Your stories are always so crude and tiresome. I would like to hear something uplifting.”
“How about ‘Giselle and the Fortune teller’?” asked Death, the diminutive white mare.
“The very thing!” said Goldie.
“I don’t think my stories are all that crude…” said Hoss, “You can’t call ‘The Dung Beetle’s Wedding’ crude!”
“I most certainly can and do! Now hush, Hoss, and let Death tell her story.”
Giselle and the Fortune Teller
“Once upon a time, (said Death) there was a fine blood mare named Giselle. She belonged to the most prosperous farmer in all of Lincoln County and she was greatly loved by all of the children for miles around. She bathed in sugar and fine oats. There was nothing but joy in her life and blue skies as far as the eye could see.
Well, they say that nothing good lasts forever and luckily for us, they are quite correct or else we would have a short, boring story.
One day, the Travelers came to town, led by their swashbuckling leader, Carlo. Carlo had flashing eyes and teeth and a general disregard for the niceties of civilized behavior. His motto was “I see it, I like it, I take it.”
He saw Giselle, liked her (and who wouldn’t?) and took her for his own.
Poor Giselle, taken far away from all she loved, hitched to a cart like a common dray animal and forced to eat grass like any village nag. How she cried! Her proud spirit absolutely rebelled at this sort of treatment and she gave Carlo a nip on the shoulder. He laughed and bit her ear in turn. She was shocked. What sort of a man was he?
Carlo was Carlo, proud, confident, and utterly committed to his own pleasures. The only thing that Carlo feared was the loss of his freedom, so he and his people were always on the move, camping here one day and the next day moving on, always moving on.
Giselle felt like she had not a friend in the world and she would cry herself to sleep every night. And then, one day, Carlo came back to the encampment with an old woman.
“She is a fortune-teller!” he announced to all and sundry, “I took her so that she can tell her fortunes for us!”
“I told you,” said the old woman, “I am not a fortune-teller, I am just a somewhat wise old woman!”
“Wise Woman, Fortune-teller…it is all semantics! For us, you will be a fortune-teller for silver!”
“My gifts are not for hire!” she said sternly.
“Your attitude will change over time,” said the evil Carlo, hinting heavily.
“My attitude is as unchanging as the mountains and the heavens,” she insisted.
“If Carlo says to the mountain, move, the mountain moves!” said Carlo with complete assurance.
The old woman was beaten and thrown into a trailer. She wept not a lick and stayed completely composed which irritated Carlo not a little.
“You can stay there all by yourself until you come to your senses!” he thundered.
Giselle went to the old woman’s trailer and softly whinnied at her door.
The old woman opened a window and called to the young mare. Giselle stuck her muzzle in and the old woman caressed her and spoke kindly to her.
“You are a lovely horse, aren’t you?” said the old woman.
“Yes,” said Giselle.
“He has stolen you too, no?”
“Yes, I hate him!” (For Giselle was a horse of spirit.)
“Hate? That is an ugly word. For myself, I dislike his actions.”
“Not me, I hate him. He is a horrible man and I wish he was dead!”
“Oh, my dear foolish young horse. Don’t you see that hating makes you hateful?”
“I don’t understand.”
“We become what we offer to others. If you offer love, you become loving and lovely too. If you offer peace, you become peaceful. But if you go out in hate, it scars your spirit and makes you hateful. Do you understand?”
The horse tossed her head and said nothing. The old woman just smiled. She could tell that the mare was thinking it over.
One day, Carlo came to the old woman’s trailer and opened the door. He beckoned to her and out she came.
“Now, you will be our fortune-teller?”
“Oh, I suppose that I could give it a try,” she said serenely.
“Good, good…you are pleasing Carlo today. We will go to the fair and you will tell fortunes. Please put this on.” and so saying, he handed her a dress. She lifted it up and clucked her disapproval. The dress was black with silvery stars, moons and planets on it.
“It’s rather gauche, isn’t it, my good Carlo?” she suggested.
“If by ‘gauche’ you mean convincing and realistic, you are quite correct!” he said grandly. (He was a showman after all.)
“If I must, I must,” she conceded.
“You must.”
“Then you must do something for me.”
“What?” he said guardedly.
“Let me have Giselle to ride to the fair.”
“Why not?”
She went back to her trailer and put on the foolish dress and then off they were to the fair.
Carlo had set up a large blue and red tent emblazoned with the words: “Madame Cleo, Fortune-Teller, Predictor, and Clairvoyant! Reasonable Rates and Satisfaction Guaranteed! She sees all and tells all!!!” She sighed, patted Giselle on the nose and thanked the young mare for carrying her.
The old woman’s first client was a beautiful girl named Carmena Conchita Alonzo Alveres who was all of 17 years old and already fixated on her future bliss. Specifically, she wanted to know when she would marry and to whom and how many children she would bear so that she could do what it took to be happy, happy, happy.
The quasi-fortuneteller took her fine white hands in her, looked deeply into her eyes and told her the following:
“You will be happy only when you stop looking to things outside of your soul to make you happy. Happiness is a spring that leaps up from within, it is not a river that flows to you from without…”
“What kind of a fortune is this,” cried the lovely Carmena, “I want to know if I’ll be married!”
“Do you want to be married?”
“Of course!”
“Why?”
“Because that is what makes a woman happy!”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is,” snapped the lovely Carmena.
“Was your mother happy?” asked the old woman.
“She has no complaints…” she said hesitantly.” Was her mother happy? Now that she thought about it, she wondered if she really was.
Carmena left the tent without paying and wandered off, lost in thought. Carlo noticed and his temper flared up.
“She didn’t pay! Why not?”
“I suppose it was because I didn’t tell her what she wanted to hear.”
“Tell the customers what they want to hear!” he counseled, “You’ll never see them again!”
“I’ll try,” said the old woman.
“You’d better!”
Her second client was the town baker, an ugly man named Georges Hubert La Croissette. Georges wanted to know if she could tell him if his mother, the late Katherine was in heaven with the angels or not.
“Was she a good woman?” asked the pseudo-fortuneteller.
“She was faithful to the Church,” asserted the baker.
“Was she loving?”
“She went regularly to all required religious meetings.”
“Was she kind?”
“She was always saying the appropriate prayers.”
“Did she love God?”
“She certainly feared Him.”
“Did she enjoy God?”
“What? Enjoy God? What kind of a question is that?”
“Would you want to go to Heaven if you didn’t enjoy God? Heaven is all about basking in the light and pleasure of God.”
(“What kind of a story is this anyway?” asked Hoss.
“Will you please hush, Hoss.” murmured Goldie.
“But there hasn’t been any action since the beginning. It’s all talk, talk, talk!”
“Let Death continue her story, Hoss. You can tell one of your stories when she’s done!”)
Death continued from where she was so rudely interrupted:
The baker stormed out of the fortune-telling tent leaving no fee behind. Carlo raged at the old woman: “I swear old woman, I believe that you are doing this on purpose. Two unhappy clients and no cash!”
“But I am no fortune-teller, my good Carlo, all I can do is tell the truth.”
“Anybody can tell the truth,” he cried, “it takes genius to tell convincing lies. You are simply not trying to lie.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“If you don’t tell a good fortune for the next person who comes to your tent, I will take the horse away and sell her to the glue factory!”
“That would be foolish,” countered the old woman, “everybody knows that a horse like that could command ten pieces of gold. The factory will only pay you two.”
“I don’t care!”
“Oh, alright,” sighed the Old Woman, “I’ll try to do it your way!” Giselle gulped with relief, she didn’t know what a glue factory was but it didn’t sound very promising.
Madame Cleo’s third client was a middle aged woman named Alice. Alice was clearly no longer a spring chicken but she went to superhuman efforts to give the impression of youthfulness: her make-up was immaculate, her hair was just-so, and she dressed in the height of fashion (for a much younger woman). She came in clutching a jeweled purse and opened her heart to the old woman.
“Will I die alone?” she asked quietly.
The old woman knew that the approved answer to this question was a resounding “No! Love is just around the corner for you.” But instead, the following words came out of her mouth: “My dear, you aren’t alone; even now you are surrounded on every side by all the hosts of Heaven and God himself.”
“I’m not religious…” said Alice.
“That’s quite alright, neither is heaven’s bright host.”
“I just want an answer to my question: will I ever find true love?”
“Yes you will,” said the Old Woman.
“I will?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
The old woman hesitated and said, “I don’t know.”
“The sign says that you are a Predictor.”
“I know.”
“Can you see my future?”
“No, but I can see your present.”
“My present? What do you mean?”
“You are in your middle years, but you are clutching a youth which has already left you. You are filled with fear and yearning for something on which you can pin hope. I tell you, Alice, if you can let go of your fear, love will come to you.”
“That is the most interesting fortune I’ve ever heard.” said Alice thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s worth a piece of silver,” and she handed over the fee. “How do I let go of fear?”
(“This story is boring and pointless!” cried Hoss, “You can tell it was written by a mare. Where is the adventure, the pointless violence?”
“Hoss, you can tell your stallion’s tale when she’s finished,” said Goldie calmly.)
The old woman gave Alice a long look and said, “The first step is to admit you’re afraid. Healing comes when we admit we’re sick.”
Alice thanked the old woman and left with a thoughtful look on her lovely face. Carlo noticed the thoughtful look and stomped over to the tent. “You are killing me, old woman! People are supposed to smile when they leave you, happy to believe your lies!”
The old woman said nothing; she simply gave him the silver.
“She paid the fee?” asked the dumbfounded Carlo. “You lied to her?”
“She paid for the truth,” said the old woman.
“A highly novel way to do business…but I can’t argue with results!”
So all day long the old woman told the truth. Some stormed off without paying but many were content to ponder what the old woman said.
At night, the old woman and Giselle rode back to the encampment under the eagle eyes of Carlo.
“We will leave under cover of darkness,” whispered the old woman to her mount. Giselle said nothing but her heart was racing. Where would they go? Would Carlo not try to find them and punish them? She shivered as the words ‘glue factory’ played across her mind.
That night, the old woman, untied Giselle and they were off!
(“Pinch me!” said Hoss, “This almost sounds like action!”
“Be quiet, Hoss, or we won’t let you tell your story!”
“Sorry!”)
They rode throughout the night, finally stopping off at a small inn. The old woman stabled Giselle and collapsed on a feather bed.
Late the next morning, after a good meal, they made for the coast reasoning that Carlo would hardly pursue them overseas. Of course, this just indicated how little they understood the Chief of the Travelers. His rage burned hot and riding his own black stallion, he pursued them wherever their trail took them.
The problem with going on board ship was that the old woman had no more money. She refused to sell the mare to the many who offered but how were they to raise money?
Finally, she decided to offer her services to the inn-keeper as a fortune-teller. She saw the irony in her decision but argued with herself that the end justified the means. Her soul was appalled at this sort of rationalization, but it was overruled by her mind and the pleading eyes of the mare.
She sat at a table at the back of the inn with a colorful scarf around her head and a pot of tea in front of her. She wondered if she would get any business that day. If only she knew!
At that moment, in stormed Carlo breathing fire and demanding beer from the inn-keeper. The old woman hunched down behind her table and covered her face with the scarf.
Carlo drank deeply from several pitchers of foaming black ale and wiped his mouth with his greasy sleeve. In a state of advancing inebriation, he looked over at the fortune-teller’s table and his mind tried to churn out a cunning plan.
He lurched over to the fortune-teller and plunked himself down in front of her.
“I wanna fffortune,” he slurred.
The fortune-teller said nothing, just held out her hand. He dropped a silver coin into her hand, and belched.
“What do ye wish to know?” she asked in a querulous voice striving for an Irish accent.
“I’m lookin’ for an ol’ woman an’ a horshe. Dey gotta be shomewhere!”
“Drink this tea,” ordered the fortuneteller. Carlo drank it down and burned his tongue. The old woman pretended to read the tea leaves.
“Ah…I see it all now…you are a man of authority…”
“Dam’ shraight, I am…”
“You seek a harmless old woman and a horse named…something that starts with a G…”
“You’re amashzing!”
“The leaves say that they have already boarded ship for the islands of the Northern Sea.”
“I’ll geddem!” he bellowed and staggered out of the inn to find a ship captain who could take him there.
The old woman laughed and went out to find her horse. They lived happily ever after!
Friday, March 12, 2010
trusting God
This is from a sermon I preached at Freshwind this year.
I would like to preach about trust today. I’m preaching about trust because it’s an area of growth for me not because I have become an expert. You want expertise? Let me preach about making mistakes!
Let me start of with my usual inflammatory declaration. Without trust you will never see God as he truly is. Or how about this, either you are trusting God or you are trusting you. Remember those 4 Spiritual Law tracts we used to pass around in the 70’s? In the middle, I remember there was a diagram with a throne. The point was that if you were saved, God was on the throne of your life.
I believe that trusting God allows you to truly have a relationship with him. All of God’s friends, from Abraham to you are called to trust him. Why? Because we start life entrenched on the throne of our own lives. We want things our way. We are loathe to trust, especially if we have been hurt by authority figures. We feel safe running our own lives!
And then God pulls aside the veil in front of our eyes and we are struck with a God who loves us and we begin to love him too. And then he pulls the rug out from under our feet. He asks Noah to build an ark, he asks Abraham to leave everything, he tosses Joseph into a well and then a prison, Moses gets to tend sheep for 40 years. (Forty years! Bill Pegg was barely in his teens!) How is he asking you to trust?
Why does God do such things? Doesn’t he realize that we are fearful people who would rather have some sort of illusion of control? Why, yes he does! God calls us to trust him so that we will find out that he is trustworthy! God wants us to know him as a true Shepherd. Don’t you love Psalm 23, the only Psalm that every Westerner knows. Hey, just shut your eyes and listen to these words penetrate your heart:
1 The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
2 He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters,
3 he restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
4 Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, [a] I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
5 You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
6 Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.
Wow. Wouldn’t it be great the next time you felt stressed out and afraid to be able to look up and see him smiling down at you. To see that he is holding a rod and a staff to protect you. To look up ahead on the road and see that there are green pastures and still waters on the way. To look at all of your enemies and see a table groaning with a feast just for you?
Without trust, we miss who God wants to be for us. It’s not simply to build character its to give us eyes to see him.
You have heard it said, “Without Faith it is impossible to please God”. But, I say unto you, without trust you will never see how God is pleased with you. I hope that’s not heresy.
I feel like God wants to say to us: Let go of control. Don’t be ruled by fear anymore. Let me show you how capable I am of taking good care of you.
Our enemy is fear, but our friend is kindness itself. Do you feel like Jesus is saying “Oh your faith isn’t good enough!” That isn’t Jesus voice, it might well be a religious spirit. Remember this story. Guy comes up to Jesus and asks him to heal his poor epileptic kid, if he can. Jesus is a little offended, I think. He says, “IF I can, all things are possible to him who believes.” Guy cries out “Well I do believe, sort of, help me unbelief.” And you know what? Jesus overlooks the big chunk of unbelief and accepts his pebble of belief.
Which brings me to point 2 or 3 for those of you with a scorecard. Trust is a growing thing in God. Do you have faith that moves mountains on the first confession of faith. I didn’t. I could barely get out of my pew. Actually, the first alter call I ever heard, I couldn’t even get out of my pew even though everything in me wanted to! It took a youth leader coming back into the church and finding me to get me into the Kingdom.
I think one of the reasons that we struggle with feeling inferior is that we read about the great heroes and heroines of faith and then find ourselves wanting. You look at Anne Lawless or Barb Bambrick and ask why your level of trust is so low. May I remind you that both of these ladies have grown in trust God for at least several weeks? Or several decades! Ask them how great their level of trust was when they were baby Christians!
Trusting God means letting go of fear. Have you ever seen the trust exercise? In Drama, we used to encourage kids to fall back into the arms of their fellow students. Boy did that push buttons! But the wonderful thing is that kids were amazed to find that they could trust each other. You can’t be on stage unless you trust those you are on stage with. How much more God?
Here’s a chunk of my story. I wanted to work full time as a tutor this November. I did not want to work outside during winter. I had to make a choice to give up my safe (but chilly) outside job and trust that God would give me the hours that I needed. Guess what? He met my every need, but I wouldn’t have discovered his faithfulness if I was holding on to the security that I had.
I would like to preach about trust today. I’m preaching about trust because it’s an area of growth for me not because I have become an expert. You want expertise? Let me preach about making mistakes!
Let me start of with my usual inflammatory declaration. Without trust you will never see God as he truly is. Or how about this, either you are trusting God or you are trusting you. Remember those 4 Spiritual Law tracts we used to pass around in the 70’s? In the middle, I remember there was a diagram with a throne. The point was that if you were saved, God was on the throne of your life.
I believe that trusting God allows you to truly have a relationship with him. All of God’s friends, from Abraham to you are called to trust him. Why? Because we start life entrenched on the throne of our own lives. We want things our way. We are loathe to trust, especially if we have been hurt by authority figures. We feel safe running our own lives!
And then God pulls aside the veil in front of our eyes and we are struck with a God who loves us and we begin to love him too. And then he pulls the rug out from under our feet. He asks Noah to build an ark, he asks Abraham to leave everything, he tosses Joseph into a well and then a prison, Moses gets to tend sheep for 40 years. (Forty years! Bill Pegg was barely in his teens!) How is he asking you to trust?
Why does God do such things? Doesn’t he realize that we are fearful people who would rather have some sort of illusion of control? Why, yes he does! God calls us to trust him so that we will find out that he is trustworthy! God wants us to know him as a true Shepherd. Don’t you love Psalm 23, the only Psalm that every Westerner knows. Hey, just shut your eyes and listen to these words penetrate your heart:
1 The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
2 He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters,
3 he restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
4 Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, [a] I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
5 You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
6 Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.
Wow. Wouldn’t it be great the next time you felt stressed out and afraid to be able to look up and see him smiling down at you. To see that he is holding a rod and a staff to protect you. To look up ahead on the road and see that there are green pastures and still waters on the way. To look at all of your enemies and see a table groaning with a feast just for you?
Without trust, we miss who God wants to be for us. It’s not simply to build character its to give us eyes to see him.
You have heard it said, “Without Faith it is impossible to please God”. But, I say unto you, without trust you will never see how God is pleased with you. I hope that’s not heresy.
I feel like God wants to say to us: Let go of control. Don’t be ruled by fear anymore. Let me show you how capable I am of taking good care of you.
Our enemy is fear, but our friend is kindness itself. Do you feel like Jesus is saying “Oh your faith isn’t good enough!” That isn’t Jesus voice, it might well be a religious spirit. Remember this story. Guy comes up to Jesus and asks him to heal his poor epileptic kid, if he can. Jesus is a little offended, I think. He says, “IF I can, all things are possible to him who believes.” Guy cries out “Well I do believe, sort of, help me unbelief.” And you know what? Jesus overlooks the big chunk of unbelief and accepts his pebble of belief.
Which brings me to point 2 or 3 for those of you with a scorecard. Trust is a growing thing in God. Do you have faith that moves mountains on the first confession of faith. I didn’t. I could barely get out of my pew. Actually, the first alter call I ever heard, I couldn’t even get out of my pew even though everything in me wanted to! It took a youth leader coming back into the church and finding me to get me into the Kingdom.
I think one of the reasons that we struggle with feeling inferior is that we read about the great heroes and heroines of faith and then find ourselves wanting. You look at Anne Lawless or Barb Bambrick and ask why your level of trust is so low. May I remind you that both of these ladies have grown in trust God for at least several weeks? Or several decades! Ask them how great their level of trust was when they were baby Christians!
Trusting God means letting go of fear. Have you ever seen the trust exercise? In Drama, we used to encourage kids to fall back into the arms of their fellow students. Boy did that push buttons! But the wonderful thing is that kids were amazed to find that they could trust each other. You can’t be on stage unless you trust those you are on stage with. How much more God?
Here’s a chunk of my story. I wanted to work full time as a tutor this November. I did not want to work outside during winter. I had to make a choice to give up my safe (but chilly) outside job and trust that God would give me the hours that I needed. Guess what? He met my every need, but I wouldn’t have discovered his faithfulness if I was holding on to the security that I had.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
prince in a shell
Prince in a Shell
“Once upon a time, for then it was when all stories begin, there was a King and a Queen who had a son. The Prince was their joy and they were his. Never has a Court seen such love and contentment before. But sadly, joy is frequently like a flower, which blooms today and falls to the earth the next.
So it was that an Enemy attacked the King’s land. As Head Knight, it fell to him to lead his men against the Marauders. So great was his courage, that the Enemy was soon vanquished, but in the heat of battle the King was pierced with a poisoned arrow and he died.
The Queen was filled with dismay and locked herself in a tower. No amount of entreaty could persuade her to open the door. She remained locked in her grief. The Court was in disarray. Finally, the Chamberlain sought out the young Prince. “Your Majesty, go and speak to your mother, for perhaps her mother’s heart will respond where her reason refuses.”
The Prince, his own heart torn by sadness, went to the tower and called out for his mother. Hearing his small voice, the Queen dried her eyes and opened the door. The Prince clung to her and together they wept.
The Lords and all the other Courtiers sent word to the Queen that as a woman she could not rule, and her son as a child, was likewise ineligible.
“Your Highness must take another husband to rule over us,” said a Baron with a note of finality.
Such are the cruelties of rulership. The Queen hardened her heart to her misery and sent word that she would interview suitors.
The Prince felt like he lived in a daze, for no man could replace what had been so harshly taken from him.
The Queen eventually settled on a handsome lord from a neighbouring land. Beauty, as they say, goes no deeper than the skin; for this lord had a green heart of envy. He saw the Prince as a competitor and hated him. The Prince made matters worse by not attempting to hide his disdain for his step-father.
One night, the new King went to the Prince’s chamber, and finding him asleep, gagged him and tied his hands together. He threw the Prince onto his horse and rode hard for the Sea. Here, he untied the Prince and freed his mouth. No bonds were necessary, for the King had another confinement for him. On the beach, the King made a rendezvous with an evil magician. “Here he is” laughed the evil King, “Shut him up so he never returns!”
The Magician spoke dark words, and immediately the Prince was enclosed in a huge, transparent shell. The Magician raised his hand and the Shell was cast into the deepest depths of the Sea. Down and down and down went the poor Prince and until finally the shell sank down into the muck at the bottom of the Sea.
The Prince pounded on the shell until his small fists were red, but it was to no avail. He screamed for help but the only result was the deep echoing of his voice.
Well, they say that every prisoner makes the best of his prison and so it was that the Prince learned to accept his confinement. He no longer cried. At least the shell prevented him from drowning.
There aren’t many things that one can do trapped in a shell, and the Prince soon discovered them all. He stood on his head, he slid down the steep incline of the shell, and he counted the seaweed that billowed outside of his prison. It wasn’t much of a life but it was better than drowning.
Then, one day, he saw a sight which destroyed his fragile contentment. It was a mermaid, swimming through the seaweed. Not the kind of swimming to get from point A to point B. No, this was more of a dance: now stately, now frisky. There were pirouettes, somersaults, and tail-snapping spinning. It was surely the most beautiful dance the Prince had ever seen. He pounded on the shell, but the Mermaid saw him not. The Prince wept for his frustration and cried out for deliverance!
And then, he saw a most strange sight: rainbow- coloured filaments fell through the water, settling all around his shell. Suddenly, the shell began-to rock back and forth, and with a pop, it broke free of the muck. He was in some sort of a net!
Up and up and up went the Prince in his shell until, splash! he was on the surface. In a boat, nearby, was a Fisherman, hauling in his net. If the Fisherman was surprised at netting a huge, transparent shell, he didn’t show it. He smiled as though bringing up boys from the depths was an everyday occurrence.
Seizing his filleting knife, the Fisherman began to pry open the shell. The Prince pushed and pried from within. Here an inch, and now another one, so that the Prince could get his hands out. Together they sweated and grit their teeth. Another inch and now another until crack! the shell lay in two halves. The Fisherman reached his brawny arms around the Prince’s waist and pulled him into his arms.
It was like being held by his father again. The Prince wept for joy.
They remained together for many days thereafter, as father and son, casting out the huge net together.”
“Once upon a time, for then it was when all stories begin, there was a King and a Queen who had a son. The Prince was their joy and they were his. Never has a Court seen such love and contentment before. But sadly, joy is frequently like a flower, which blooms today and falls to the earth the next.
So it was that an Enemy attacked the King’s land. As Head Knight, it fell to him to lead his men against the Marauders. So great was his courage, that the Enemy was soon vanquished, but in the heat of battle the King was pierced with a poisoned arrow and he died.
The Queen was filled with dismay and locked herself in a tower. No amount of entreaty could persuade her to open the door. She remained locked in her grief. The Court was in disarray. Finally, the Chamberlain sought out the young Prince. “Your Majesty, go and speak to your mother, for perhaps her mother’s heart will respond where her reason refuses.”
The Prince, his own heart torn by sadness, went to the tower and called out for his mother. Hearing his small voice, the Queen dried her eyes and opened the door. The Prince clung to her and together they wept.
The Lords and all the other Courtiers sent word to the Queen that as a woman she could not rule, and her son as a child, was likewise ineligible.
“Your Highness must take another husband to rule over us,” said a Baron with a note of finality.
Such are the cruelties of rulership. The Queen hardened her heart to her misery and sent word that she would interview suitors.
The Prince felt like he lived in a daze, for no man could replace what had been so harshly taken from him.
The Queen eventually settled on a handsome lord from a neighbouring land. Beauty, as they say, goes no deeper than the skin; for this lord had a green heart of envy. He saw the Prince as a competitor and hated him. The Prince made matters worse by not attempting to hide his disdain for his step-father.
One night, the new King went to the Prince’s chamber, and finding him asleep, gagged him and tied his hands together. He threw the Prince onto his horse and rode hard for the Sea. Here, he untied the Prince and freed his mouth. No bonds were necessary, for the King had another confinement for him. On the beach, the King made a rendezvous with an evil magician. “Here he is” laughed the evil King, “Shut him up so he never returns!”
The Magician spoke dark words, and immediately the Prince was enclosed in a huge, transparent shell. The Magician raised his hand and the Shell was cast into the deepest depths of the Sea. Down and down and down went the poor Prince and until finally the shell sank down into the muck at the bottom of the Sea.
The Prince pounded on the shell until his small fists were red, but it was to no avail. He screamed for help but the only result was the deep echoing of his voice.
Well, they say that every prisoner makes the best of his prison and so it was that the Prince learned to accept his confinement. He no longer cried. At least the shell prevented him from drowning.
There aren’t many things that one can do trapped in a shell, and the Prince soon discovered them all. He stood on his head, he slid down the steep incline of the shell, and he counted the seaweed that billowed outside of his prison. It wasn’t much of a life but it was better than drowning.
Then, one day, he saw a sight which destroyed his fragile contentment. It was a mermaid, swimming through the seaweed. Not the kind of swimming to get from point A to point B. No, this was more of a dance: now stately, now frisky. There were pirouettes, somersaults, and tail-snapping spinning. It was surely the most beautiful dance the Prince had ever seen. He pounded on the shell, but the Mermaid saw him not. The Prince wept for his frustration and cried out for deliverance!
And then, he saw a most strange sight: rainbow- coloured filaments fell through the water, settling all around his shell. Suddenly, the shell began-to rock back and forth, and with a pop, it broke free of the muck. He was in some sort of a net!
Up and up and up went the Prince in his shell until, splash! he was on the surface. In a boat, nearby, was a Fisherman, hauling in his net. If the Fisherman was surprised at netting a huge, transparent shell, he didn’t show it. He smiled as though bringing up boys from the depths was an everyday occurrence.
Seizing his filleting knife, the Fisherman began to pry open the shell. The Prince pushed and pried from within. Here an inch, and now another one, so that the Prince could get his hands out. Together they sweated and grit their teeth. Another inch and now another until crack! the shell lay in two halves. The Fisherman reached his brawny arms around the Prince’s waist and pulled him into his arms.
It was like being held by his father again. The Prince wept for joy.
They remained together for many days thereafter, as father and son, casting out the huge net together.”
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
telling stories
I love telling stories. When my daughter was very young, we would read together. We loved books like "The Wind in the Willows," the Narnia books, and Winnie the Pooh. One night, having exhausted our available books, I started to tell her stories about herself: Princess Kristin and her good friend and constant savior, Walftung the Walrus. The stories were not exactly deep or well-thought out but they were fun to create and I think Kristin liked being the heroine of peril after peril!
When I was freshly educated and freshly unemployed back in the 80's, I started to write a longer story but sadly not one with Kristin in it but I did keep Walftung because every story needs a savior, right?
I read the first part of the story to Kristin when she was about 8 or so and she loved it. But she didn't love that I never finished the story. She insisted that I try. She can be very persistant.
So I finished the story, and finally, this year it's going to be published. Wow. Only 30 years after I wrote the first page.
One of the things, I'd like to do with this blog, is post chapters of the "Unlikely Alchemist". If you like what you're reading, perhaps you'd like to buy the book. I'll let you know how to get it when it is published. Hey, who's in a rush?
When I was freshly educated and freshly unemployed back in the 80's, I started to write a longer story but sadly not one with Kristin in it but I did keep Walftung because every story needs a savior, right?
I read the first part of the story to Kristin when she was about 8 or so and she loved it. But she didn't love that I never finished the story. She insisted that I try. She can be very persistant.
So I finished the story, and finally, this year it's going to be published. Wow. Only 30 years after I wrote the first page.
One of the things, I'd like to do with this blog, is post chapters of the "Unlikely Alchemist". If you like what you're reading, perhaps you'd like to buy the book. I'll let you know how to get it when it is published. Hey, who's in a rush?
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