Robin Hood's Gang and Allen A. Dale

It was a perfect day, but Allen found himself sitting glumly in diner in the seedy part of Sherwood Park. He was wearing his best shirt, which happened to be bright red, but it turned out that wearing such a color was a mistake. Especially since the gangster Robin Hood had taken over the neighborhood, and everyone knew that a jaunty, forest green were the colors of his crew. 

But Allen hadn't thought about any of this, until an giant with dyed green hair and a wiry man with dark shades came in, both wearing leather jackets and green sneakers. Everyone in the bar had moved aside for them, but Allen was so caught up in his own misery that he hadn't even noticed the newcomers--that is, until they sat directly across from him in the booth. 

"What are you doin' here, wearing a shirt like that?" the tall man said.
"This is Robin Hood's turf, which makes this Robin Hood's diner, which means you're wearing the wrong colors, kid," said the wiry man. 
"Come along, short stuff," the giant said. "You've gotta pay the color tax to the boss himself."
Allen wished to just be left alone, but he knew better than to go against the giant, who had to be Lieutenant "Little John" Little or the wiry man, who's name was Nick and who (in spite of his appearance) was just a teenager. 

When they got to Robin Hood's hideout, which was one specific warehouse in an entire neighborhood of abandoned warehouses, Allen learned that the elusive Robin Hood was not at all what he thought he would be. He was walking the floor of the warehouse, supervising while forty-or-so men and teenager boxed each other. 

He had medium-length chestnut brown hair, that probably would have curled a bit had he not put so much product in it. He had bright green eyes that somehow signaled mischief and intelligence, a spray of freckles across his nose, and charmingly crooked teeth clamped around a wooden toothpick. He too wore a leather jacket, but his was a dark, forest green rather than black. He wove through the sparring pairs of men and approached his lieutenant. 

"Well, well Johnny boy. What have we here?" he said with a smile, startling Allen with his British accent. 
"He's wearin' red," Little John said, as if that explained it all. But Robin Hood just shrugged. 
"What's your name?"
"Allen A. Dale," the man stammered nervously.
"Well, have you got any money for my men and me? I'd be obliged to let you go," the gangster said as he took a seat on an overturned wooden crate. 
"No money," Allen said quickly. Perhaps too quickly, as Robin Hood just raised a dark brow and nodded at Nick. The teen grabbed Allen and searched his pockets. He pulled out a gold ring triumphantly and tossed it to Robin Hood.
"Allen, why have you hidden such a treasure from me?" said the gangster, and his tone was charming and airy, but there was an edge of danger laced beneath it that made Allen swallow thickly. All the men had stopped sparring and were now listening to the conversation. 

Allen decided it was best to simply tell the truth. "It's a wedding ring, and it was for my girlfriend. I was planning to ask her to marry me but her father told her that we had to break up. I just got back from trying to propose anyway, but her dad answered the door and said that he'd arranged for her to marry his business partner today." 

At some point he'd begun to fidget with a butterfly knife, as if he just needed to have something in his hands. As he looked at Robin's impassive expression, Allen found it easier and easier to just open up to the man. He continued, "And he's a rich guy with three houses and a retirement fund, and I'm just in med school, with three roommates and thousands of dollars worth of debt. She probably would have said 'no' anyway."
Robin Hood regarded him for a moment. Then he stood up and whispered something to Little John before turning back to Allen.

"This may surprise you, gents," he said loudly to the room. "But Robin Hood..." he said, pausing to point the blade at Allen, who paled slightly. "...is a romantic at heart." His men chuckled as he put the knife away and approached Allen slowly, before suddenly clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

"I'll get your lady back," he said grandly. Then he sat back down on his crate and fixed Allen with a sly glare. "But I don't work for free."
Allen's stare darted back and forth between the faces of Robin Hood's men and Robin Hood himself. Then he thought about his love, and hardened his stare. He thought he saw surprise in the gangster's eyes.
"I'll be your doctor. I know you can't go to the hospital for some of the injuries you and your crew...acquire. I'll work for you," he vowed. "Just please, get her back."
Robin Hood stood and grinned at his crew. He stood and reached into one of the sealed crates behind him, and to Allen's surprise, pulled out an enormous gun.

"Merry Men!" Robin Hood called, leaping on to the crate that he had been sitting on just moments before. "Load up," he said, just as Allen was about to reconsider. The other men began to produce various weapons: hand guns, knives of all sizes, bats with nails. One man even had a garrote. 

Robin Hood grinned and and replaced his soggy toothpick with a fresh one. 
"We're going to a wedding," he declared, and the Merry Men cheered.

"Farewell Performance by Robbin Hood and His Merry Men"
by John S. Pugh via Wikimedia Commons

Author's Note:
I know this story is long (918 words) but I kind of got carried away. I really like giving Robin Hood charm, because it's clear that the guy is charming in the poems, but only if you read several and get a feel for his character. I like the story of Allen A. Dale, because it's one of the stories where Robin Hood doesn't just fight a random guy in the woods, but actually listens and decided to help him. Maybe he's a romantic, maybe he was just bored. But this story was easily my favorite in the unit. It starts out sort of kind and only slightly atypical, but in the last few stanza's of the poem everything goes to hell (in a good way) and I think that the few lines in the poem aren't enough to really get a feel for the silliness/cuteness of this story. 
I will put a part two on my Portfolio project.

Week 11 Story - Sister Wolf

I remember the day she came to us.

She was running, crying, gasping for breath. My pack heard her sobs and smelt her fear, and soon we were following her through the woods. She came to a clearing and fell to her knees, and we watched her through the shadows. The moon slid from behind a cloud and illuminated her face, and she was beautiful. With a look, I commanded my pack to stay hidden, then I took my human form and stepped out of the underbrush. She had bruises blooming beneath her tears, and welts on her arms and legs. I told her who I was--Chief of the Wolves--and bade her come to our village. 

She sat in my tepee and I asked her how to care for her, and had the coyotes bring her anything she needed. She had fled a cruel husband, and his abuse had taught her to be timid and fearful. But she was with us now, a rare and tender flower I could not permit to wilt. I told her that she was our little sister now, and that we protect our own. 

Soon, she learned the life of the wolves. She ran with us when we wished to run; she dressed our wounds when a hunt proved difficult. Once a month for an entire year, she followed me and my kin to a sacred butte, where she howled at the wide-eyed moon alongside the pack. 

One day, I'd gone down to the stream for fresh water. As I drank, I heard two Dakota hunters laughing and joking as they approached the creek as well. They spoke of how they had followed the buffalo from the south, and said that now that they were less than a day's travel from the herd, a hunt would take place the next day. At once, I became a wolf and ran to our village--for I had made an agreement with the Chief of the Buffalo just one day prior, which allowed him to cross through our lands without conflict. The Dakota hunters would follow his tracks and find our village. 

When I arrived, I told Little Sister that she must ride out to meet her people. "Tomorrow at noon, they will be here. You must speak with them, or they will follow the buffalo, find our village, and kill us all," I said gravely. 

Little Sister agreed, but I saw that she was nervous. She feared being returned to her husband. Seeing her fingers twitch with anxiety, I almost changed my mind and called for us to flee in the night. But something shifted behind her eyes, and she wore her fear with grace--like a wolf. Somehow, it became bravery. 

The next day, she went to meet two of the warriors on a knoll. Several of our pack went with her, acting as protectors. They exchanged words, and she returned to our village. I could sense that it was her last night with us, and I remembered what she was like when she first came to live among the Wolves. Timid, weak, and frightened. She had been so small and wounded, but as I watched her boldly stare down a coyote for the last of the buffalo meat, I could see how truly fearless she had become.

The next morning, I found myself watching from the sacred butte as our Little Sister rejoined her family. Even as I was proud to see the strength in her stance, I can't help but feel sad to see her go from us. 

Now, with a stone in my heart, I tell the timber wolves and coyotes to pack up the tepees so that we can move on to land with better game. Now that the Dakotas have arrived, they'll take the choice buffalo for themselves. We all busy ourselves with our tasks, when suddenly....

Arooooooooooo!

...I hear Little Sister!

The rest of the pack perks up too, listening for her howl. 

Arooooooooooo!

Again, she howls for us! Before I know it, I take off in the direction of the sound, catching her scent in the breeze. I can hear the thundering of a hundred paws across the plains, my pack running right behind me. 

We crest over the hill and see a Sioux camp, with tepees, fires and people all milling about in the distance. But right before us is a pile of butchered buffalo: tongues, tenderloin and all the best morsels. Little Sister is perched on top of the meat, waving a red flag about in her hands and howling with all her might. I feel a burst of joy at the sight of her, and I stop short to admire how far our Little Sister has come. My kin descend upon the meat, tearing into calf-shoulder and romping in the great, bloody mess. Little Sister looks on with satisfaction while her kin look frightened as hundred of wolves make short work of their offering. 

Little Sister smiles and looks at me, and I let her--and only her--see my human form as I smile back.

by trustmevhenan via Tumblr

Author's Note:
This story is based on the Sioux Nation story of "The Lost Wife"--wherein a young woman flees an abusive husband and ends up living with wolves for a year. After she rejoins her tribe, she not only makes sure that the wolves aren't hunted, but that her people share the spoils of the buffalo hunt with the animals who saved her.
I wanted to do this story from the wolf chief's perspective because I think that it's clear that the girl and the wolf chief are the main characters. I know I usually do a 'romance' type of relationship but I think that it was better to have a big brother/little sister dynamic--someone who wants the best for her but isn't going to do the work for her.
I also think that doing it from the wolf's perspective keeps in tradition with a lot of Native American stories where an animal is the protagonist, and it let me put in some of those recurring Native American story themes. 

Week 10 Story - The Dance of Bees

Once there was a boy from a family of giants. He wasn't like his five older brothers. Where they liked to run and fight and roughhouse, he liked to sit, to think, and write songs. His brothers teased him often, and he felt all alone. His brothers were wrestling one day, and he couldn't concentrate with the ground shaking and the trees trembling. He wandered away through a mountain pass and found a valley--peaceful and quiet. There were large purple roses covering the ground, and it was quiet except for the wind. He thought he could write music calmly here. He started to settle himself onto the ground, nestling himself amongst the flowers. He heard a small yelp, and hopped up in alarm. He unfolded some of the petals on the largest flower, and found a plump girl--not a giant--nestled within. 

"Watch it, mister!" she humphed at him. He blinked in confusion. 
"Don't you even know what you've done? You've crushed the flowers!" she said, getting to her feet and settling her hands on her hips. She was wrapped in an ochre and black dress flecked with gold, and barefooted.
The boy didn't know what to say, or what to do. He stared at her, searching himself for a defense, or perhaps--judging by the way she was glaring--an apology. 
Suddenly she softened and said, "You're a giant? Why aren't you trampling all my lovely flowers just for sport?" 
He shrugged. 
Finally, he saw the hint of a smile grace her face. "Fine," she said. "You'll come with me, maybe there's hope for you yet."

He followed the girl through the flowers, trying not to step on any lest she yell at him again. When they reached the mountain pass on the the other side of the valley, the girl began to pull herself up the cliffside. She didn't need any help, being much stronger than her size suggested. He followed her up to a spacious room in the side of cliff and only peeped inside because he couldn't fit. There were other pudgy members of her family, dressed in the same ochre-and-black garb, all working on one task or another. One woman, the only one wearing all gold, was at the center of the hive, tending to the children. The boy watched them work as they turned dust into sweet food, built storage containers, and cleared away debris. 
"Soon we have to go back out and dance," the girl said.
The boy looked at her in confusion.
"We have to dance, in the flowers. We work with the sun, the flowers, and each other. It's how we make sure that everyone lives good lives," the girl explained. Sure enough, many others in the cave started toward the opening. They were all impressed with how kind and gentle the giant was, and how he was careful not to trample any flowers as they made their way down the cliffside to the valley.

The boy watched the girl and her family whirl and dance through the flowers, gathering golden dust and throwing it in the air and all over their arms and legs. They laughed, they were joyous in it. And they were careful not to damage any of the flowers. The boy was delighted, and came back every day to watch them dance.

Every night, when the sun set, the boy started home to see his mother, his father, and his five brothers. Every night, the girl stood stubbornly in front of him, and he knelt to listen to her warning: "Do not teach your family of our flower dance. They are too big and too rough, they will break the flowers and we will all be devastated." He always nodded his assent and headed back through the mountain pass. 

One night, after he returned his brothers teased him about missing their horseplay. They demanded to know where he had gone. The boy didn't want to betray his friend's secret but he missed his brothers. He just wanted to share the Flower Dance with them, and maybe they would think it was as lovely as he did. So he told them about the valley full of purple roses on the other side of the mountain pass. 

The next day, his heart no longer weighed down with secrets, he happily headed to the mountain pass to see his friend. But as he walked the road between the peaks, he noticed that rocks trembled and fell into his path. He heard shouting and instantly recognized his brothers' voices. He ran to the valley, and saw his brothers throwing each other around the valley. They stomped and mocked each other, they jumped and spit, laughing and punching and kicking. To the boy's dismay, the flowers were destroyed. Bodies of purple roses were strew around the valley. Not one remained in tact. 

In a panic, he ran to the other side of the valley. He stepped up to the opening of the cavern, peering inside in the hopes that his friend or her family would be hidden safely inside. But it was too late.

His friend was gone. The Flower Dance had come to an end, and so had the Bees.  

"Solitary Bee" by Alvesgaspar
via Wikipedia

Author's Note:
This story is very very loosely based on "The Youth that Joined the Deer." In the original story, a young man finds a community of Deer people, who die to feed the community then are revived. I found that one of the main take-aways for me was "responsible consumption" and "respectful relationships with nature." I kept the theme but told the story in a different way: the deer of 2018 are the bees after all. They do so much to keep our entire human community alive and we aren't really trying to help them survive. I tried not to anthropomorphize my characters too much to keep with the Native American style, but I really am a one trick pony when it comes to writing--I can only do people. Anyway, save the bees!

Week 9 Story - The Bamboo Bridge

There is a ton of junk in my house because of my grandmother. She insisted on bringing it with her when she moved in with me and my mom. She's getting old, she forgets things and people too, sometimes; my mom says she can't live on her own anymore. She has boxes and trunks full of old swords, books, brushes, and silks--things that have been passed down through the generations. Grandma's always saying that we're descended from powerful emperors, but ever since she's been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, who can tell if she knows what she's saying.

My mother sent me to pick up the last of her boxes, and to take Grandma to our house for good. So after school, I stopped by Grandmother's. She's too busy watching her soaps to pay attention to me, so I just sighed and headed to the garage to load the last of her boxes into my truck. 

She has a group of ancient looking bamboo sticks stacked in one corner--god only knows why. There are far heavier things to get onto the truck, so I gathered the bamboo, all the while shaking my head at my grandmother's pack-rat ways. I tossed the old stalks onto the grass in the yard. Before my eyes, the bamboo landed in the grass, anchored itself and stood at attention. They began to stretch and weave, growing taller and taller and casting a long vertical shadow against my grandmother's house in the light of the setting sun. I realized it was a bridge, leading straight up into the sky and out of view.

I tried to take the stalks down--after all, kids already referred my grandmother as "that weird old Chinese lady." The last thing she needed was all her neighbors coming out and gawking at her magic bamboo. But the stalks held fast, and something in me told me to climb it, to see where it led. 

Against my better instincts, I mounted the bridge and began my ascent. I thought it would take an age to reach the end of the bridge, and I found myself briefly wondering if I'd miss dinner. That was before I saw the sun from above the earth. It was a burning torch, and all the world was cast in light and shadow, spread out before me like an artists's rendering. From up here, I couldn't believe that I lived so far below. Nor could I believe that I had climbed so high in a matter of minutes, that I was breathing though with some difficulty, and felt almost no exhaustion. By the time the earth was a little blue rock far below me, the sun had set and was behind the world, casting a shadow on the Moon--which I was now sure was where this bridge would lead. 

Sure enough, I hopped off of the bridge and onto the surface of the moon. But instead of the barren wasteland that I was sure would be here, I found a splendid palace, silvery trees, and glass cages where animal shadows moved and swam like all the beasts of the earth and fish of the sea did. A pleasant smell wafted through the air, and I could tell it was the cassia flowers--my grandmother always wore that perfume. She swore it was a family tradition. I was starting to believe her. 

I turned to survey the rest of the moon, and found myself face to face with a beautiful woman. She had long flowing hair, a kind, round face, and a glowing rainbow gown with a white shawl. 

"I am glad you are here," she said, and her voice was clear and light as a bell. "The cassia tree has nearly overshadowed the radiance of my palace. Once your ancestors came upon this place, and knew that the cassia tree must be chopped down once every thousand years to maintain the glory of the moon. That time is almost upon us. Have you come to take up the task?" she asked.

I found  myself nodding, just going along with whatever this beautiful woman said. Some of what she said sounded familiar, and I remember before Grandma was sick, she told me stories of our ancestor and his sorcerers who visited the moon and brought back a musical gift. How was I to know it was true?

The Lady of the Moon handed me an ax, and before long the tree was felled. Instantly, the moon was brightened, and I could see her castle even more clearly in the distance. She thanked me again and again, and asked what gift I would like to bring back to earth as payment for my help. Only one thing came to mind.

"Please heal my grandmother's mind. She told me about you once, and I didn't believe her because she's sick. She still has so much to tell me."
The woman smiled, and for a moment, she looked my Grandma, when she was young and beautiful. "It is done. Go home to your grandmother."

The descent to earth took almost as little time as the climb to the moon did. And when my feet touched the ground, I looked up at the radiance of the moon--noticeably brighter. I turned to my grandmother's house, and saw her running toward me with tears in her eyes and arms outstretched.

Author's Note: So this story is based on the story of "The Lady of the Moon", in which an emperor and his sorcerers build a bamboo bridge to the moon. I thought it would cool to do a story about a descendant, because unlike some of the other myths that we've read, Chinese myths feature real people almost as often as they feature gods and deities. I know this story is really long but I'm just glad that I was able to put in everything that I wanted and still technically not go over 1000 words. Some of the original stories had unsatisfying endings, and I thought that since I put something so sad as Alzheimer's in the story, I should have a happy ending. 

"The Moon Goddess Chang E"
by unidentified artist via Wikimedia

Week 7 Story - The King of the Forest

There were once three brothers: Aye, Bie, and Cee. They were traveling west, to seek their fortunes. Aye was a blacksmith and a warrior. No one could match his craftsmanship or or his skill with a blade. Bie was a teacher and a scientist. He could make potions and medicines better than anyone, and people throughout the land sought his wisdom when they were ill. Cee was an artist. His songs moved kings to tears, his dancing made women swoon, and his paintings softened even the most iron hearts. 

Soon they had gone far indeed and were in need of a rest. As the brothers were traveling down a long narrow road, they passed what were once known as "skyscrapers," now overgrown with vines and weeds. They stopped and made camp. The structure was old and dirty, with no lights and no one around for miles. They had supped they settled down to bed, and each had dreams of finding prosperity.

The next morning they started on their way again. But no sooner had they figured out their course than a two-headed deer appeared before them in the path. 

"Hark," the deer said, in a deep but feminine voice.
"Who are you?" Aye demanded, drawing his sword.
"Why are you here?" Bie asked, furrowing his brow.
"How can we help you?" Cee inquired, fidgeting with his hands.
"I am the Prince of the Forest. My father is old, and he is on the brink of death. We need a new King, and he has sent me forth to find one," said the prince. "There will be a contest, and the winner shall be my husband, and become the new King of the Forest."

This sounded good to Aye, for he could practice his swordcraft and use his abilities to protect the spirits of the forest. It would surely be an easy contest for him to win, given all his skill in fighting. 
"I wish to participate in your contest for the throne," he said to the prince. "Very well," said the two-headed deer, and Aye vanished.
Bie also wanted to compete to become the King of the Forest. There were lots of plants, herbs, and minerals that he could use in his potions. He was sure to win, for he was certain that he was the most learned contestant.
"I wish to participate in your contest for the throne," he said to the prince. "Very well," said the two-headed deer, and Bie vanished.
Cee, too, wished to be the new King of the Forest. The forest was a beautiful place, where he could sing and his voice would echo through the trees; where he could paint beautiful scenes forever. He was, of course, quite talented, surely he would win.
"I wish to participate in your contest for the throne," he said to the prince. "Very well," said the two-headed deer, and Cee vanished. 

The brothers found themselves in a field, barren except for the grass and one enormous oak, gnarled and twisted but still reaching for the sun. The ground was flat and the sky was endless, stretching far beyond anything the Ancient Ones ever made.
There was a pile of stones, each perfectly smooth and round and all the same color. The deer walked around the giant oak in the center of the clearing. For a moment it disappeared from view, but out from the other side of the tree trunk walked a man. He had a deer pelt wrapped around his waist, covering his modesty, and eyes with neither pupils nor irises, just whites--except his whites were green, like the leaves of the forest. "Choose a stone with your left hand, and throw it to the middle of the field. What is revealed shall dictate the winner." the Prince of the Forest said. 

Aye was surprised, for he thought that it would be a test of skill and strength. But he chose a stone and threw it to the center of the field with all his might. The stone traveled far, and when it landed it cracked open like an egg, and a great flame sprung out. 
Bie, too, was surprised, for he thought that it would be a test of wisdom and knowledge. But he chose a stone and threw it, though it did not travel as far as his brother's. When it landed it cracked open as well, and a great spring flowed from the center.
Cee had thought the contest would be one of talent, and so he too was surprised. He shrugged and grabbed a stone and threw it, and it landed somewhere between Aye's magic fire and Bie's eternal spring. When it opened several flowers sprung from within, and continued to grow and grow until there were wildflowers covering the once-empty field. 

The Prince of the Forest turned to Cee and said, "You are the new King. From you life flows, not in its elemental form but finished, complex and sophisticated. You see beauty for what it is, and do not seek to change it or confront it, only to share it. And the Forest is beautiful." 

The Prince led all three brothers to the twisted oak, then stepped inside. The brothers followed and found themselves in the Heart of the Forest. Cee appointed Aye as the Captain of the Guard, and Bie the Royal Physician. The Prince and Cee were married, and ruled the Forest together for many years. 

"Deer" by John Bunting
Flickr

Author's Note:
After reading all the African Tales, many of which involved a great deal of magical realism, I really wanted to try to write my own magical realism story. This story isn't based on any one reading, but on the themes that I noticed are most common in magical realism myths. (1) Things just happen, and the characters don't react to the magic, only to the events that result from the magic. No one freaks out about the talking two-headed deer. (2) You don't have to explain things, especially not magic things. Why do the stones crack open? They just do. (3) There seems to be more emphasis on nature, ergo, a prince of the forest. Also, the scenery can change in, like, one sentence.

I tend to think way too hard about what to name my characters, so I just named them A, B, and C, but with some creative spelling. I also find that I always present some romantic element in my stories, and there's probably a psychological reason for that if I cared to get into it, but I don't. I did realize that I haven't really represented many same sex relationships in my stories, but I think that it's interesting to have it represented here. In a lot of old myths, people talk about marrying this random person they found on their travels like it's NBD. So, since women who are found in forests, or on the side of the road can marry the first guy that comes along and offers them something magical, why can't dudes?

Week 5 Story: I Fled the Feast

I can remember how quickly the humor evaporated from our great hall because it haunts me even now. All the mirth and drunkenness left in the night, like smoke from a snuffed candle, and by the time I realized what had happened, grief had overtaken me. Accepting his death was like trying to breath in a vacuum, like reaching out for something you know is no longer there but which you desperately need anyway. 

We'd been feasting, celebrating my husband's return from the other side of the world. Osiris had insisted on going abroad to teach wisdom to all people. I was less certain. I protected him, kept him safe in all circumstances. He swore to me he would return, with that beautiful crooked smile and the familiar glint in his eye. I remember laughing, relenting, and telling him to come to bed. The next day he announced, casually to the entire court, that he was taking a journey and that I was to rule in his absence. His advisors sputtered and coughed in confusion, but my Osiris just laughed and handed over his scepter. He never worried about me like I worried about him. 
The only threat to my reign was already well-known: Set, Osiris' brother. Jealousy and evil permeate every facet of his being, but Osiris and I both knew that I superseded him in strength and courage. Which is why, to steal my husband's throne, he resorted to wicked trickery.

At the feast, Set brought a chest and the appearance of good cheer. It was a beautiful chest, decorated with rubies, lapis and gold. It was the most magnificent gift of any that had been brought to glorify my husband. Looking back on it, I should have realized that Set could never pay his respects without an ulterior motive. But even I never thought that he would go as far as fratricide. 

He'd made the chest to Osiris' exact measurements, every curve and angle of my husband's body had been taken into account in it's construction. Set had offered the chest to any of our guests who could fit perfectly within its gilded walls, and I laughed along with our guests when Osiris drunkenly crawled inside. Suddenly, like the snap of a crocodile's jaws, Set closed the lid, sealed it shut, and cackled madly as my love thundered in vain against the confines of his tomb. Soon the grand hall was as silent as the echo of his final breath. 

Our guest's fled in terror as Set ascended the dais and assumed the throne, and I, restrained by my brother-in-law's conspirators, screamed until my voice left me. Courtiers who had betrayed Osiris took up his sarcophagus and carried it out of sight. While I wept, Set came upon me. He pursed his twisted lips and hissed like a serpent against my ear:
Run.

"Osiris and the Egyptian Resurrection"
Flickr

------

Author's Note:

I read the Ancient Egyptian Myths, and the story is inspired by the story "The Death of Osiris". I have been considering a Portfolio Project, and this would certainly be one of the stories I include. I want to add on to it in the future, and complete the saga from Isis' point of view. Though doing a Storybook of this myth might be better. I honestly don't know. 
First person is kind of difficult for me, because I think it's easier to explain people's emotions as an omniscient narrator. Sometimes we hide our emotions from ourselves, and conveying that while letting the reader know that nothing is actually missing is a challenge. But I think it will be better to try a first person story with this myth because the myth only says that Isis is grief-stricken, and that Osiris was wise, so there is lots of room for me to write them as I want to. 
I know that I'm going to continue this story, probably on my Project website. 

Bibliography:
Egyptian Myth and Legend by Donald Mackenzie (1907). 

Week 4 Story - Rachel and the Jinn

She'd met Jacob at a fountain

He wanted for them to be wed

But Jacob married Leah first 

Because he had been misled 

Her father Laban had given Jacob Leah

He said "To wed the younger first is forbidden"

And though Laban had pushed Jacob into Leah's bed,

She thought: "He didn't have to give her children."

The Lord gave Leah children quickly;

Rachel was barren though she prayed.

Jacob wished to return to Canaan--

Too long had he stayed

The road to Canaan was long

and the journey took its toll

Their family traveled far and Laban followed,

Seeking the idols Rachel stole

One of these items contained a jinn

Or so the household servants said

Leah had four sons, Bilhah two;

Rachel was determined to get ahead

She called the spirit from the lamp

and soon the jinn came forth

She demanded he bless her with a son,

and he chuckled "What's it worth?"

"What will you risk for a child?

For I have magic in my eyes

Of course, I can lend my talents to you

But all magic has a price."

She swore thrice that she wanted the babe

Caught in competition with her sister.

The jinn smiled, then cackled wildly

And the sound of it unnerved her.

But she ignored her reservations

And reached out to the spirit

He took her hand and gave her magic;

She was glad when she could feel it.

"You swear your son has a great destiny,

But this gift will bring you strife,"

The jinn grinned his evil grin and said:

"If you're wrong, your son pays with his life."

With this iron covenant in mind,

She bade her husband come to bed,

And though they conceived Joseph that night,

The jinn's words stayed in her head.

Years later her son had become his father's favorite

His brothers--jealousy was within them;

Jacob gave Joseph a colored cloak

His brothers tore it from him

They left him in the cold and in the dark,

They told his father he'd been eaten--

The jinn snickered down in his lamp

But the Lord's plan would not be beaten

Joseph understood men's dreams

And this gift took him far, when he answered Pharaoh's call

Her hard-won son saved and forgave his family

And Rachel had been right after all.

"The Meeting of Jacob and Rachel" by William Dyce
Source: Wikimedia Commons

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Author's Note: I based this story off of the stories from the Jewish Fairytales: most of which turned out to be character's from the Bible but with more mythical creatures tied in. A lot of times, the stories reminded me of the fact that the Bible has cultural significance beyond the religious aspect, and is really the story of a people and the heroic figures within the Jewish tradition. As a kid, I was fascinated by the weird, competitive way Rachel and Leah went about having children with Jacob. I thought it would be interesting to explore that story with the added context of coexisting paganism and the addition of a mythical creature who could possibly explain why she was able to have children all of a sudden.

Also, I thought it would be fun to write it as a poem. A lot of the Jewish Fairytales had really short lines, and I just thought I'd try something new--though I must admit that the ABAB rhyme scheme is a bit of a crutch for me

Week 3 Story - Pygmalion's Statue

Source: Wikipedia

One day, she could simply see. 

She had known that she was, but had no idea what else was. There was darkness and pressure, choking her consciousness. She was, but she was immobile. Trapped with her own thoughts, and without new ideas. How could there be new thoughts without new information?

It happened slowly. The darkness began to shift and lighten, some of the pressure was removed and soon, she knew she had shape. Not a sophisticated shape, but now she was relative to everything around her. Now she knew of the cool of the shade and the warmth of the sunlight, the sensation of a breeze. She didn't know where, exactly, her shape was coming from. But she knew that, little by little, she was becoming something.

She could feel supports, holding her up, her weight distributed through out her being. She could feel parts of her extended beyond the rest, and parts of her kept closely to her core. She could feel herself becoming frustrated with the single sense of touch. Without knowing what else there was, she knew she wanted more.

He gave her ears before he gave her eyes. She could hear, now, how she was being formed. Chink, chink, chink, as he chiseled away at everything else which was weighing her down. He heard him grumbling to himself, thinking aloud. Calling her beautiful. What was "beautiful?" 

When he gave her eyes, she could not have been more elated. She could see him, finally. He was often right before her, chiseling away and forming "cheeks" and "lips;" a "nose" and a "chin." He worked so close to her, and she watched him closely. His brow furrowed in concentration, he bit his lip in thought. She longed for breath, so that she could chuckle at the faces he made while he considered her every angle. He was beautiful.

One day she was complete.

One day her maker stood back, and simply gazed at her. She gazed back, and though she knew he could not feel her attention, she felt his. And it made her feel "beautiful."

He came to her at night, and she was glad. She had often stood in the dark, staring at nothing and waiting for him to return in the morning. Now he came to her, and embraced her, and kissed her hands and her cheeks. He was solid, like she was, but he was warm--blood and breath made him something other than she, and when he whispered: "How I wish you were alive" she learned what it was that separated them. He was alive, and somehow, she was not.

He began to stay with her, all day and all night. She was happy for his company, but what she wanted more than anything was to live. 

He came to her one day, when the lights of the city shone brightly, blending with the lights in the sky that she had come to know were "stars." He tried his best to caress her face, and wished with all her might that she could lean into his touch, but she remained stiff--carved from ivory. "I have prayed to the goddess Venus, my love. I have left her gifts, and begged her that you may live and breathe and be my bride." She prayed to whoever Venus was, that her love would get his wish.

He took her hand, and she felt his warmth in a way she had not before. She felt her fingers curl around his, and with hesitation, took in a breath, as she had watch him do for months. The sensation filled her lungs, which had not been there before, and she felt her chest expand. The chill and the stiffness that had previously been her life--her experience of being--melted, and gave way to something else. She could "smell" and was delighted that somehow the things she saw could and felt had other signs of existence as well. She learned what was "wet" and what was "dry," for not she could feel a tongue form and move in her mouth and her eyes could blink.

She felt her heart beat in her chest, and new blood course through her every limb, animating her. She looked at her maker, her love, and--unsure of how to speak and bashful in the face of new elements of existence--she touched his face. 

His eye's grew wet with tears, and she had seen him cry from loneliness and sorrow, but never from joy or from love. He kissed her lips and she tasted him. He embraced her, and she felt his heart beating against her own. She could see all of him now, where before, he had been out of focus and blurry; she could smell the salt in his sweat and the incense burning in the workshop; she heard his shuddered breath and his whispered prayers of thanks against her ears. 

She no longer was--she was alive. 

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Author's Note: She this story is based on the story of Pygmalion's Statue in Ovid's Metamorphosis, in the Mythology Anthology. I though it would interesting to write his story from the perspective of the statue. It's cool because you get to explore the different facets of existence, like the five senses and self-awareness. At first, I was going to make the statue not too into Pygmalion, because I'm sure he was an old guy who sculpted a young girl them wished for her to come alive so he could marry her--and that's creepy. But I think that a statue who'd never met anyone else would kind of have no choice but to fall in love with him. So In my mind, he's a young eccentric guy that the girls weren't that into, so he prayed that his creation would love him--which is still creepy but certainly less so. 

This story can now be found at: The Plot Thickens, my Portfolio site for the class Project. 

Week 2 Story: How the Moon Got Her Beautiful Face

A long time ago, no one looked at the Moon. She was plain, a big white orb hanging in the sky. Smooth, unblemished, and uninteresting. She guided war and merchant ships at sea, illuminated children playing games at night, and provided light for lovers, kissing in the dark. She was a tool, but she was vain and she wanted to be called beautiful.

There was also an unhappy girl. People stared at her as she passed them in the roads, because she had some parts of her skin which were lighter than others. They were on her hands and feet, like gloves and socks; they were on her chest and shoulders, like battle armor. There was even a large white patch splashed across her face. The others called her the "the girl with the patchwork face;" she did not think she was beautiful.

Chantelle Winnie

One day, the Moon heard crying. She looked for the source of the sound and found the girl hiding in the woods. The Moon looked upon her with pity and interest. 

"Why do you weep, girl?" the Moon said.

"I weep because I am hideous!" the girl cried, and tears streaked down her face. She dared not cry in town, among the people. But alone in the woods, she let her tears flow freely and without shame.

But the girl did not know that she was not alone. A boy from the village had followed her through the trees. He watched her sob with a leaden heart, for he loved the girl with the patchwork face, and it pained him deeply to see her sorrow.

The Moon said to the girl, "Come. Come and live with me in the sky. For I am plain, but you are beautiful. Men will look up not to see when to plant, or when the tides will rise, but to admire how lovely we are."

But the girl would not be cheered, and said "No, Moon. If you want to be lovely then I must stay away, down here on Earth. I cannot make you beautiful."

The boy walked out from betwixt the trees and approached the girl in the wood. 

"You must go with the Moon," he said. "For I think you are the most beautiful girl, and all should see you as I see you. Tell us how to reach you, Moon, and I will see to it that she joins you in the sky."

The Moon was elated. "Find the tallest tree in the forest and climb it. I will guide you. I will take you in my arms and kiss you, and the sky will become your home."

The girl was afraid, but she took the boy's hand and together they ran through the woods, following the light of the Moon.

Finally, they came upon the tallest tree, shining brightly in the night. They began to climb, and as they did the girl's heart lightened. The boy pulled her up when she stumbled; sometimes, in her excitement, she went ahead of him. They climbed and climbed, higher and higher, until the air was thin and they were amongst the stars. 

The Moon was directly above them, now. The girl stretched and reached as far as she could, but she was still too far away. The boy braced himself and balanced carefully upon the treetop before lifting the girl high overhead, until the Moon could kiss her patchwork face. 

As soon as the Moon's lips touched the girl's forehead, she vanished. 

The boy scrambled down the tree, scratching himself on twigs and on branches. He ran through the forest, back to the village, without stopping. When he had returned home, he told everyone in the village to look at the Moon's new face and see how beautiful she was.

The villagers were skeptical because everyone knew that the moon was plain, but when they turned to see her they all stared in awe and silence. The villagers looked upon her dips and curves, her mountains and seas, her dark patches and bright spaces and said, "How beautiful she is."

And the moon and the girl were happy.

"Shadows Girl Night Balloon Play Full Moon"

Author's Note:

I was inspired by the "Origins" stories in the Mythology-Folklore Anthology. I liked how both stories sort of gave an explanation for the images we create out of the shapes on the moon's surface. I wanted to do a similar story. 

Bibliography:

Eastern Stories and Legends by Marie L. Shedlock (1920).
"The Man in the Moon" from Laos Folk-lore by Katherine Neville Fleeson.

Origins