And Lastly

An Ode to Love


Where do I start?
It sings.
Gives me wings,
my eyes bright stars,
breaks the strings of my guitar.
But oh, it stings.
It scars.

It's not a secret.

My dearest one, don't be shy
sweet apricot, you must not cry!
Our love is not a thread so easily broken.
We won't lose yet, this tower is not forsaken.
Take heart, my dove, our hope to be together,
that we will always have each other,
might still come true
happily we will say I do.

Sing along if you wish!

I have a tale to sing to you of Merry Weather Myrrh
a single song that ten lines long
it (probably) won't even hurt your ears.
He was called the Duke of Donkeyskins, the Prince of Pigeontoes and sometimes King Cornhusk.
His castle was made of chickenwire.
The roof a copper pot.
He adorned his clothes with doghair, spiderwebs and feather ruffs.
His saber was of pigweed, and his crown of juniper.
Mice would often fray his ragtag boots, giving them holes for his toes.
An elf you might suspect, and in that you are correct.

What's missing?

The Misadventure of a Lady's Missing Ring
shorter version


Lady Suzane dressed her finest in green and gold,
(just like a parrot!)
She danced all night at Thursday's gala,
at least until her slippers faded.
As she heard the midnight bells sing,
she noticed something was amiss,
seeing nothing on her finger, she shrieked, "My favorite ring is gone!"


But where'd she lose it? - why it must have slipped, sir.
Plop! it fell right off her finger 
down into her cup. (And she didn't notice?)
A servant took the cup to clean it, 
where the ring rolled down into the drain.
How it floated to the seashore -no one really knows.


Encrusted with sand and slimy seaweed, 
it was stuck on the leg of a crab
where Sir Charlie stepped by mistake
a grave misfortune for he broke his leg.
He soon recovered and dined on crab cakes,
then set out to return the prize.


After several misadventures Sir Charlie somehow managed
to return the ring. Lady SuZane was estatic.
They're getting married in July.
Even I was invited to the wedding, 
to see the happy couple 
to sing and dance and drink, and merry, we will be.

What Fairy Tales are Missing

"Fairy tales have a fairy-tale likeness." Kate Bernheimer

Perhaps it is the fact that fairy tales are so familiar, and they always have certain essential elements, from the 'once upon a time' to 'happily ever after', and the characters - the three brothers, the King and Queen, the Princess or the Prince, the tailor or the miller's wife - we know these people already, yet still delight to hear their story. 

But fairy tales rarely come with maps, specific names or specific places. Perhaps I like to retell fairy tales so I can add in the little details. I enjoy the little details.

Travel Journals, Part 1 of 2 (Iana's story #28)

I wonder how many fairy tales I can pack into this story. Is too many too many? I think I'm being a little too one sided with Grimm's fairy tales, I need to go out and find others. George McDonald, Oscar Wilde, L. Frank Baum, and from different countries, Japan, India, China, Australia, and Africa. Although those will be more like folk tales. 

Finally, some of the secrets were revealed in the last chapter. Below, Roderick's story continues. The last time we heard from Prince Roddy, he'd finally discovered the cursed village. 


Prince Roderick's Travel Journals, Part 1

4 days of counting before April, in the year 217 -Evening

We arrived yesterday in the cursed village, the Lost Village, or as Thomas the blind tailor calls it, the Village of Last Hope. It was hidden cleverly from the main flow of the Trade River by an embankment of tangled forest and thorny bushes. We followed a small stagnant stream up, pushing aside the overhanging branches. The water so thick with mud and dead

Decisions, Decisions - Iana's Story #27

The previously entry had King Rilan of Winding's Story, and here's the last of chapter 4, just in time for the beginning of spring!

Decisions, Decisions
"But Father," I suddenly cried out. "Now you've spoken to us about the golden flower. You promised that man you wouldn't. You've broken your promise to him."

"It doesn't matter," Father shook his head. He reached down behind his desk and brought forth a plain wooden box. The inside was unlined, and the top compartment held a dried up brown petals, the broken husk from a once beautiful flower. Below it was another compartment, a red glow pushed at the edges as if eager to escape. Father lifted the wooden shelf out, placing the  dried up rose on the desk top and exposed what lay below. It was like the one I'd seen in my dreaming, a beautiful red rose bud. The petals closed up so tightly it made it look more like a seed than a flower, and its red glow pulsed like a small flame on a candle, ready to burst into larger flames at any moment.

"The fire rose," I whispered.