Once upon a time, there lived a little girl. She lived with her mother and father in a little hut up in a snowy mountain. It was always bitterly cold in the hut, as they were very poor. The little girl's father worked hard chopping wood for the hearths of rich families that lived in the village at the foot of the mountain, but he was paid very little. More often than not he was too tired to chop wood for his own hearth, so the little girl would gather fallen sticks and pine needles from the trees around the little hut to light a small fire for her mother. It might have been unbearably cold in the hut up in the snowy mountain, especially during the night when the wind howled and raged in through the glassless windows, threatening to blow out the tiny flames in the hearth, but the little girl never minded. Her mother would always put her on her knee, cuddle her close and tell her stories- stories told to her by her mother when she was a little girl. The little girl would nestle close to her mother's warmth and drink in the tales like a hungry wolf. Her mother warmed her frail body and the tales warmed her heart. Sometimes, the stories would be sad, and at the end of it the little girl would have tears rolling down her cheeks. Nevertheless, she listened attentively, drinking in as much as her young head could hold, because she wanted to remember all the stories so that she could tell them to her little girl when she was older.
One harsh winter day, the little girl's mother was struck with a terrible disease. It was so strange, so unlike a common cold or fever. The father brought the village doctor to see her, but he shook his head and could do nothing to save her. The little girl would search the snow-covered forests furtively for wild herbs, sometimes having to dig for hours through the thick snow with her bare hands to get to the precious plants. She would return to the little hut when darkness descended, the frosted leaves clutched in her numb fingers, but every time she came back, her mother grew smaller and smaller, weaker and weaker. At night when the wind howled, the little girl would clamber into her mother's bed and cuddle into her, but her mother was cold now, not warm. She was the ice over the frozen river, no longer the warm blanket the little girl once knew. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, until one day, when the sun came up for a brief moment to warm the icicles that hung from the hut's roof so that they melted and dripped, the little girl's mother became so cold no fire could ever warm her up again.
She was buried outside the hut with only a gray slab to mark the grave. The little girl cried herself to sleep that first night, and all the nights that followed. Shaken with grief, she ran out of the little hut, crying for her mother, wishing she could lose herself in the warmth and tales that she could never be able to have again. She ran and ran, stumbling through the thick snow in her worn boots, branches and twigs scratching her, hidden roots tripping her. How many times she stumbled and fell she didn't know- all she wanted was place where she could feel warm forever, to return to the place in the little hut up in the snowy mountain that she called home.
The little girl ran until she came to a large cave, partly hidden by snow and pine trees. Panting and exhausted, the little girl trudged into the cave's darkness. Night was coming; the wind was drawing breath for its hideous wails. Lying on the cold stone floor of the cave, the little girl told herself the stories that her mother had told her in an attempt to warm herself, but the stories only reduced her to tears. She sobbed and sobbed, so lost was she in her sadness she did not hear the scuffling and snorting that came from the depths of the cave. There was a loud grunt that echoed through the cave, and the little girl looked up in alarm. She couldn't see anything in the darkness, and her voice trembled when she called out. She waited, feeling uneasy. She could feel eyes watching her. She waited some more, swallowing her tears and fear.
All of a sudden, she felt something cold, wet and blunt nudge her in the elbow. She screamed out in fright. She ran to the opening of the cave, shaking. She was so cold and stuff she felt as if her bones had frozen through and were cracking as she ran. Something followed her, its steady footsteps soft against the stone floor. It approached the entrance of the cave, and in the moonlight, the little girl stood face to face with a little polar bear cub. Her eyes widened in surprise as she stared at the furry animal. The polar bear gazed back at her, dark eyes regarding her shivering frame calmly. When it was confident that she meant no harm, it came close until its wet nose pushed into the hem of her skirts. It was sniffing her.
For the first time in what felt like years, the little girl let out a laugh that sounded like a loud, dry sob. She knelt down and ran her cold hands through the polar bear's thick fur, white as snow, yet as warm as fire. Tears sprung from her eyes at the memory of her mother's warmth, and in a fit of sadness she flung her arms around the bear's neck and sobbed. The polar bear did not move, only sat and craned its head to catch a glimpse of the crying girl, puzzled. Who was this strange creature, cold as ice, naked as a stone, trembling like a leaf? Why was it making such a peculiar, painful sound when it wasn't hurt? Why was it leaking so badly? The bear stuck its tongue out and licked the little girl's face. Wet. Salty. The girl laughed again, then kissed the bear's nose. She lay down, exhausted, cuddled up against the bear's luxuriant fur. Her eyes were closing, but she fought against it, wanting to stay in this warmth longer. The wind continued to weep and wail outside, snow came down in torrents, but the girl could not see, hear nor feel any of it anymore. All she could see now was her dear mother's face, hear the sweet words blowing over her like a summer breeze, feeling the warmth that her young heart yearned for so desperately.
And as eternal sleep gradually took over her young body, the little girl gave a soft, contented sigh, a sigh so soft it was barely audible, yet it seemed to drown out the cruel, endless howl of the wind.
She was home at last.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Chapter 1: The Tale of The Coconuts.
Once upon a time, there lived a pile of coconuts. Some of the coconuts were older than the others. Some had harder shells, and some had softer, whiter insides. Some were green, some were yellowy, but they lived happily together. In fact, they lived so happily together they decided to form an alliance. The alliance was established, and the coconuts had a wonderful time in it. Other inhabitants of the island would gaze wistfully as the alliance frolicked together, but nobody dared ask to join the alliance. It was only for the coconuts, and no-one else but coconuts were permitted to join.
The coconuts lived on an island where the sun always came up and the nights were filled with the music of insects. During the day, the members of the alliance surfed the waves together, explored the island together, made friendship-alliance-sand-drawings on the pure white beaches together. When night came upon the island, the coconuts would share stories about themselves, gossip, giggle, and talk around a campfire. Then they would dance and sing until they were tired and the fire had reduced to glowing embers. Tired out, the coconuts would retire to their cosy coconut trees, then start the happy routine all over again the next day. No one interfered with them, and they continued enjoying the blissful, sun-soaked days together.
One day, however, something happened that threatened to destroy the existence of the alliance. There was a dispute between two of the coconuts, an argument that was silent, yet so aggressive it left the coconuts in great turmoil. The coconuts took sides and went off to different ends of the islands to stew and boil and rage in their own coconutty anger. They started to launch attacks on one another. They hurled hard, acidic lumps of words at one another, sometimes silently, sometimes screaming it out on top of their voices so that the whole island could hear and feel the terrible hate between the severed alliance.
While this was happening, a little monkey watched them from the safety of a banana tree. It had been fast asleep, oblivious of the battle between the coconuts, but was rudely awaken when a large lump of words from one of the silent attacks launched by the harder coconut nearly whacked it in the face. It sat up sleepily, then watched in shock at the great war between the coconuts whom it once thought were inseparable. It peered through the glossy green leaves of its home, and gaped as the coconuts kicked at the friendship-alliance-sand-drawings, and stamped the merry flames that once brought so much fun and laughter until its ashes, still glowing, swirled up into the sky. The monkey watched on, munching on a banana, as the coconuts took sides and went off to either ends of the island. Then the monkey realised, the only reason for this pointless battle, for the razor-edged blades of words, was only because the coconuts refused to put down their hard shells and show one another their soft insides. The coconuts could not- or stubbornly refused- to see their own hard exteriors, instead they focused only on their opponents', and worked hard on trying to shatter it until it disappeared into nothingness.
The monkey sat on its banana tree and pondered, perplexed. All sorts of questions hummed around its head like the insistent mosquitoes on humid summer nights. Why are the coconuts so afraid of dropping their hard shells? What would happen if they did? Would they be able to show one another their soft insides? Would they understand that the soft insides want nothing more but forgiveness, to apologise, to say sorry? Would things ever go back to how they once were? The monkey wished it could climb down from its tree and offer assistance to help the coconuts drop their hard shells and expose their quivering white interiors, but that was just it. It was a monkey. It wasn't a coconut. It wasn't part of the alliance. If it were to interfere, the alliance would really vanish, taking all sunlight and days filled with late night giggles and chitchat with them. So it just sat, and munched on a banana, and watched, and waited to see the alliance come back together, to see if the days of sunlight could ever come back.
The coconuts lived on an island where the sun always came up and the nights were filled with the music of insects. During the day, the members of the alliance surfed the waves together, explored the island together, made friendship-alliance-sand-drawings on the pure white beaches together. When night came upon the island, the coconuts would share stories about themselves, gossip, giggle, and talk around a campfire. Then they would dance and sing until they were tired and the fire had reduced to glowing embers. Tired out, the coconuts would retire to their cosy coconut trees, then start the happy routine all over again the next day. No one interfered with them, and they continued enjoying the blissful, sun-soaked days together.
One day, however, something happened that threatened to destroy the existence of the alliance. There was a dispute between two of the coconuts, an argument that was silent, yet so aggressive it left the coconuts in great turmoil. The coconuts took sides and went off to different ends of the islands to stew and boil and rage in their own coconutty anger. They started to launch attacks on one another. They hurled hard, acidic lumps of words at one another, sometimes silently, sometimes screaming it out on top of their voices so that the whole island could hear and feel the terrible hate between the severed alliance.
While this was happening, a little monkey watched them from the safety of a banana tree. It had been fast asleep, oblivious of the battle between the coconuts, but was rudely awaken when a large lump of words from one of the silent attacks launched by the harder coconut nearly whacked it in the face. It sat up sleepily, then watched in shock at the great war between the coconuts whom it once thought were inseparable. It peered through the glossy green leaves of its home, and gaped as the coconuts kicked at the friendship-alliance-sand-drawings, and stamped the merry flames that once brought so much fun and laughter until its ashes, still glowing, swirled up into the sky. The monkey watched on, munching on a banana, as the coconuts took sides and went off to either ends of the island. Then the monkey realised, the only reason for this pointless battle, for the razor-edged blades of words, was only because the coconuts refused to put down their hard shells and show one another their soft insides. The coconuts could not- or stubbornly refused- to see their own hard exteriors, instead they focused only on their opponents', and worked hard on trying to shatter it until it disappeared into nothingness.
The monkey sat on its banana tree and pondered, perplexed. All sorts of questions hummed around its head like the insistent mosquitoes on humid summer nights. Why are the coconuts so afraid of dropping their hard shells? What would happen if they did? Would they be able to show one another their soft insides? Would they understand that the soft insides want nothing more but forgiveness, to apologise, to say sorry? Would things ever go back to how they once were? The monkey wished it could climb down from its tree and offer assistance to help the coconuts drop their hard shells and expose their quivering white interiors, but that was just it. It was a monkey. It wasn't a coconut. It wasn't part of the alliance. If it were to interfere, the alliance would really vanish, taking all sunlight and days filled with late night giggles and chitchat with them. So it just sat, and munched on a banana, and watched, and waited to see the alliance come back together, to see if the days of sunlight could ever come back.
Enter
[The Web Of A Storyteller]
Welcome one and all to my blog of stories.
What do you expect from this blog? Well, if you haven't been paying much attention, I'll just say it again. Stories. Tales. Some I make up myself, some told to me when I was young, some from long-forgotten memories, lying deep in the depths of my mind, only to float up again when something pulls it to the surface. Some stories are true, some are not. Some want to be true, some are made to sound like the truth, when it is nothing but a pack of lies. Some may be surreal, others fairy-like. Some may have morals, some may just be made for a laugh. Whatever the cause, whatever the reason, these stories are made for only one reason.
To be read.
So here I am, master storyteller of this world of imagination I live in, sometimes fragile as glass, sometimes as hard as steel. And I welcome you into it. May you enjoy yourself here. Entangle yourself in the silk-spun threads of words, allow them to wrap you up entirely, until you're snuggled warm and safe in the tale's cocoon. It's bedtime. Would you like to hear a story?
Once upon a time.
Welcome one and all to my blog of stories.
What do you expect from this blog? Well, if you haven't been paying much attention, I'll just say it again. Stories. Tales. Some I make up myself, some told to me when I was young, some from long-forgotten memories, lying deep in the depths of my mind, only to float up again when something pulls it to the surface. Some stories are true, some are not. Some want to be true, some are made to sound like the truth, when it is nothing but a pack of lies. Some may be surreal, others fairy-like. Some may have morals, some may just be made for a laugh. Whatever the cause, whatever the reason, these stories are made for only one reason.
To be read.
So here I am, master storyteller of this world of imagination I live in, sometimes fragile as glass, sometimes as hard as steel. And I welcome you into it. May you enjoy yourself here. Entangle yourself in the silk-spun threads of words, allow them to wrap you up entirely, until you're snuggled warm and safe in the tale's cocoon. It's bedtime. Would you like to hear a story?
Once upon a time.
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