View Full Version : Fairy Tale (Unfinished)

11-29-2009, 08:59 PM
This is unfinished as I said and I haven't looked it all over so it's gonna be kinda rough, I just felt like posting it. Anyway, tell me what you think.


Peter sat slumped over his wooden desk; head resting on his hands folded one over the other on the cold, hard surface. He was managing to keep his eyes open, but was still very near to dozing off. The boy felt the hard wrap of a wooden ruler upon the back of his hand. Jerking alert and upright he looked up at the woman before him dressed in black and white robes, a dark hood obscuring all parts of her head except her crude old face.

“Sit up straight and keep your eyes to your books, you ungrateful boy!” barked the nasty woman, the wrinkles of her skin becoming more and more creased in disgust.

“Yes, Sister Mary Anne,” replied Peter, after unwillingly situating his back flat against the hard wooden chair, his spine already beginning to feel sore. The old nun walked away, surveying the rest of the classroom more like a military sergeant than a teacher of young children.

The boy did not want to be there, that was certain. As he was of nine years of age, Peter had been attending Catholic School since he was only three; always being told to sit up straight and to stop his pointless daydreaming. He could not even begin to count the number of welts his poor hands and fingers had received from that damned wooden stick, but never the less, he was stuck there; forced to stare at a dreadfully boring book containing no pictures of any kind. Nothing like the colorful ones he would read by the candlelight of his room that told such wondrous tales of far off worlds bathed in fantasy. His father, of course, disapproved of reading such material, but Peter had never been able to comprehend why he must live his life in such a monotonous fashion.

The boy looked back into his book, but something had changed and he could tell something peculiar was happening, because instead of the text telling of how one should worship the Lord, the letters began to bump and scurry about as if alive. Peter merely sat still, eyes wide so as not to attract the attention of Sister Mary Anne while the letters began arranging themselves into words.

The boy watched as an “F” placed itself on the far left of the page followed by two “Os,” an “L,” an “I,” an “S,” and a lazy “H.”

Why I do believe the letters have spelt out FOOLISH, thought Peter to himself. He then noticed that the remaining letters were beginning to spell out another word. “Truths.”

How odd, remarked the boy soundlessly; for all down the page the letters were organizing themselves to repeat the phrase.

“Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths.
Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths.”

And so on and so forth so that even when Peter turned the pages there were still only those two words repeating over and over again.

Foolish Truths, cited Peter in his mind, contemplating the two words, but no matter how hard he thought, he could not understand what could possibly be meant by the phrase. It simply does not make sense, he thought in frustration. How can truth be foolish? Truth does not have personality. Truth is not a man. Truth is . . . actually I’m not sure what truth even is. And then Peter became very frightened for he thought that Satan must be sending him evil signs.

To his relief the school bell rang and Sister Mary Anne dismissed the classroom to lunch. Peter stood up slowly and closed the book, trying to rid the incident from his mind, or at least fold it up and tuck it away. He wandered down the small, bustling hallway full of excited children to the bathroom at the end where he crept inside.

No one else was inside at that time to Peter’s enjoyment, for he was not a very sociable boy, even at age nine. Everyone around him appeared but a blur. He wandered over to the old metal sink in the corner of the room and put his hands on both sides of the rusted bowl, hanging his head down. The sink had not worked for years, but it mattered not to him. Old things were more interesting to the boy than newer and he liked the smooth and beautiful Victorian style the sink displayed. The way the metal was carved to look like a plant, with the perfectly oval bowl sprouting from three parted leaves and the graceful curve of the sink head rising high and arching back down like a stem. The handles resembled leaves as well, where they folded inwards like a tent to create round bulbs that one would turn for both temperatures of water. It wore a very ugly brownish orange color caused from the accumulation of rust over many years, but underneath it was cloaked in brilliant silver. The sink was once elegant, but now it sat in its lonely bathroom corner, dejected and humiliated.

While leaning over the bowl Peter heard a light snap followed by the ‘tink’ of metal against metal. Glancing down he saw the tiny gold cross than once hung around his neck quickly slide down the contours of the bowl and slip into the dark circle drain.

“Oh dear!” Peter said out loud, now certain that Satan was up to something. If he did not retrieve the pendant, Sister Mary Anne would surely paddle him until his bottom bruises. After all, they had been told to have it with them at all times to avoid being tempted by sinful thoughts or worse yet, possessed. Worried and breathing heavily, he tried in vain to peer down the sink, but was only met with blackness.

Why does the Devil want me? thought Peter. There are much more sinful people than I, even in this very school. Why does the Devil not want one of them? He stood still for a number of seconds waiting for any more signs of Satan that might be about, but since none presented themselves he looked down the drain once again. I simply must TRY and get it back, there’s no sense in not trying. So Peter slid his finger into the dark drain.

However when he attempted to pull it back out, he found to his horror that his finger was stuck, and would not budge. Quickly the room became much warmer and a funny feeling started to come over young Peter. He felt himself being drawn towards the hole in the sink, and his feet were lifting off the floor, like he was weightless. The sink slowly became much larger to where Peter could stand in the bowl, and the room kept growing hotter and hotter. Then the boy realized that it was not the sink that was enlarging itself, but that his body was shrinking.

Poor Peter tried to scream, but his mouth felt dry from the heat and he very much wished for some cold water, but the force pulling him towards the drain soon sucked the young boy straight down into the blackness. Peter felt that at any moment he would be surrounded by fire in Hell and have to gaze upon that dark throne where his sins would be fully punished. Why me. He asked himself.

But when he felt solid ground underneath his feet once more, it was not hard like rock, but soft and inviting. And when he looked around he did not see himself encompassed by jagged red rocks peeking up from a river of fire, but a lovely green wood with large, ancient trees that grew so close together that their branches entangled with one another, forming a leafy ceiling above the boy’s head. The leaves, being so close together and so thick, obscured the sky so that only small rays of bright sunshine peeked in through the canvas of thick leaves, creating a very calm green and golden haze about the entire wood.

“Curious,” said Peter as he looked about. He was standing on thick green grass and the soil was cushioning his feet underneath. The trees all around him grew in odd fashions, curling and twisting their thick trunks about, up into the sky. Very knobby and old, Peter immediately liked them. The forest was warm and moist, but not quite warm enough to feel uncomfortable.

This certainly does not feel like the Devil’s doing, thought Peter. Shifting his weight, he felt something hard underneath his foot and as he stepped aside he found the small golden cross, glinting in a bit of sun. The boy reached down to pick it up, looking at it intently between two fingers. “It’s only a chunk of metal,” Peter remarked and let it fall from his hand back down into the grass below him, but he found when he went to walk away, he could only think about picking the pendant up off the ground and storing it in his pocket. Peter turned and looked back at the small, shining gold cross lying peacefully in the grass. “But what if I am to lose it again?” he asked himself. “I always lose important things so this time I will just simply leave it here and come back to get it when I find my way out of this place.” And he took out a wooden pencil and placed it in between the roots of one of the trees so that he could see it sticking up when he walked away. As he did so the boy made note of what the tree looked like, just to make sure he would be able to find it once again and avoid being paddled.

After walking for a number of minutes, enjoying the quiet tranquility of the wood, Peter noticed a small dirt path in front of him and walking up to it, found that it winded and disappeared into the trees in both directions. “I might as well follow it,” said Peter. “A path must always lead somewhere.” And so he set off to his left, wandering slowly down the odd road. After a bit of walking the boy noticed something ahead of him. An animal of some kind, and he quickly darted off behind a tree for fear the beast might not be friendly, but as the animal continued to walk toward him, Peter noticed that it was only a mouse. But not an ordinary mouse, a rather large mouse, three feet high, carrying a walking stick beside him and a thin scarf wrapped around his furry neck. Having never seen any mouse of the sort Peter cautiously stepped out from behind his tree into the path of the mouse.

The mouse let out a tiny screech and jumped backwards, being startled by the boy’s sudden appearance.

“Ey boy, it’s not polite to sneak about off the path and startle little creatures such as meself. You’ll stop my poor heart,” said the mouse, furrowing his brow and giving his walking stick a shake at Peter. The boy, having never heard a mouse speak was startled himself, but figured it would be quite rude to not say anything back.

“My apologies mouse, I did not mean to frighten you. I am . . . new to this place,” said the boy. The mouse looked at him and twitted his large ears. “Speaking of such matters, where is here?”

“Where’s where?” asked the mouse in reply.

“Here. This place, where is it?”

“This is the wood foolish boy, can you not tell what a wood is for yourself?” said the mouse raising a furry eyebrow.

“Yes I know we are in a wood,” said Peter. “I mean what is it named?”

“Named? Why would the wood be named? Seems such a foolish thing to do.” Peter was beginning to get very confused by his nonsense.

“Why would that be foolish? Everything has a name,” said Peter.

“Every creature has a name, yes. I have a name, you must have a name, but why would someone give a single name to the wood? There are many apart of the
wood who will call it what they wish. We could not simply give it one name that we all be pleased with. The wood can be named whatever you wish it to be named boy, we just decide to refer to it as the definition,” said the mouse twitting his ears again and looking up at Peter.

“Oh yes, I understand,” said Peter, not really understanding at all.

“I must be on my way now,” said the mouse after a few brief seconds of silence. “Please refrain from startling anyone else on your own boy.”

“Oh yes, I will Mr. Mouse,” said Peter as the mouse shook his whiskers and continued down the path, walking stick in hand. “Could you tell me what I will find farther down this road?” asked Peter. The mouse stopped and turned.

“Further down,” he scratched his chin, “you will find the home of Mrs. Muriel and Mr. Gilbert. Married folk, quite kind beings.”

“Oh, thank you then,” said Peter. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” replied the mouse with a quick wave as they both went their separate ways down the dirt path.

Peter continued to walk until he came to a small round cottage built of stones and plaster. Small shrubs had been planted at the front of the house and he could smell the sweet aroma emanating through the windows as he approached. It was then when Peter realized just how hungry he was and the scent was very enticing to an empty stomach. The boy crept up to the small wooden door and gave it a couple knocks.

The door swung open to reveal an old white sheep, standing on its hind legs, wearing a pair of rounded spectacles.

“Hello my dear,” spoke an old, motherly voice. “What are you doing out there all by your lonesome?”

“I don’t mean to intrude,” said Peter politely. “But it has been quite a while since I have last had something to eat and whatever it is that you are cooking smells rather tasty. I was wondering whether you could spare a bit for myself?”

The sheep blinked her beady black eyes behind the spectacles and smiled.

“Oh yes, yes, of course my dear, there’s plenty to go around. Please, come inside and have a seat.”

“Thank you very much ma’am.” The boy hunched over to fit through the small door frame and took a seat at a miniature table against the wall in the back of the room. The entire cottage was engulfed in delightful auras of food and home and even though Peter was a bit large for it, he still enjoyed the quaint little house. “My name is Peter.”

“Hello dear Peter, you may call me Mrs. Muriel,” said the white sheep, turning to her stove where a thick soup was boiling.

“Oh yes, a mouse told me of you and your husband,” said Peter.

“Mouse?” she asked questioningly. “Oh! Of course, that would be Eustace then. Carried a walking stick, yes? He said something to us about going to visit his daughter, on the East side of the Wood.”

“Yes, that was him.”

“Of course, of course.” The sheep then peered out the window and called “Dear, supper is almost ready!” Peter turned and glanced out the window as well, spotting an old goat working in a neat little garden, using a hoe to uplift the dark soil.

“Yes, I will be in in just a moment!” the goat called back. Mrs. Muriel poured a large spoonful of the hot soup into a bowl and set it on the table for Peter. The boy sat with his hands in his lap, knowing it was only good manners to not start a meal until every member of the party has arrived. Soon, a door in the back opened to reveal the scruffy grey goat known as Mr. Gilbert.

Squinting his tiny eyes against the steam rising from the stove, the goat sniffed at the air and said. “

“Mmm, smells rather good dear.”

“Thank you, I know you’ll like tonight’s meal.” The sheep replied, then turned to Peter. “We have a guest today, this is Peter, Peter this is my husband, Mr. Gilbert.”

“Pleased to meet you Sir,” said Peter, shaking hands with the goat, which was a bit strange because Mr. Gilbert wore hooves instead of hands and one cannot grasp a hoof as easily as a hand. They don’t fit together so easily you see. The goat took a seat across from Peter and was soon served his own bowl of soup. Finally, Mrs. Muriel came to sit down and everyone soon started to enjoy the food.

Peter thought the soup was simply delicious. He did not know what went into it, but it didn’t matter to him. It was a creamy broth with a number of fresh vegetables thrown in, but still had a sweet flavor that was like nothing he had ever tasted before and he felt very content as he sat quietly and ate.

“What did you do to that garden of ours today, dear?” asked the sheep. You spend more time out there than you do in the house; you’re always out in that garden.”

“I was plantin’ the carrots and beets again. Seems you used the last of ’em on this meal, but they are delicious, either way. If I wasn’ out there all the time you’d have no delicious carrots or beets for the soup,” replied Mr. Gilbert, holding up his own spoonful of soup.

“Yes, I supposed that is true. I only figured you could use a bit of a rest every now and then.”

“Aw hell Muriel, I don’ need any rest from now until I die. Life’s tickin’ away and I’m not gonna’ spend what I got left in bed.”

The white sheep smiled.

“Yes dear, we all know this,” she said with a quiet laugh before gulping down another spoonful of soup. Peter merely sat still through the conversation while enjoying his own. “Did Eustace tell you he would be going away for a few days, to visit his daughter?” asked Mrs. Muriel. The goat reached up and scratched the top of his head with his split hoof as though trying to remember.

“Oh yeah, yeah, he told me alright,” said the goat.

“Such a sweet one, his daughter,” continued Mrs. Muriel. “Little Annabelle. It’s a shame she did not stay on this side of the wood. The only young one left around here is that tramp of a squirrel.” Peter caught a brief note of anger as she finished the sentence; the sheep’s small beady eyes narrowing behind her spectacles for a hint of a second, her own black hoof digging into the wood of the table.

“Yes dear, we all know how you feel about her,” muttered the goat.

“Ridiculous,” said the white sheep almost to herself, her hoof placed hard and flat against the table. “The way she sells herself to all those filthy creatures without seconds thought. Peter definitely noticed the fierce pricks of anger in her voice as she muttered out the last sentences, but he and Mr. Gilbert only continued to eat their meal and act as though nothing was the matter.

The meal finished soon afterward with a bit more conversation on Peter’s behalf, where he thanked the couple and went about his way. Continuing down the path for a number of minutes Peter noticed a distinctly colored bird sitting upon a branch in one of the old trees. As he approached the bird to ask where he should go next, the boy noticed that the bird was indeed a toucan, with a very large orange bill and a bright yellow breast.

“Hello there,” said Peter. The toucan turned to look down at him with glassy black eyes. “I was curious as to whether you could tell me where this path might lead next?”

“The path loves the wood.
No matter which way you choose.
You will still be here.”

Said the toucan quite plainly.

“Pardon me?” asked Peter, rather puzzled by the strange bird’s response.

“You stupid creature.
You will only find the wood.
You will not leave here.”

“You are an odd bird, “said Peter, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you speak in such a funny matter?”

“My strange persona.
Is only strange to you, boy.
You look quite silly”

The toucan blinked his rather large eyes before continuing.

“I speak in Haiku.
The tongue is pleasing to me.
Your sounds are ugly.”

Peter frowned, as he was still confused by the bird’s speech, but to avoid being rude he spoke. “Well Sir Toucan, I must be on my way now, but I shall certainly say ‘Hello’ should we cross paths again.”

The toucan gave a nod of his large head to show he understood, then remained perched on his branch; still as a stone, staring off into the distance.

11-29-2009, 09:00 PM
“What a loony bird,” said Peter to himself when he was far enough away, so that he could no longer see nor hear the creature. The boy continued down the neat path, kicking up small clouds of dirt as he went about his way, staring down at his shoes. This is quite the rut I’ve gotten myself into now, thought Peter. Father will beat me if I’m late for supper tonight, I’m sure of it. And he started thinking of those horrible beatings and how much he hated them. He would’ve liked to check the time, but there were no clocks in sight, and he did not carry a watch.
Soon, the wood started to grow darker; the light and calming greens turning into deep, mysterious blues. Peter guessed that night was approaching considering the golden rays of sunlight that had poked through the leafy trees was now an eerie silver cast by the moon and it was giving the entire forest dark and menacing shadows. How odd. Thought Peter. It was the early morning when I arrived at school and now its feels like the dead of night. This world, if this really is a new world, must have a different time, but if it is nighttime here, who’s to say that a day in my world has not already passed, or a week, or a year? The boy stopped on the pathway and shivered, not because the air was particularly cold, but because he felt so alone and small and very much wished to be swept up in an inviting hug. He continued on, in hope that he may discover a house or some sort of shelter for him to sleep in.

Keeping his eyes open, he swiveled his head searching and searching for a place where he might spend the night, but all that was around was the same trees and their branches were much too high for him to climb to. Poor Peter wandered around for what seemed like hours, becoming very skittish in the night; flinching at every small gust of wind that pricked the hair on the back of his neck. Then suddenly, he heard a very different kind of prickle to his right, like the kind of prickle a twig makes when it snaps. The boy wheeled around to the direction of the noise.

“H - h - hello?” Peter stuttered out, trying to convince himself that he had heard nothing. The forest became perfectly still and silent and he stood listening intently to the dull thumping of his heart.

“Hello my dearrrrr.” Spoke a long, womanly voice from somewhere inside the darkness. Peter spun about in panic trying to decipher where the voice had come from, but could see nothing.

“W – w – who’s there?” the boy squeaked out, trembling.

“Oh you poor creatuuuuuure. You look so young and afraid,” said the voice.

“Who – who are you?” Peter asked again, now becoming a bit more curious than fearful, for whatever it was had such a nice voice, but his fears quickly returned when a huge and spindly black leg stepped out into the moonlit path. The young boy let out a shriek and took a few steps backwards as another leg followed, then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, making Peter wonder amidst his terror what kind of creature it actually was. His questions were soon answered when a horrible head, nearly as large as the boy himself, emerged from the shadows. Razor sharp scissor – like pincers were attached near the bottom for a mouth, but Peter was preoccupied, staring back at his own reflection coming from eight gleaming eyeballs, each one a smooth orb of black glass. The eyes of a giant spider. Peter opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out and when he tried to run, he could not lift his leg to even step, so he stood, paralyzed and shaking violently.

“My dearrrrrr,” said the spider. “There is no reason to fear me. The young are what I cherish mossssst.” The spider lifted its massive head to sniff the night air and called. “My chiiiildren, come down and say hello to our visitor.” And from the trees, down came 20 or 30 smaller spiders, each about a foot in diameter. A glint of light shone through the mother’s eye, what Peter decided was something not unlike fondness. If spiders could show such a thing.

Her younglings scurried about on the forest floor, each one clicking their pincers together so that the night was filled with hundreds of tiny clicks. Then all at once, they stopped, turned silently, looked up at their mother and said in unison: “Hungry, we are hungry mother.”

The huge spider spoke in her kind, drawn out voice: “I know my dearrrssss, I will find food for you soon and your little mouths shall be filllllled.” Peter began to back away from the large group, afraid that the gigantic mother would surely kill him and feed him to her young. Noticing this, the spider spoke directly to Peter.

“You need not worry about your own life young one; for you are fressssshhh and I could not kill you knowing you have a mother of your own who loves you as I do my own chiiiiildren.” Peter let out a breath and his muscles slowly relaxed. He didn’t find the huge spider quite so terrifying anymore.

Another voice spoke from behind the mother; a man’s voice, that was friendly and gentle.

“Dear wife,” said another large spider emerging from the forest. “Who, is that you have been speaking with for all this time?” Peter noticed that what must’ve been the mother’s husband was a good deal smaller than her, but still much larger than the younglings scrambling about him on the ground. His head turned and looked down at Peter. “Ah, a small boy I see,” said the spider. “Then you have met my lovely wife Isis, without which I feel this world should hold no purpose. And he snuggled himself in close to her. If spiders could do such a thing.

“Hungry, we are hungry mother,” spoke her children again in high, small voices. The mother gave a long sigh and then stood completely still, as though contemplating something, then, within’ a couple seconds the spider flicked her eight eyes towards her husband, pounced on top him, and sunk her long black fangs into his head, striking him dead. The young boy jumped back in a pang of horrified terror, the murder had been so quick and silent, if he had blinked, he would’ve missed it. The husband’s corpse became very stiff and cold and as its legs crumpled up underneath him, the dead spider fell over onto its back, now just another dark object in the night, its grey insides seeping out of the two gaping wounds.

“Eeeeaaaat my childreeeeen,” said the mother, and all her young scurried up to the huge corpse and began to engulf the thick entrails of their father. The monstrous creature turned to Peter. “I am sorry that you do not eat spider or I would let you indulge on my former husssssband. Is there anything else I can offer you young one?” Peter stood shaking in front of the terrible mother; knees knocking together as he held back tears of fear and when he spoke; his voice was coarse and scratchy, as his mouth had become very dry watching the spider’s children eating bits and pieces of their father’s dead corpse.

“A – a – actually I must be on my way now,” replied Peter, already backing away from the monster.

“Oh yes, of course, of coursssssse, you must have a mother of your own waiting for you to return home safely. Goodnight then young one.” The boy watched the mother turn away from him and stand over one of her children while it ate, a giant, hulking mass compared to the small child. She bent down and opened her jaws, parting both of her fangs so they formed an arc over the small spider. Peter took in a sharp breath, knowing the monster was about to devour her small child, but instead she leaned father down to kiss her child on its little head. If spiders could do such a thing.

Still very much afraid of the giant spider, Peter quickly ran away down the path, not noticing that there was a sharp curve and soon he was off and into the wood, running faster and farther. He didn’t know why he was running, his legs just kept moving. He didn’t know where he was going or if he even wanted to be going anywhere, but he kept running. Like running fast enough would bring him back home in his mother’s arms, but all he found as he kept running were trees. The same gnarled old trees, and when his lungs ran out of air and his legs were ready fall from his body and drop to the ground, the boy stopped, panting hard and chest heaving. Peter felt detached from his own body, he had the urge to keep running still, but his body would not let him and he felt trapped, like his body was holding him back and it was now nothing more than a corpse. The boy fell to the grass, put his head in his arms, and began to cry. He had never felt so horrified and helpless. As tears ran down his smooth cheeks he thought of how the world he had arrived in had, at first, seemed a pleasant enough place, but now, it was dark, cruel, and scary. Peter could not seem to stop himself from crying and he then thought about his father and how he, of course, disapproved of crying.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” he would say. “You are a young man and no man shows just how weak he is by spilling his own tears.”

But Peter could only weep. Weep because he was afraid of the other horrors he may find in the wood. Weep because he was hopelessly lost. Weep because he had no idea how to get back home. Weep because, in this world, he was purely alone. The young boy’s tears soaked into the green grass below and he sat shivering in the night.

Suddenly, he heard another rustle in the trees and quickly pivoted his body to the sound; hugging himself tight with his small, frail body quivering in his arms, as he expected another horrible monster to spring upon him from the darkness and swallow him up.

Then, from behind a tree stepped out a lynx, about three times the size of a normal housecat with beautifully golden fur. It looked at the boy with equally striking cat eyes, shoulders rising and falling along with its silent steps as it approached. Tail calmly waving back and forth. Peter hunched back in fear that it would pounce and attack him, but when it arrived next to the boy, the animal simply sat down upon its haunches and blinked.

“Why are you crying so, little boy?” asked the lynx in a very sweet and feminine voice; her large ears giving a twitch. The boy looked at her quizzically, but said nothing. The cat’s tail swished back and forth. “Can you speak?” she asked again, but the boy remained silent. The lynx merely sat, breathing slowly, then blinked once more. “Well, whatever the problem is, I’m sure things will work themselves out and you will be at peace again.” And the golden lynx turned to leave.

“I’m crying because I’m afraid,” said Peter. The lynx turned again and sat back down, facing the boy.

“What is it that you are afraid of?” asked the lynx.

“I’m afraid because I’m lost,” replied Peter. “I don’t know where I am now and I don’t know where to go or where I should be going next.” The boy put his head back in his arms.

“Well why should you be going anywhere?” asked the lynx. “You are alive, you are young, you have nowhere to be. You can start going somewhere in particular, but more likely than not, your ambitions will change.”

“Yes … that’s true I suppose,” said Peter.

“You are living; therefore you are already going somewhere. You are progressing through life, where the only end is death, why does it matter how you get there?” said the lynx.

(20000 Character Limit)

12-21-2009, 12:46 PM
does anyone know of any good fairy tale retellings? ive read beauty by robin mckinley and beastthe authors name escapes me as well as two different versions of east of the sun, west of the moon and for the most part i enjoyed all four of them

02-17-2010, 12:43 AM
In my opinion, Ella Enchanted is better and Cinderella was my favorite fairy tale when I was little.

03-17-2010, 04:48 PM
That was truly amazing writing! I could write like that but I do not have time... I simply write poetry. :)
In the end you could but, The young boy's water of sadness faded away slowly as he stared at the lynx and a smile found itself on his face...

P.S.Uhh... This is not a discussion thread... Go somewhere else...