These are going to be essentially unedited and typed straight in off my phone. I don’t have time to write full on novels so just fables and fairytales for now. Comments and edits v welcome
The Beginning
ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a prisoner in a tower.
The tower was old and crumbling, but still quite strong. The prisoner was a woman, beautiful, and still quite young. Her hair fell in long black locs and her eyes were ink-dark and full of secrets.
The woman was the stepmother of the king. After the old king had died, the advisors of the newly crowned prince had ordered her arrest; for the old king had died untimely of a strange sickness, and her hand was suspected in it. The woman had said nothing as she was taken away.
The new king had not yet been crowned. The woman who had once been a queen sat in a narrow slice of moonlight that glimmered on the cold stones of her cell. She smiled at nothing.
When the key turned and the door opened, it was the chief counsellor of the young king who entered. He had on a new, purple hat, and he wore a key on a silver chain about his neck.
“Hello, Ezekiel,” said the once-Queen. “Come tell me my fate.”
He stopped a chain-length from her, although she was not chained, and peered into her face as though he could pare the secrets from her eyes.
“You have been judged to be a witch,” he said finally, a crease between his fine brows, “and are to be burned.”
“Ah,” said the woman. Her lips moved in what might have been a smile or a grimace or a murmured, voiceless prayer.
Silence brimmed in the cell. The woman seemed lost in thought. The man considered her. His fingers crept into his pocket.
“There is a law in this country,” the once-Queen said contemplatively, “that forbids the destruction of books, of stories, of all written records.”
The man nodded. Sometimes he forgot that she was not originally from these lands. Others had not.
“Then I may not be burned,” she concluded. She slipped her robe off her shoulder to reveal lines of curling runes, etched into her brown skin. The ink travelled in exquisite loops around her collarbone and out of view across her heart.
“You may not,” agreed the man. His eyes narrowed, but he did not move nearer or try to read the writing which crept across the Queen.
“But you may still be killed,” he added. “These words will not die with you. They can be cut from you, freed from your witchery. Locked in a library instead of a cell.”
“But this is only half the story,” she breathed, laying a hand over her heart. “The rest is here. In my heart, in my brain; to be told only by my lips and tongue, and that requires me to live.”
“A story untold is but a dream,” the man replied, “and there are no laws for unspoken dreams.”
“Then I shall write it for you,” the Queen offered, “I shall write the end of the story, that begins with my little finger, and ends in this cell.”
He took the book out of his pocket as though he had been expecting it; a quill, a pen-knife; a pot of ink that was not-quite as dark as her eyes.
She did not uncork the pot. Instead, the almost-Queen eased the knife over the delicate skin on the back of her wrist, careful not to mar any of the runes, and dipped her quill.
She began to write:
ONCE UPON A TIME...
Storytime with Sil
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Arien
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cave anserem
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Bard of Imladris
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I am forever amazed by how much typing you manage to do on your phone. I would have died of frustration 500 posts ago. 
But anyways, I love this device in stories and fairy tales, where the telling of a tale is what saves the day. I read Ray Bradbury's The Illustrated Man not that long ago and the tattoos made me think of it. "They can be cut from you," lends the whole thing a shot of potential horror. Looking forward to more!
But anyways, I love this device in stories and fairy tales, where the telling of a tale is what saves the day. I read Ray Bradbury's The Illustrated Man not that long ago and the tattoos made me think of it. "They can be cut from you," lends the whole thing a shot of potential horror. Looking forward to more!
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Black Númenórean
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Ditto what Linny said about your writing on mobile. It is lovely.
This story reminded me of the tale of Scheherazade (who I know best by the classical suite inspired by her). Whether you continue her tale or write more, I hope we get to read more from you soon!
This story reminded me of the tale of Scheherazade (who I know best by the classical suite inspired by her). Whether you continue her tale or write more, I hope we get to read more from you soon!
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.
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Thain of The Mark
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Oooh, I've been meaning to get to this since you posted it and have finally remembered.
I also loved the "they can be cut from you" bit and as a whole, the worldbuilding potential in this is intriguing. I definitely want to know more about her story, and why it's so important it be told!
I also loved the "they can be cut from you" bit and as a whole, the worldbuilding potential in this is intriguing. I definitely want to know more about her story, and why it's so important it be told!
Last edited by Taethowen on Wed Sep 30, 2020 11:05 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Loremaster of the Herd
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Thanks to Taeth for bumping this thread so I got to read this excellent little story. I absolutely love the voice of the fairy-tale or fable, especially written quickly like this on mobile.
In the deeps of Time, amidst the Innumerable Stars
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Arien
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so I forgot all about this *ahem*
Yes, the fact that I do everything on mobile is definitely holding me back. Maybe one day I’ll actually have the time to sit down at a computer again outside of work but currently most of my writing and posting is done one-handed on mobile whilst keeping an eye on the Goblin-child... Anyway, thank you all frens
and I will type up and post some more fairy-story ASAP
Yes, the fact that I do everything on mobile is definitely holding me back. Maybe one day I’ll actually have the time to sit down at a computer again outside of work but currently most of my writing and posting is done one-handed on mobile whilst keeping an eye on the Goblin-child... Anyway, thank you all frens
and I will type up and post some more fairy-story ASAPcave anserem
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Arien
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ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a monster who lived in a castle. The castle was on a richly forested hill, with a river that ran through it; and at the bottom of the river there was a valley, and in the valley there was a village.
It was only a village, but a prosperous one - almost on the cusp of being a town, except that whilst people often visited, they did not often stay. Perhaps this was because of the monster.
The monster did not trouble the people of the village. There was a known rule about the monster. He was wealthy, and generous, and hosted travellers with every nuance of hospitality, and he gave great and terrible gifts to his courtiers: for a price.
None of the villagers ever took up this offer. They remained in their villages and grew fat and wealthy themselves on the trade from the merchants, travellers and seekers of fortune who did come to beard the monster in his castle, and ask of him a gift.
The ones who came were always brave, and sometimes foolhardy, and occasionally desperate. Every time, the villagers would seek the adventurer out in the inn, and buy them ale, and swap stories about what they might ask for: and what they might have to pay in return.
The last merchant who had come back had told them no tales at all. He had opened his satchel, and shown them a marvellous device which the monster had given him: a cunningly crafted clock; but as each hour chimed, the clock unfolded like a flower, and emitted a scent: for the morning, fresh dew and grass scents melted into new-baked bread; for the afternoon, it was sweet hot tea and just-ripe fruits; the evening was smoky and caramel-brandy and sandalwood.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” sighed the innkeeper’s daughter, lovingly tracing the carvings with a calloused fingertip. “What did he ask of you?”
The merchant smiled sadly and opened his mouth as if to answer, but he did not. The stump of his tongue wagged at the girl and she drew back, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Oh,” she said; “oh...” and poured him an extra-generous measure of rum.
Some tried to fool the monster. After all, he was only a monster; and they were men, and merchants at that: the finest tradesmen and hagglers, who could negotiate the hindquarters from donkeys. “They say he always wants flesh,” confided a fat man to the same innkeeper’s daughter, “and you may say I have plenty of it!”
He slapped his belly and laughed heartily, so that the mound jiggled.
“But I don’t intend to sacrifice any of my cushioning to that monster! Instead I have these!”
He drew fat links upon links of sausages from a greased paper bag and thumped them, unhygienically, on the table. The innkeeper’s daughter mentally weighed them. At least twenty percent sawdust and herbs, she judged.
“The creature’s half-blind and crazed,” the merchant continued, confidentially. “He wants meat? Ha! I’ll stick these fingers of mine out for him, and take the prize too!”
It was only a village, but a prosperous one - almost on the cusp of being a town, except that whilst people often visited, they did not often stay. Perhaps this was because of the monster.
The monster did not trouble the people of the village. There was a known rule about the monster. He was wealthy, and generous, and hosted travellers with every nuance of hospitality, and he gave great and terrible gifts to his courtiers: for a price.
None of the villagers ever took up this offer. They remained in their villages and grew fat and wealthy themselves on the trade from the merchants, travellers and seekers of fortune who did come to beard the monster in his castle, and ask of him a gift.
The ones who came were always brave, and sometimes foolhardy, and occasionally desperate. Every time, the villagers would seek the adventurer out in the inn, and buy them ale, and swap stories about what they might ask for: and what they might have to pay in return.
The last merchant who had come back had told them no tales at all. He had opened his satchel, and shown them a marvellous device which the monster had given him: a cunningly crafted clock; but as each hour chimed, the clock unfolded like a flower, and emitted a scent: for the morning, fresh dew and grass scents melted into new-baked bread; for the afternoon, it was sweet hot tea and just-ripe fruits; the evening was smoky and caramel-brandy and sandalwood.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” sighed the innkeeper’s daughter, lovingly tracing the carvings with a calloused fingertip. “What did he ask of you?”
The merchant smiled sadly and opened his mouth as if to answer, but he did not. The stump of his tongue wagged at the girl and she drew back, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Oh,” she said; “oh...” and poured him an extra-generous measure of rum.
Some tried to fool the monster. After all, he was only a monster; and they were men, and merchants at that: the finest tradesmen and hagglers, who could negotiate the hindquarters from donkeys. “They say he always wants flesh,” confided a fat man to the same innkeeper’s daughter, “and you may say I have plenty of it!”
He slapped his belly and laughed heartily, so that the mound jiggled.
“But I don’t intend to sacrifice any of my cushioning to that monster! Instead I have these!”
He drew fat links upon links of sausages from a greased paper bag and thumped them, unhygienically, on the table. The innkeeper’s daughter mentally weighed them. At least twenty percent sawdust and herbs, she judged.
“The creature’s half-blind and crazed,” the merchant continued, confidentially. “He wants meat? Ha! I’ll stick these fingers of mine out for him, and take the prize too!”
cave anserem
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Balrog
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This is some insanely good mobile posting Sil! Hell, it's good however it gets here.
I'm deeply invested in this Grimm's Fairytale style story telling. It's engaging with its overabundance of details here and complete dearth of details there, with buried ledes here and vibrant characters there.
I'm gonna need a book of Sil' Fairytales to read to my children someday.
I'm deeply invested in this Grimm's Fairytale style story telling. It's engaging with its overabundance of details here and complete dearth of details there, with buried ledes here and vibrant characters there.
I'm gonna need a book of Sil' Fairytales to read to my children someday.
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
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Arien
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Fairytales For Frostdottirs lol
cave anserem
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New Soul
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Oooh @Sil I see potential in personalised titles here! :D
She/her.
Solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant
Solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant
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Thain of The Mark
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This isn't finished, right? You're going to give us more? Because that's an awful cliffhanger. I also am in awe of your mobile posting skills. I have done some lengthy ones myself, but only out of necessity, not as the norm.
I will say, though, that personally that clock seems like a bit of a ripoff in exchange for a tongue.
I will say, though, that personally that clock seems like a bit of a ripoff in exchange for a tongue.
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Balrog
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Why, darling, have you not updated this thread and given us more fairytales in nearly two years? Have we displeased you in some way and this is to be our punishment?
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
