Well, it’s that time of year again. I’m working on my annual Solstice novella, which means I’ve got no time for stories! So, here are some little Easter eggs and fun. This week I’ll post a bit of a novel I’m working on which is inspired by Snow White.
“Once upon a time, the world was a lawless place. Beautiful people nursed evil in their hearts, and ugly children grew into ugly adults, no matter how pure of heart they were. Little girls who wished upon a star might never find true love, and a peasant born would a peasant remain, from birth until their inconspicuous death. A person might have said, “Life’s not fair,” and meant it; or “There’s no such thing as magic,” and they would have spoken true. The people, curled up in their cold houses at night, told fairy tales to while the time away, dreaming of better lives they would never have.
“Until one day, the Godmothers came. No one knows from where they appeared, and no one knows when they might go, leaving us alone, again, in an unfair world. The fairies brought with them the stories we had always told; magic to turn a peasant into a princess, true love’s kiss, evil witches and coal-red shoes.”
“Which princess will I be?”
“You’re already a princess, heartling. You just have to be make sure you don’t grow up to be an eeeeeevil Queen. You must be pure of heart, because dark thoughts fester and breed darkness. Let me see, is your heart pure?” She buried her face against her daughter’s chest, tickling her, and the small child shrieked and laughed.
“You can’t see it, mama! It’s inside!” she defended, trying to burrow under the blankets. Her mother tucked her up, trapping her in soft wool as she giggled and squirmed.
“And inside it shall remain,” her mother promised, and kissed her forehead, as if in parting.
“I’m not tired yet, mama, not at all. I want to hear a story.”
“We don’t tell stories, sweetheart, we live them,” she chided. But then she softened, seeing the plaintive look in her daughter’s eyes. “Of course, I could tell you again about your aunt, in Milasea far to the north, whose husband rescued her from the dragon. Or I could tell you one more time about your father’s brother, wandering lost in the desert for ten years before reuniting with his one true love!”
“Mama?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Why are all the stories sad in the middle part?”
“Well – because, that’s how you get a happily ever after.”
“I don’t think I want one,” her daughter said. In her small dark eyes were thoughts too big for such a little face; understanding just dawning, still raw and untested. Her mother bent and kissed her forehead, knowing she was supposed to say how wonderful it was to be a hero, how love was worth any challenge. Stories weren’t things anyone was taught to protect themselves from.
“Your life doesn’t have to be a story, Elodie,” her mother whispered instead. “I won’t let anything hurt you.”