Week 12 Storytelling: Riddle Me This

On my way back from town, I met my neighbor Tom as he was tending his field of wheat.

"How as your journey?" he asked with sweat running down his forehead. I myself was perspiring quite a bit as I had traveled far on this unusually hot day.

"It was long and tiring," I confessed, "and rather peculiar as well."

"Peculiar how?" Tom asked intrigued.

"As I was going to St. Ives I met a man with seven wives," I explained.

Harbor in St. Ives, Cornwall
(Geof Sheppard)

"Seven wives? Why, that's an ungodly amount. Not just in the holy sense, but what man would want to have seven wives to provide for and listen to?" Tom joked.

"It gets even stranger," I told him. "Each wife had seven sacks. Each sack had seven cats. Each cat had seven kits."

"Kits, cats, sacks, wives. This must have been the oddest procession. How did each woman carry seven sacks, each with seven cats in it and each of their seven kits? That seems quite impossible," Tom exclaimed.

"Yes, it was the oddest sight, indeed. The cats and kits were all rather small actually, much smaller than your average cat and kitten. I suppose that helped some. There were bags hanging all over these women, though. It was like they were pack mules, all trailing one another as if in some strange parade."

"This will make a good story to tell the other folk in the village," Tom said shaking his head.

"Oh, I intend to," I told him. "In fact, I'm going to make a riddle out of it. Let's see if you can figure it out."

"Let's see if we can all figure it out," Tom replied, climbing over his fence. We headed into the heart of the village and gathered everyone together to hear my ingenious riddle. Once everyone was settled and quite, I began.

"As I was going to St. Ives I met a man with seven wives. Each wife had seven sacks. Each sack had seven cats. Each cat had seven kits. Kits, cats, sacks, wives. How many were there going to St. Ives?"

There was silence while everyone pondered the question on their own, but soon they were working as a group trying to solve it.

"Well seven cats in a bag with seven kits each makes 49 right?" one man asked.

"No, you dolt," his wife scolded him. "There are 49 kits plus the 7 cats which makes 56 in one sack."

"If there are 7 sacks of 56 on a wife... what's 56 times 7?" the baker wondered.

"392," answered his boy, who he'd sent to university through his hard labor.

"If that's how many are on each of the 7 wives... what's 392 time 7?" the butcher chimed in. It took the boy a little while longer to come up with the sum this time.

"2744," he finally answered. "Plus the 7 wives makes 2751!"

"That's wrong," I said, shaking my head.

"You forgot the man!" someone said. "It's 2752!"

"That's still incorrect," I informed them smugly, enjoying my little game. They started through the whole problem again, this one yelling at that one for not counting right. I thought the whole village would get into a row if I didn't stop them and give them the answer.

"Alright, alright!" I called over the roar of the crowd, bringing them back to attention. "I'll tell you the answer."

The silence was so deep you might have been able to hear the feet of the man and his wives somewhere far down the road.

"The answer is one," I said, very satisfied with myself that I had tricked them all. "I was the one going to St. Ives. I met them on the road but they were going to other direction." The whole crowd laughed at how silly they had been and then began to ask questions about the man and all his wives and cats. Every time someone from my village met someone not from the village, they would tell them the St. Ives riddle. It was of the most well-known riddles, but very few get the answer right on the first try.

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Author's Note: This story is built around the riddle As I Was Going to St. Ives from the Nursery Rhyme Book edited by Andrew Lang (1897). The riddle the narrator tells in my story is the exact same as the riddle in the book. I just added a story around the riddle and gave the answer to the riddle because one isn't given in the book. There has always been a dispute, though, about what the "real" answer is. Some people count up only all the people, some include the cats, some even include the sacks for some odd reason. Personally, I think "one" is the right answer because many riddles try to distract you with extraneous information when the answer is actually really simple.

Week 11 Storytelling: A Dream Come True

By all appearances, it was just another beautiful spring day in Oklahoma. The sky was a brilliant blue, filled with large, puffy white clouds. A slight breeze blew from the south, welcomed respite from the building heat. I made my way along the familiar sidewalk path toward campus and my job with thoughts of homework and graduation heavy on my mind. It seemed like another ordinary day, but it was about to be the farthest thing from ordinary.

"Hey!" a voice called out, seeming to come from out of nowhere. I immediately looked up and scanned the area for the person trying to get someone's (my?) attention. At first I saw no one, but when I turned right I nearly ran into him.

"Um, me?" I stammered, quite confused. I'd never seen this guy before in my life and he was dressed rather strangely. Although it was a crisp 67 degrees outside, he wore a long black robe. He clearly wasn't from around here. I looked around to see if anyone else thought this guys was weird, but no one even glanced at him.

"You're Shelby Brown, aren't you?" he asked, calling my attention back to him.

"How do you know my name?" I responded, pretty shocked that this complete stranger knew who I was.

"Oh, we've known about you for a while now," he explained with a grin. I began to freak out a little bit internally. We? Who is this 'we?'

"What do you want?" I asked hesitantly. And why is everyone giving me the weird looks instead of you? I thought.

"It's pretty simply really: I want you to come with me," he said.

"Um, me? Where? Why?" I was dumbfounded. Who was this random guy coming up to me out of nowhere and asking me to go somewhere with him?

"Yes, you. To Hogwarts. Because you're a witch," he answered.

I burst out laughing.

"Oh, I get it," I said, relieved. "This is some kind of joke. I didn't realize today was April Fools Day! Who put you up to this? Was it my sister? Or Alex? They should have realized this wouldn't work because I'm way too old for Hogwarts."

"I do realize the date is not ideal for this sort of news but this is not a joke. Hogwarts has actually been expanding recently and has opened up a school for older students, those who wish to continue their magical education after 7th year as well as those who never got the chance to start their magical training at the standard age," he explained.

"Right," I said sarcastically, "that's a nice recovery, but I'm still not fooled. Why don't you show me some magic, then? I'll decide what you do in case this is more elaborate than I imagine and you've set something up already." I scanned the area for some inspiration and my eyes landed on a black car parked nearby.

"Turn that black car red," I challenged him. He sighed and shook his head, but took out a rather realistic looking wand and pointed it at the car.

"Clovaria." To my utter disbelief, the jet black frame gradually shifted to red as if blushing. I couldn't stop my jaw from dropping.

"Make that flower larger," I demanded, pointing to a small yellow dandelion.

"Engorgio," he said confidently. The flower, indeed, became three times its original size in only a few second. People walked past without even noticing the oversized dandelion or the man waving a wand around.

"Why isn't anyone else freaking out?" I asked him incredulously.

"Because only you can see me," he said a little exasperated with how difficult I was being. I would have protested this explanation before but now it seemed perfectly reasonable. "Now will you come with me? We need to get you all sorted out so you can start your first year in July."

I nodded my head vigorously but could not manage any words, still in disbelief that this was real life and not just some dream I would wake up from soon. He chuckled at my reaction and instructed me to follow him. Sitting on the ground about thirty feet away was a tattered old shoe I was certain at this point was the portkey that would take me to the place I had dreamed of for many years.

Hogwarts
(Wikipedia)

Author's Note: This story was inspired by Connla and the Fairy Maiden from the book Celtic Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs (1892). Connla is entreated to come to the paradise of the immortals by a fairy maiden that only he can see. His father enlists the help of a druid to try to vanquish the fairy, but she comes back and asks Connla again to come with her. This time he does not resist and agrees to go with her. They sail away and are never seen again, at least by anyone in the mortal realm.

I wanted to rewrite this story because I have often dreamed about someone coming along and introducing me to a magical world I never knew existed. This is very much like what happened to Harry Potter at the beginning of the series and I have loved these books since I was a child. Like everyone else, I had hoped that I would get a letter from Hogwarts so I could go study transfigurations and charms and magical creatures. This story is basically just wishful thinking or a crazy fantasy that I made into a full story. Another way I could have gone with this was meeting the Doctor and becoming one of his companions, but I thought the Wizarding World was more fitting since it's a magical realm where as Doctor Who takes place in reality just all over in time and space.

Week 10 Storytelling: For the Hand of the Lady

Once upon a time, there was a wealthy prince and princesses who had spent all their years being pampered in the palace. They realized how sheltered their lives had been and conspired to investigate what life was really like for common people. They dressed in plain clothes, dirtied themselves, hid their fine features, and set off for a region where they would not likely be recognized. This brought them to a county, many miles away, under the patronage of a wealthy lord. The lord of the county had a beautiful daughter of marrying age and was holding a contest to determine who should be her husband.

"On the morrow," he proclaimed to his subjects, "shall be held a contest of archery. Whoever succeeds in taking down the eagle, using no more than two arrows, shall wed my daughter."

The disguised prince turned to his sister for assistance. "I wish to participate in the contest tomorrow," he said, for he had seen how beautiful and virtuous the lord's daughter appeared. "Make me a bow and some arrows." The princess agreed and did the best she could with the materials she could find. It was certainly not the finest craftsmanship.

The following day, almost every bachelor in the region was present at the contest. The eagle was released and a flurry of arrows filled the sky, but none touched a feather upon its body. The prince, who was pretending to be lame in both legs, sat on the ground and let his first arrow fly after all others had missed. This one struck the eagle's wing and it landed in a tree many yards away. He shot the second arrow and it pierced the bird's heart. The lord was distressed that so lowly a person had won the hand of his daughter and concocted a new plan to have her wed someone else.

"This is just the first competition," the lord exclaimed. "There shall be a second and final task to decide the husband of my daughter. First, a man must catch a bluebird from the forest (a rare bird in those parts). If he does not catch one by sundown tomorrow, he cannot continue. Then, he must go to the mountains and catch another before morning the following day." This was truly a difficult task, one the lord believed the crippled peasant could not hope to complete.

Bluebird (Wikipedia)

While all the bachelors set of into the forest to find the elusive bluejay, the prince turned once again to his sister. "Make me two traps from whatever material we have and set them outside our door tonight." The princess did as she was bid, believing it all to be in vain.

However, the next morning they awoke to the sounds of chirping outside their window. Upon examination, there were, indeed, two bluejays caught within the traps. The princess delivered the birds to the lord and he was forced to concede his daughter's hand. She returned to their hut with the lord's daughter, who quickly attended to her husband's needs. Though beautiful and learned, she was also kindhearted and free of vanity so she was not distressed by her circumstances and sought to make the best of them. Upon recognizing this in his bride, the prince decided to end the ruse the following day.

"Return to your father tonight," he instructed, "and come back to tend to me tomorrow." 

The girl agreed and did as she was instructed, but she arrived the next day to find a curious scene in front of the hut. The prince and princess had bathed and donned their fine clothes once more. They waited for the lady beside a magnificent carriage with two pure white horses to draw it. The lady was hesitant to approach for she did not recognize neither her husband nor her sister-in-law. The prince stepped forward, took her hand, and kissed it gently.

"My lady," he addressed her, "forgive me for deceiving you. I am your husband, the same man you sat with all the previous day, but I am not a peasant. I am, in truth, the prince of this kingdom. I have been dazzled by your beauty, charm, grace, and kindness, and I wish to take you home with me to be my princess." When the lady expressed despair at having to be so far away from her father, whom she loved dearly, the prince showed her a golden path being constructed that would lead directly from the palace to her father's land. Satisfied, she joined the prince and his sister in the carriage to leave for the palace directly, where they lived out their days happily in each other's company.

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Author's Note: This story is based on the Native American tale "Dirt-Boy" from Tales of the North American Indians by Stith Thompson (1929). In the original tale, the Sun and his sister, Star, go down to earth disguised as an old woman and her crippled grandson in order to solve the matter of a chief's two daughters who were to marry but had refused all suitors. The chief decides to hold an archery contest to determine who shall be their husband. When the Sun (called Dirt-Boy by the villagers) wins, the chief announces another contest to catch two fishers (rare birds in the area) for the hands of his daughters. The Sun succeeds at this task as well and the chief is forced to give his daughters over to him. One of the daughters deserts her sister on the way to the boy's hut and marries a raven instead, believing this to be a better alternative than marrying Dirt-Boy. The other sister continues on and is a faithful wife. The Sun rewards her by showing her his true form, transforming his house and his wife, and creating a golden path from his great house to the house of his wife's father so that she may take it to see him often.

I changed this story to be more of a fairy tale, with the Sun and Star becoming a prince and princess. The chief and his daughters became a lord and one lady. I cut out the second sister to make sure the story wasn't too long. Because this is no longer a Native American tale, I also took out the characters of Coyote and Raven, who only played very small roles in the plot anyways.

Week 9 Storytelling: The Musician's Bride

Mary lived a double life. On the outside, she acted exactly as her parents wished. She never wore short skirts or jean shorts. All of her tops had sleeves and their necklines could never be described with the word "plunging." She never wore makeup and most of her wardrobe was pink. She was their perfect little girl-- on the outside, at least.

On the inside, Mary was an old soul. She dreamed of a life that was full of meaning and passion and, most importantly, close to nature. The closest things to natural beauty in Mary's neighborhood were the small, bright green lawns surrounding the suburban houses whose blades of grass were so chemically enhanced they looked fake. In fact, hardy anything in her life felt like it was real. All the trees were small and neatly trimmed so that they hardly rustled in a breeze less leaves fall off and tarnish the yard. Everything was held neatly in place, extensively polished, and always of the highest synthetic quality.

Creative free spirit
(Pixaby.com)

This included the music everyone listened to, the newest cookie-cutter pop hits. Mary dreamed of music that made you feel more than the desire to tap your foot. She dreamed of songs that touched your soul and inspired you to feel what they songwriter felt and think deeply. She dreamed of bare feet on real grass, bare skin in cool (non-chlorinated) water, and nights spent looking up at the stars without a care in the world. Mary dreamed of being free.

When her parents thought she was diligently studying, she was really in her room daydreaming. Mary imagined someone coming to save her and taking her somewhere she could live out her fantasies. Ideally, he would be a musician, a man who could express emotions through strings of notes and thoughtful lyrics. He would let her be who she wanted to be and accept whoever that was-- someone completely different from anyone she had ever met.

Mary loved her family and friends, but they just didn't understand her. They noticed her rather melancholy, dreamy disposition, but they assumed it was just a phase she would grow out of. They wanted her to marry as soon as possible after high school, hopefully being engaged before graduation to a young man from a respectable family and with a promising future-- maybe a future accountant or state senator. Mary, of course, would stay at home, taking care of the household and, eventually, the children. The thought of being trapped in such a life made her yearn even harder after the life she much preferred.

One evening in the summer, Mary didn't come down from her room when she was called to dinner. Upon finding her room vacant, her mother checked the whole house but could find no sign of her. In a panic, she rushed to the neighbor's house and asked if they had seen anything. Mr. Johnson appeared rather weary, and wouldn't look Mary's mother in the eye. Eventually, he told her what he had seen: a young boy in torn jeans and band t-shirt throwing rocks at Mary's window. When she opened it, he played her a song on his acoustic guitar while she watched avidly as if entranced. After the last note was played, they spoke only for a moment before Mary made her way down the side of the house using tied up bed sheets. The two of them raced into the boy's old red Camaro and took off down the road in a flash.

As Mary's distraught mother hurried back to her house to inform her husband and, no doubt, call the police, Mr. Johnson couldn't help thinking that he'd never seen Mary look happier than she did in the passenger seat of that poor musician's car.

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Author's Note: This story is based on a tale called The Fairy Bride from American Indian Fairy Tales by W.T. Larned, with illustrations by John Rae (1921). In "The Fairy Bride," a young girl named Neen-i-zu dreams of a land where there is no pain or suffering and everyone is happy all the time. She believes this land lies just beyond the trees of an enchanted forest that no one has ever entered, inhabited by little trickster creatures called Puk-Wudjies. She spends all day in her secret place, staring at the forest and internally begging the inhabitants of the other world (fairies) to admit her. Her mother, however, is concerned about her daughter's behavior and wishes that she would settle down and marry a local hunter. Distraught at being told she will wed this man she despises, she asks to be allowed to go to her secret place one last time on her wedding day, but she never returns. A man explains that he saw her being led into the forest by a fairy youth as if in a trance and she was never seen again.

As you can see, my story is quite different from the original. "The Musician's Bride" is set in modern times and is not about finding a magical paradise, but the overall idea is the same. Mary is a romantic who frequently dreams of being swept away to a fantasy world where she feels she will be incredibly happy. Though different in some ways, I feel like Mary and Neen-i-zu share the same kind of passionate free spirit.

Week 7 Storytelling: Have Some Integrity

One day, Brer Fox decided he was going to grow himself a peanut garden. He did all the hard labor, clearing the field behind his house, preparing the soil, planting the seeds, and tending the plants. His mouth watered as his plants greened, thinking of crunchy, salty peanuts and slick peanut oil. It wasn't long before someone else took notice of his growing garden: Brer Rabbit.

Now Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox have been in a feud of sorts, what with Brer Fox trying to eat the sly rabbit all the time. Why not too long ago, the scheming fox, with the help of Brer Wolf, had pretended to be dead in an attempt to get Brer Rabbit close enough that he could snatch him up. Even more recently than that, Brer Fox had been skulking around the rabbit's home, trying to find some grievance to lay against his children so he could gobble them up "with just cause." Well, you can imagine how Brer Rabbit's mind went to thinking up a plan to spoil the fox's botanical plans.

Every day, when Brer Fox was not attending to his peanuts, Brer Rabbit would sneak in and take his pick of peanuts before scampering out, just like he took food from other people's gardens. It didn't take that old fox long to realize his peanut plants where looking a little bare and even less time to suspect his cotton-tailed foe. So he devised a trap at the broken part of the fence Brer Rabbit was using to get into the garden, and left to run errands, allowing the rabbit time to get himself caught. And get caught he did.

Not five minutes after Brer Fox had disappeared over the hill, Brer Rabbit could be seen sneaking through the opening in the fence and... SNAP! The rope got caught up under his arms and Brer Rabbit was left hanging there, helpless as a fly in a spider web. Now this could have spelled disaster for our furry hero, if not for the appearance of Brer Bear. Brer Rabbit saw him ambling around the edge of the woods behind the garden and he called out to the bear.

Brer Rabbit caught in the trap (illustration by A. B. Frost)

"Hey there, Brer B'ar," he shouted, "Won't you come over here and help me down."

"Sure thing, Brer Rabbit." It was easy work for the large bear to yank the rope down far enough for the rabbit's feet to touch the ground so he could slip out.

"I just came in here to help my dear friend, Brer Fox, with his lovely peanut garden and I found myself hanging like a shirt on a line. Won't you help me surprise my good friend?" Brer Rabbit pleaded. Of course, kind Brer Bear obliged. "Alright, we'll help him pick all his peanuts before he gets back and we'll have a big neighborhood party to shell them all and share them all."

So the two of them got to work and by noon they had every basket full and every plant picked cleaned. They got Brer Rabbit's children to help them carry baskets up the road where they then rounded up everyone in the neighborhood to start shelling. By the time Brer Fox came back over the hill (expecting to find a humbled Brer Rabbit hanging in his tree), he was greeted by the sight of all his neighbors clustered in the road, snacking on some delicious-looking peanuts. He stopped dead in his tracks and his mouth popped wide open.

"Hi, there, Brer Fox," Brer Rabbit called to him with a wide grin. "We're all mighty thankful you decided to share your peanuts with your good friends here in the neighborhood." Not wanting to look mean-spirited, there was nothing Brer Fox could do but give a half-hearted "you're welcome," grab a big handful of what was left of his own peanuts, and plop down amongst the congregation.

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Author's Note: This story is based on the tale "Mr. Rabbit and Mr. Bear" from Uncle Remus: His Songs and His Sayings by Joel Chandler Harris (1881). In the original story, Brer Fox plants his garden and Brer Rabbit steals from it on a regular basis. However, it ended much differently and not to my liking at all. Brer Bear does help Brer Rabbit down from the trap, but he also convinces the bear to get into the trap himself, pretending like he had been acting as a scarecrow to keep critters out of the garden. Then, Brer Rabbit runs to Brer Fox and tells him that his peanut thief had been caught and was hanging up in his garden, suggesting he beat him with a stick (especially in the mouth so Brer Bear can't explain what really happened). The rabbit then runs off and hides in the mud, knowing the bear will be out to get his revenge. Mistaking Brer Rabbit for a frog, he takes false directions from the rabbit himself and Brer Rabbit hops on home, happy as a clam. The original story was also told in a much different manner, in a very rough, phonetic language. Here's an example (explaining that Brer Fox thinks he knows who the peanut-stealing culprit is): "He sorter speck who de somebody is, but ole Brer Rabbit he cover his tracks so cute dat Brer Fox dunner how ter ketch 'im."

I really disliked the original ending. I thought it was very uncalled for that Brer Rabbit hung Brer Bear out to dry (pretty literally) when he hadn't done anything wrong. So I fixed the story to be more like the other ones, where Brer Rabbit is a clever, comical, good character who sticks it to Brer Fox (who actually deserves to be pranked for trying to eat Brer Rabbit all the time).

Week 6 Storytelling: Romeow and Juliet

When I was a little girl, I lived in a neighborhood that was home to two beloved cats. The male, a pure white American short-hair with bright blue eyes, was named Maximus and he was as sweet as he was handsome. Every day when I came home from school, Max would be waiting at the top of the street to walk with me to my door. His owner, Mr. Farrow, was the music teacher at my school and he loved Max very much.

Max, the handsome cat with white fur and blue eyes
(Wikimedia Commons)

The other cat was a beautiful female named Sweetie, with jet black fur as soft as silk and glowing green eyes that shimmered in the sun. Sweetie was hardly ever let outside because her owner, Mrs. Hamlin, was a lonely old woman and her cat was the only friend or family she had left in the world. On one of the rare occasions that Sweetie made it out of the big empty house, I happened to pass by her with Max on our daily walk home. The two felines paused when they caught sight of each other and if cats could blush, I'm sure the ebony cat would have. They sniffed around for a bit, but were soon rubbing whiskers and purring loudly. It was kitty love!

Sweetie (personal photo February 2015)

"Sweetie!" Mrs. Hamlin's voice came calling from down the road, "Sweetie Pie, come home." With a deep look of sadness on her face, Sweetie uttered one soft meow of farewell and returned home. For several days after that, Max didn't meet me at the top of the street like he always did. When I got to my front porch, I saw him in Mrs. Hamlin's yard with his front paws on the bay window from which Sweetie was peering out. The two of them would sit there like that all day, longing to be reunited. Although Sweetie cried and cried to be let outside again, Mrs. Hamlin would not hear of it.

Then, when I reached the porch after school one day, I was greeted by the sight of two felines, one jet black and the other snow white, perched on the bottom step. I was very happy to see the two together again, but something in there faces was not entirely happy. Max mewed and rubbed himself against my leg, then raised his face so that I could pet his head. It was then that I realized what was happening: the two were eloping and this would be goodbye. After amply petting both of my furry friends, I said a bittersweet goodbye and watched as they disappeared around the wooden fence framing our backyard.

It was dinnertime when I heard the soft scratches at the back door. When I opened it, I found a very distraught looking Sweetie but no Max anywhere. I took the poor thing in and cared for her as best I could. Though she ate and drank plenty, Sweetie was understandably in low spirits. I wondered what had happened to Max and wished that cats could talk so that I could figure out how to help. Day after day, Sweetie lay down on a comfy pillow and didn't stir except to eat and drink.

But one day when I came home from school, she was nowhere to be found. I searched all around my house and the neighborhood without a seeing any trace of her. Then I heard the yowling coming from the alley. I hurried around the corner just in time to see a white mass launching itself at a large orange alley cat hissing at poor Sweetie. The blur knocked the big cat sideways and continued to scratch and hiss until the brute was chased away. It was Max! He looked well-fed and taken care of so he must have been taken in by a caring person after he and Sweetie had gotten separated. The two lovebirds were happy as could be and purring loud as freight trains. They gave me a grateful glance goodbye and the two felines headed down the ally their new joyful life together at last.

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Author's Note: This is a story loosely based on the Japanese fairy tale "The Cat's Elopement" from The Violet Fairy Book by Andrew Lang, illustrated by H. J. Ford (1901). In the original story, the two cats, Gon and Koma, fall in love with each other and try to get one of their masters to buy the other's cat. However, neither wants to part with their beloved pet, so the two lovers are forced to elope. Unfortunately, it's not long before they get separated when a dog tries to attack them and Gon is taken in by a caring princess. The two felines are reunited when Gon saves a smaller cat, who turns out to be Koma, from being attacked by a much bigger cat and the two tell their tale to the princess, who takes Koma in as well. They all live happily ever after together.

I wanted to make my story more realistic and modern than the original, so I set it in an average neighborhood and the cats no longer talked (although, they can express emotions somewhat). I also changed the narrator from a removed third person to a more involved first person. I felt this kind of narrator would be a logical and a simple way to tell the story in a realistic manner. While the original version focused on the male cat's experience, I decided to focus more on the female cat's experience and modeled her after my own cat, Sweetie. I chose to retell "The Cat's Elopement" because I liked that the main romantic pair were not humans for once and I imagine a fairy tale would be like if cats could make their own. I chose the title because I thought it was a cute play on words that just popped into my head while I was trying to think of an original title.

Week 5 Storytelling: Motley

We were three baseball players, but none of us had a bat. So we went to the guitar store and bought three ukuleles, but only one had all its strings.

We came across a leafless tree with three birds in it who didn't have any wings. One of us grabbed the big one with his hook but we decided to walk to China for authentic Chinese food. We climbed a couple of hills and I fell down a really deep valley one time right into a river on stones.

We came to a village with no houses and all the people were zombies. The last living people took us to their house without a floor so we could eat. We asked for some stuff to cook with and they gave us spoons without handles and a pot with no sides. So we baked the bird we caught in the oven and I went to set the table with no top with the plates with no bottoms.

When we were done, we had to let everyone know. I said I was full, the pitcher said he was finished, and the catcher said he didn't want anymore. The pitcher had eaten all the feathers, the catcher all the gravy, and that made me mad so I left to go to a corn field.

I took my blade and cut down some ears of corn. Then a guy with a wagon went through the corn field and I asked him where my blade went. He told me he had been looking for his ten daughters he lost 20 years ago. "How am I supposed to find your blade?" he asked.

So I left again because I was mad and I found the tree with the birds in it again. Someone had killed another one, though, and left it in a box. When I went to look at it, I saw one hundred marauders on motorcycles coming for me so I ran for my life.

I ran to the other side of town and stopped in a church yard to catch my breath. But the motorcycle guys came bursting through the gate and chased me around. I was running as fast as I could but my legs wouldn't move fast at all. So I started climbing a wall to get on the roof, but one of the guys came after me with a metal pipe. My hand slipped trying to grab the roof and I screamed while I fell back to the ground, but before I could reach it-- I woke up.

Big bed, little kid (Wikimedia Commons)

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Author's Note: The source of this story is a tale called Kunterbunt from Forty-Four Turkish Fairy Tales by Ignacz Kunos (1913). The title is actually a German word meaning motley, which is why I chose this word for the title of my retelling. Yes, this is a very weird story and it doesn't make any sense until the end, hopefully. This was all just a dream. It's hard to summarize the original plot because it is very nonsensical. Basically, there are three brothers that go on a very strange adventure. They buy broken bows, kill an already dead duck in a stream without water,  and cook and eat with plates full of holes or without bottoms. Then the narrator leaves because one brother ate all the meat and the other all the bones, meets some guy looking for 12 lost camels for 40 years, sees a dead body in a basket, runs from 40 thieves, tries to hide but fails, and eventually falls while trying to climb to safety and wakes up, realizing it was all a dream. I wanted to retell this story because it was different from any other story I had read for this class and I thought it would be a challenge. How do you tell a story that's not supposed to make any sense? I tried to make things my own by changing characters and objects but without straying too far from the general idea of the original plot. I hope that the story makes sense once you get to the last sentence, like the original story where the realization that it was all a dream just made everything click.

Week 4 Storytelling: The Considerate Child

Luna arrived at the restaurant early, put her name on the waiting list, and sat on the polyester bench to wait for her siblings to arrive. The first to do so was Apollo, looking just as he always did: cellphone attached to his ear, impeccable suit and tie, and dark, expensive sunglasses that he likely would not take off until they reached the table. He greeted his sister with a swift peck to the cheek, never ceasing his conversation with whatever important person on the other end of the line. Wendy showed up just before they were seated, her cool, grey dress drawing appreciative stares from all the men in the room. She didn't seem to know they even existed. Luna had long gotten past her insecurity about her appearance compared to her siblings'. She was a pale, full-figured, plain girl, but her kind heart made her more beautiful than either her handsome brother or stunning sister.

The hostess called for Luna's party and they followed her to a secluded booth at the back of the restaurant. They gave their drink orders to the tiny waitress and silence descended upon them once they were alone. Finally ditching his phone and glasses, Apollo took it upon himself to get the conversation started.

A fancy and very kitsch dinner table
(Wikimedia Commons)

"Well, how are my favorite sisters doing?" he asked, although he hardly seemed interested.

"I just got in from Paris," Wendy offered. She was always traveling, ever since her mother and father had decided she was old enough to go on her own. Once they had set her free, she blew from one place to another, never staying anywhere for long. She was only here, in their hometown, for the same reason the other two were: to see their mother, Estelle, on her birthday. If Estelle weren't so old, she would be here having dinner with them and moderating the conversation much more effectively, but she insisted her children continue the family tradition of eating at her favorite restaurant even though she hardly ever left her bed anymore and their father had died five years before.

"I've just been working, as usual," Luna explained, keeping the conversation going. "We're doing Carmen this season." Luna, like her mother, was an accomplished opera soprano. She didn't even need the immense trust fund her parents had established for her when she was born, as they had for her siblings as well.

"Fascinating," Apollo commented, clearly feeling the farthest thing from fascinated a person could be. He had always been a selfish, shallow person. His concern with outer beauty had made him one of the most sought after fashion photographers in the world and whenever he did manage to come home, he was usually accompanied by a wafer thin model he had done a shoot with recently. None of them came with him more than once.

They continued to make small talk all through their meal, seeming more like business associates than bother and sisters. When Luna ordered a whole meal to go when they had finished, Apollo and Wendy shot each other a knowing glance. She was always the plump one the look said. To-go box in tow, the three siblings donned their coats and once outside, hailed a taxi to take them to their family estate.

Victorian house
(Pixabay)

The ride there was silent, having spent all their filler conversation at dinner. When the yellow car stopped in front of the wrought iron gates of the Nox estate (5 miles outside the city), they filed out of the car, up the winding lawn path, and into the ancient house. After hanging their coats, they wordlessly ascended the stairs and paused before the floor-to-ceiling wooden door on the third floor. This time all three of the siblings shared a silent look, an awkward and uncomfortable one. Behind the door, buried under the covers of an immense bed was their mother, living out the rest of what few days or weeks she might have left. The question of their inheritance sat thick in the air, for though they assumed it would be an equal, three way split, their mother had revealed nothing about the subject. Least concerned and most at ease, Luna raised her hand to knock on the thick wooden door and the three of them entered together when a quite voice behind it told them to.

The frail woman on the bed smiled up at her three children, resting on a mound of plush pillows. They each came up, kissed her on the cheek, and wished her a happy birthday. Luna's kiss was full of warmth and love, and Estelle's eyes shone when her daughter presented her with the to-go box containing her favorite dish from her favorite restaurant. She called the other two forward indicating they should sit on her bed.

"I know what you wish to know," their mother told them. "On the matter of your inheritance, I have thought long and hard. Apollo, my son, you shall receive the summer house in India and enough money to maintain the property for as long as you live. Wendy, you shall receive the house on the plains and the money to maintain it as well. You both will still have your trust funds, of course." She paused to let the message sink in, neither child looking particularly pleased. Clearly they had expected more.

"And you, Luna, my youngest, I leave you the Nox estate and the remainder of the family fortune to do with what you please. You have always been the kindest, most caring, and most selfless of my children. I'm sure that amount of money in the right hands can do wonders for this world."

And she was right. When the fortune passed to Luna, she donated a set amount annually to several charity organizations. In memory of Estelle, she also set up a scholarship in her mother's name for a talented soprano opera student at their alma mater, Julliard.

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Author's Note: This story is based on How the Sun, the Moon, and the Wind Went Out to Dinner from the book Indian Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs (1912). I changed the celestial bodies to actual people with names indicating the character they're based off of (Luna is the moon, Apollo the sun, Wendy the wind, and Estelle is mother star). The punishments given in the original story were hot rays for the sun and to blow in hot dry weather for the wind. Both sentences ensure that the two will be despised by those who are subjected to their powers. The moon is rewarded by being kept "ever cool, and calm, and bright." Unlike her siblings, the moon is to be beloved by all.

Week 3 Storytelling: Insatiable Greed

The sky was filled with puffy white clouds, pushed along by the cool breeze ruffling the tree tops. The sun's rays reached out and lit the whole forest as if it were a neon green welcome sign. What a beautiful day to destroy a forest. Erys Goldmire stepped out of his shiny black car, dirt crunching under his expensive, black leather shoes, and surveyed the scene before him. A tiny shack of a house sat off to the right, and behind it, a sea of bright green trees just waiting to be felled. In front of the ramshackle building stood a frail and ancient woman, a local who had tried to prevent Erys from obtaining the land. If she had agreed to sell it when he had offered, she could have received a much bigger payment than what the government had given her as compensation for taking her land under eminent domain (and Erys wouldn't have had to spend the 1.5 million to pay off that government official). She was looking his way, eyes squinting not in defense from the sun but in hatred of the man before her.

"I prayed that you would never come back," the old woman said, eying the large construction machinery parked all over her yard which had left scars of their tracks behind them. Her brown, wrinkled face scowled angrily up at the man who had stopped at nothing to rob her of her childhood home.

"I hoped you would be dead before long," Erys flung back at her. He had tried to be charming to win her over at first. Once he realized he wasn't going to get anywhere, he had dropped the act and let his contempt for the old hag spill out from him.

It was at that moment that he spotted the tree--the old woman's favorite tree. She had dressed it in ribbons and set up an altar in front of it, an altar she used to pray to the pagan patron goddess of the forest. Needing to drive home his triumph over her, Erys grabbed a chainsaw from a near by equipment rack and headed right for the tree. Not bothering to clear away the altar or ribbons, he yanked the chainsaw to life and sneered at the old woman before proceeding.

"Where's your great protector of the trees? Is she not going to stop me?" The woman stared passively at the crazed man, no sign of outrage or frustration on her face. This only fueled his madness more. He plunged the rotating sharp teeth into the trunk of the ancient tree, a loud whine like a scream emanating from the point of contact. As the blade sank deeper and deeper, sap began to pour out of the open wound and bled all over the altar. Finally, with a loud crack, the trunk snapped in two and the massive tree plummeted to the earth, crushing the altar underneath it. Erys looked to the old woman for any sign of emotion.

"You will pay," she said hollowly. Without a word more or a glance back, the woman silently left the scene.

"Get to work!" Erys bellowed. "I want to be able to see the horizon by tomorrow morning." A strange uneasiness settled over the cruel businessman. He was anxious to have the forest cleared and construction started, but it was more than that. He wanted more. More land, more buildings, more money, more business. He wanted a foothold in every country, an enterprise in every state. He hungered more than he ever had before, and he needed these things now. Though he had intended to oversee all aspects of the project, Erys climbed back into his luxury car and ordered the driver to take him to the airport immediately. He had work to do.

...................

Six months later, the man was a wreck. He spent days at the office at a time, haggling deals for land, approving designs for new buildings, monitoring the success of each enterprise. With each new parcel bought, each new building erected, and each new profit report received, his hunger only grew even more. No number of acres or building square footage or amount of money could fill the ever-growing hole inside of him. The feeling of need gnawed at him day and night; even in his sleep he could not find peace.

Soon Erys was up to his ears in dept. He was buying for his newest ventures before the old ones could make any money. He made bad deals for poor quality land, spent millions constructing lavish hotels, and tens of millions on bribes that would help push approvals through faster. He even pawned off his daughter to the son of another wealthy businessman as part of a deal for his worthless swamp land in Louisiana.

It was not long at all before Erys was on the fast path to self-destruction. He drank alcohol as if it were water and did drugs to keep him awake throughout the night so that he could work as long as possible. Work was his food source, and his body began to waste away because of it. One night, he found himself on the roof in a drunken stupor. He staggered around on uneasy legs, taking in the scene of his surrounding empire on the very edge of the roof. A strong sense of vertigo engulfed him and his body, ravaged by hunger and toxic chemicals, could hardly hold him upright. Now a cool, strong breeze was stroking his face, just like the one he had felt that day on the outskirts of the beautiful forest, long since gone. His vision blurred as the speed increased. It could have been his imagination or a drunken hallucination but he could have sworn he heard the wind whisper in his ear, "I told you that you would pay," right before his body hit the concrete sidewalk thirty stories below the top of his skyscraper office.

Scene from the movie Greed (1924) Erich von Stroheim

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Author's Note: My story is based on the Greek myths about Ceres and Erysichthon, from Ovid's Metamorphoses (translated by Tony Kline, 2000). In the original myths, Erysichthon cuts down Ceres' favorite tree with his own hands after his men refused to do so themselves. The tree was actually a nymph and when he swung into the trunk, blood poured forth from the wound. Enraged, Ceres sends a messenger to ask her antipode, Famine, to inflict her torturous power upon Erysichthon. He becomes unable to be satisfied no matter how much he eats, sells his daughter multiple times in order to get money for food (she keeps running away from the buyers but is taken back by her father), and eventually cannibalizes himself in the end. When I read this story I thought about this as a metaphor for man's destruction of nature and insatiable greed. In my version, I give Erys(ichthon) a motivation for cutting down the tree whereas in the original myth you don't really know why he was set on destroying Ceres' favorite tree (at least in the stand-alone story that I read for this class). It was easy to retell the story using this kind of metaphor, but I did end up eliminating the role of his daughter, Mestra, because she didn't work into the plot of my story very well. It was tricky to figure out how Erys would "eat" himself but I decided that it would make sense for him to destroy his body with drugs, alcohol, and ultimately suicide.

Week 2 Storytelling: Important Lessons from a Dying Man's Bedside

Once there was a wealthy merchant who was growing quite old. Besides having a large amount of money, he also had a grand house full of children, five boys and one girl. The children, while they loved each other as much as other brothers and sisters do, were always quarreling over one thing or another and their father worried what might happen to his family if he were not there to make peace during their many disagreements. Their mother had died a few years prior of pneumonia and the merchant's health was beginning to fade; eventually, they would only have each other rely upon.

Being of a great age, the merchant spent much of his time thinking and one thing he thought about particularly was how to get his children to understand how important it was that they always stick together. Children are not the wisest of creatures; lessons taught to them in a direct manner often go in one ear and out the other. With the young, it is usually best to show them what you mean. But how could the merchant show his sons and daughter the importance of unity? And what about his youngest child, his only daughter? Growing up without a father and a mother from such a young age would surely be a difficult thing. What knowledge could he give to her that might ease the difficult journey ahead?

Months passed and soon the old merchant could hardly leave his bed. By this time, the older children knew their father was not long for this world. Distressed from the impending loss of their last parent, tensions were high in the big house and the children were prone to fighting even more than usual. This worried the old man dearly, so one night he called for all his children to assemble in his bed chamber.

Putting aside their differences for the sake of their ailing father, the children filed into the room quietly and by age. The eldest was a big, strapping boy of twenty-five, engaged to be married to a lovely girl the following month. His strong hands were clasped tightly in front of him, for the largest part of him was his heart and it ached to see his beloved father weak in his bed. The next was a tall and slight lad of twenty-three, bright and astute. He stood gravely at the foot of the bed, knowing very well this might be one of the last times he would ever see his father. The third son was short and round with a mischievous spirit, being the source of much of the discord among the siblings, but even he recognized the seriousness of the occasion. The fourth son was a lad of seventeen, built like his eldest brother, and the fifth after him was a wispy thing of fifteen with bright blue eyes that shone with innocence and, at the moment, sadness. The last to enter was the daughter, a pretty little girl of merely ten years. She remembered how things had been just before her mother died, so even she knew that it would not be long before she lost her father, too.

With all six of them standing at the foot of his bed, the old man turned to his servant and asked him to take the bundle of sticks from his bedside table to his eldest son. The boy held the bundle (that he had seen the same servant gathering earlier) between his large hands and looked at his father in curiosity.

"Break it," his father ordered hoarsely. Knowing full well he could not do it, the boy tried his best anyway. When he could not, the bundle was passed from one brother to the next and even to the little girl at the end of the line. After none had succeeded, their father had the servant untie the bundle and give each of them one stick from the pile.

"Break them," the old man commanded again. This time the room was filled with the sound of snapping wood. Yes, even the youngest broke her stick in two with ease.

"Union gives strength," their father explained with more force in his voice than the children had heard in quite some time. "You are all accustomed to bickering and arguing, day in and day out. As I'm sure you all know, I am not long for this world, and a day will come when I will not be here to set things right when you inevitably quarrel again. I hope that you would keep this lesson in your minds, for when I'm gone you will only have each other to rely upon in this whole world." The siblings looked at each other solemnly, the broken bits of wood still clasped in their hands.

"Anna," the old man called quietly, reaching out for his youngest child to come nearer to him. He took her small hand in his wasted one and peered into her big brown eyes. "The world can be a cruel place for a woman, but I do not want you to be afraid. Be intelligent. Be confident. And, above all, be strong. For there are few things more formidable than a knowledgeable, strong, confident woman." He patted her hand and lay back on his pillow, exhausted from effort.

The children filed their way back into the hall and went somberly to their rooms, each determined to keep their broken sticks as a reminder of their father's most important lesson.

The Bundle of Sticks illustration by Walter Crane

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Author's Note:  The source material for my story is The Bundle of Sticks from the book "The Fables of Aesop" edited by Joseph Jacobs (1902). In the original tale, a dying man brings his sons to his death bed and teaches them that unity is strength by having them try to break a bundle of sticks individually. They only succeed after dividing up the sticks between them. The reason I chose to retell this story is because the man did not call any daughters he may have had to hear this lesson about strength. He may have only had sons, but I imagined that he did have at least one daughter and I believed that she should have been present to learn the lesson as well. I also imagined what lesson he might want to impart to this sole daughter individually, but I didn't want it to be the stereotypical lesson it seems girls always get from their dying parent: be kind. The main attributes Anna's father emphasizes are intelligence, confidence, and strength. I specifically picked these traits because they are usually associated with masculinity and the old man's sons would probably expect that they should aspire to be these things. Anna, however, might be told by the world that she only needs to be kind, gentle, pure, obedient, etc. It is for this reason her father makes a point of advocating strength, confidence, and intelligence, three characteristics that would certainly benefit a young orphan girl for whom self-reliance would be a necessity.

Week 1 Storytelling: The Mayor of Bombay and the Snipe Pipe-Thief

There was a fat man of Bombay,

Who was smoking one sunshiny day,
When a bird, called a snipe,
Flew away with his pipe,
Which vexed the fat man of Bombay.

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The mayor of Bombay sat on the balcony of his enormous estate, peering down at his town below which basked in the beautiful sunshine of a bright summer day. Although the day was picturesque, the weather irritated the mayor who was renowned for being quite large. Indeed, the rays of the sun which made clear the beauty of the town also beat down upon the mayor’s girth, richly clad in fine purple and yellow silks. His protruding stomach lay heavy and hot upon his knees which were soon slick with sweat. One large arm made an effort to cool the mayor by slowly waving a green feather fan in his face while the other’s plump hand was curled around his favorite pipe, a handsomely crafted piece of art made of wood and painted a shiny black that gleamed under the sun’s rays, revealing the fine gold swirling patterns etched all along the pipe. It had been a gift from a colleague to congratulate the mayor on being elected to office.

As he sat there gazing at the tall white buildings of the city, a shadow swiftly crossed the man’s face. Squinting into the sun, the mayor spied a solitary bird circling lazily in the sky, emitting a small chirp every so often. Just as the mayor was returning his gaze to the town below, the bird began to descend slowly in the direction of the balcony, landing light as a feather on the clean white rail directly across from the mayor. They sat staring at each other for a moment, casually acknowledging the other’s presence. The bird was handsome, as birds go, a young snipe with a plump brown belly, a long, slim yellow beak, and beady black eyes as dark and as shiny as the pipe still lightly clamped between the mayor’s teeth and held in his sweaty palm.

Common Snipe:
Wikimedia Commons

In a sudden flash of brown feathers, the bird launched itself from the balcony rail and right into the mayor’s face. As the man jerked his round head back in surprise, the snipe secured its long yellow talons tightly around the stem of the pipe and wrenched it out of the mayor’s slick hand. Letting out a cry of surprise and anger, the mayor swiped a meaty paw at the bird, but the movement was sluggish while the bird was swift, having already flapped its way six feet above the mayor’s head and continuing to rise. Enraged, the mayor fought to lift himself out of the grasp of his deep plushy chair but to no avail. The man was just too big.

“Guards! Guards!” he called out. Rushing in from the attached room, the guards assisted the mayor out of his chair, but, unfortunately, that was all they could help him with for there was no way to retrieve the snipe which was quickly becoming a smaller and smaller black dot headed for the distant horizon. The mayor beat his meaty fists upon the white rail where the bird had been perched not two minutes earlier. Hot and frustrated, the mayor decided to take a cool bath to be followed by long nap.

Black Pipe:
Pixabay

Flapping its way slowly out of town, the snipe carried its treasure through the hot air for several miles. He soon arrived in a neighboring town where he headed toward a squat clay building in the middle of the city. Swooping in through the window, the snipe lightly dropped the handsome pipe upon the counter, landing beside it and waiting patiently for the shop owner to emerge. Entering from the back room, the shop owner was not surprised to see the pretty bird and a pretty prize sitting on his counter.

“Well, hello there, my friend,” he said while running a finger down the bird’s back, “I see you have brought me another fine addition to my inventory.” He picked up the pipe to examine it closer and was pleased with its brilliant craftsmanship. The first time he had found the little bird on his counter, it had been an emerald ring lying next to it which had sold for a nice price the very next day. As he had done that day and every day since the bird had continued to return with valuable items, the shop keeper reached beneath the counter and presented the snipe with a large, fluffy biscuit. Taking the biscuit in its claws, the bird silently exited the shop and headed east toward its nest where three hungry babies waited expectantly for their dinner.

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Author’s Note: This story is based on an untitled nursery rhyme which is quoted at the top of the page. The rhyme is from The Nursery Rhyme Book, edited by Andrew Lang (1897) and tells the story of a bird who steals the pipe of a fat man from Bombay. I’m not sure what it was about this rhyme that caught my eye, but I found myself imagining how I might more elaborately describe the “fat man from Bombay.” I had first intended to end the story similarly to the original nursery rhyme with the mayor going off to take his bath and his nap, but the story just felt incomplete and I couldn’t help wondering why the bird took the pipe, so I did a bit of free-writing and just let the bird take me to the story’s logical conclusion.