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Chimera

At long last, I am awake. I have been drifting in this inky blackness for so long that I’d almost forgotten what consciousness felt like.

Was it just yesterday I kissed my mother goodbye and crawled into my stasis capsule?

I’d told her not to worry. I’d told her I would miss her.

No, it couldn’t have been yesterday. The monitor flashing above me says we’re 300 light years away from Earth. Even at maximum speed it would have taken at least 150 years to get this far.

Wow. 150 years ago I had been ready to die. The doctors had all said the cancer was too far gone to fix. Today, though…today, I feel fine. I guess it took 150 years, but they fixed it.

Shouldn’t we have arrived by now? Where are all the doctors?

“Welcome back. Please drink the water and spit into the sink.” There is now a blinking arrow on the monitor above me pointing to the sink beside my bed.

That’s not a human voice. Is it coming out of the speaker there? I see a glass of water and a sink. I try to speak, but my throat is so dry, I can’t make a sound.

“Please drink the water and spit into the sink. Your health is of utmost importance to us.”

The voice is definitely coming from the speaker. It must be computerized or something.

I sit up for the first time in 150 years and reach for the glass. My arms feel like lead. My fingers close around the glass clumsily, and I bring it to my mouth. My hands are shaking. I am spilling water down my shirt, but most of it is getting in my mouth. The water is clean and crisp. I down the entire glass in two gulps.

“You may still be thirsty. Please refill your glass and spit into the sink when you are done.”

I am getting used to this voice now; its androgenous voice has a kindly lilt. I oblige by drinking a little more water and spitting the rest into the sink.

“Thank you.”

You’re welcome. My dry lips crack as they form a smile.

A monitor above the sink turns on, showing a rotating sphere and the words “PROCESSING DNA.” I refill the glass once more and look around the room as I drink.

The small cabin looks much the same as it did when I first picked it out. They had removed the oxygen from the room when my stasis capsule had been sealed, so there was hardly any deterioration to the fancy pillows and curtains I’d taken along with me. I’d told my mother that if I was going to die in space, I would rather have it be in style. She’d laughed and told me she would make me a quilt to keep me warm.

I look down at my lap. The quilt she’d promised is tucked snugly around me, decorated with dancing frogs and butterflies. I imagine her tucking me in before the stasis cover had closed. She was probably crying. This is the last thing I have from her. The last thing I have from anybody I have ever known. I clutch the quilt tightly.

The monitor above the sink begins to blink. “PROCESSING DNA” are replaced by the words “96.4% HUMAN,” with a big green bar underneath it. I frown and look down at my body, confused.

A woman’s face appears on the monitor. “Welcome back,” says the woman. “I am Captain Holly Yeats of the Phoenix.”

I open my mouth and try to croak out a faint, “Hello.” My throat is still terribly dry. I refill my glass.

“First, let me tell you how happy we are that you are doing well. It has always been the mission of the crew of the Phoenix to serve on the cutting edge of healthcare.”

Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/T. Pyle
I nod, remembering this part from the brochures and sales pitch my mother and I had gotten at the hospital. The idea was that the Phoenix would leave Earth and head towards the brand new colony, Cassius, some 20 light years away. They’d warned us that the ship wouldn’t be travelling at light speed, so it would take much longer to get there than 20 years. That’s what would give the scientists on board time to come up with cures. At the time, it seemed like a no-brainer. The risks seemed trivial compared to the benefits; I knew I was going to die anyway, and I’d always wanted to go into space.

“You may be wondering why you are still in space,” Captain Yeats continues. “Since you went into stasis, a war broke out on Cassius, and the entire planet was rendered uninhabitable. We couldn’t return to Earth because of…zoning restrictions. Luckily, we have located another earth-like planet suitable for habitation and are traveling there.” She pauses. I see that her eyes are oddly shaped; they remind me of fish eyes. She blinks, and I wonder if it is just my imagination. “You and the 99 other patients on board have been traveling with us for several generations.”

I refill my glass and lean toward the monitor as I drink. Generations?

“The fact that you have been released from stasis means that we have been able to find a cure for your sickness. Most cancers, we found, are easily treatable through the introduction of alternate genes into your system. Animal genes. This means that you might experience some side effects as your body adapts to its new chimeric state.”

I am feeling queasy now. What did they do to me? I throw the quilt off my lap and start feeling my legs and arms for scales. I still count ten fingers and ten toes.

“You will be kept in quarantine for 24 hours as you get used to your new, healthy body and familiarize yourself with your surroundings. After that, you will be free to move about the ship and interact with the crew and other passengers.” Captain Yeats glances off camera. “We still have a long way to go, I’m afraid. The closest planet we could find is at least another 100 light years away. That’s several more generations from now.”

I stagger over to the mirror across the room. What is different about me? I begin to take off my clothes and look at every inch of my body as Captain Yeats continues to speak.

“If you are watching this message, that means we have selected you as an eligible breeder to continue the human race. If you mate with any other healthy passenger on board, we calculate that your human DNA will continue to be dominant for at least seven generations.” She leans in so I can see her fish eyes clearly. “It is of utmost importance that you follow these directions. The human race is an endangered species, and it’s up to you to rescue it from the brink of extinction.”

The monitor goes blank.

I turn back to the mirror and look closely at my face. My eyes are still human. My nose, my ears. My mouth…

I put the glass of water to my lips and watch myself drink in the mirror.

I lower the glass and open my mouth.

My tongue is longer. Sort of curled at the end.

I touch it with my finger. It’s kind of sticky.

The monitor blinks again, and more words appear:
DNA:
96.4% Homo sapiens (human).
3.6% Rana clamitans (green frog).

I grab my quilt from off the floor and wrap it around me. The room is not cold, but I am shivering.

The computerized voice comes on again. “Your blood pressure is rising,” it tells me. “We are giving you a mild sedative to help ease your transition. Please return to the bed so you can rest.” I can see the sweet-smelling gas puffing through the vents.

I barely make it back to the bed before I feel myself drifting away from consciousness. Back to the familiar inky blackness where I’ve spent the last 150 years.

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Bran challenged me with “Today, I feel fine,” and I challenged coolaquarius with “First love after 70 years.”

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Miracle Duck

When I first suggested taking a family trip to the Renaissance Faire, I was shot down immediately. “Mom was making plans to go to Disney World,” Dad told me, before burying his head in the newspaper.

“But it’s my last summer before I go to college in the fall! Can’t I choose the vacation spot for once?”

Dad looked up again briefly, with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Minnie.”

The second time I brought up visiting the Renaissance Faire, Hurricane Jack was pounding the state of Florida. Mom kept insisting that Disney World would be fine because was on its own electrical grid, but there was still no way of getting there, since all the flights had been cancelled. “The Renaissance Faire is only a two-hour drive from here,” I pointed out.

Dad looked at me, one eyebrow raised.

“You and mom could have some time to yourselves. And we could stay overnight at the hotel across the street.”

Mom and Dad exchanged glances. I could tell they had talked about going already, but they wanted to make it look like I had convinced them. “Fine, Minnie,” Mom said, after sighing dramatically. “We’ll go to Disney World another time.”

“Ooh, will there be wenches? I want to see a wench.” My 13-year-old horndog of a brother Don had a one-track mind.

So, after much wrangling and complaining and general fuss, we — Mom, Dad, me, Don, and way-too-uptight Aunt Maura — all piled into the minivan and made our way to the Faire. As soon as he sat down, Don shoved earbuds into his ears and tuned the rest of us out. Aunt Maura complained the entire way, first that it was too hot, then too cold; about an hour into the drive, I was wishing I had brought my iPod too.

“So Uncle Ralph and The Twins are going to meet us there?” I asked. I knew the answer, but I was trying desperately to change the subject before Aunt Maura launched into another tirade about why they shouldn’t be teaching sex ed in schools.

“Yes,” said Dad, catching on quickly. “And Bill will be there too, although I think he’s driving himself.” Bill was Uncle Ralph’s oldest kid, and my only boy cousin. He was only two years younger than me, and we got along reasonably well, although he was — how do I put this delicately? — a little bit odd. Uncle Ralph had divorced a couple of years ago, and Bill had decided to stay with his mother until he graduated high school, so we rarely saw him at family gatherings anymore. The Twins (Elsie and Sophie, but nobody ever referred to them separately) were only 9 years old, and they lived with Uncle Ralph for most of the year.

When we pulled into the parking lot — it was more of a field, really, with dirt roads and haystacks delineating each row — we were directed to our spot by a grizzled man dressed in Elizabethan livery. Bill had arrived just a few minutes earlier, and was parked one row in front of us. He waved at us distractedly as he rummaged in his trunk. He seemed to be putting on his costume right there in the parking lot.

Uncle Ralph appeared as we were climbing out of the van, parking just a few cars away from us in the same row. “Great timing!” he called over to us through his open window. He was wearing a Robin Hood outfit, complete with feathered cap, and looked quite authentic. As they got out of the car, I noticed that The Twins were decked out in full princess regalia. I looked down at my ratty hippie skirt and blouse that I had dressed up with some costume jewelry to create some sort of gypsy garb, and was suddenly embarrassed.

Don — whose idea of dressing up was to sport a t-shirt that said “To Err is Human; To Arr is Pirate” — had finally pulled his earbuds out of his ears and was looking over at Bill’s car. “What on earth is the doofus wearing?” he wondered aloud.

I followed his gaze and saw Bill putting the final touches on his own costume, which looked to be more of a mascot uniform than anything else: he had transformed into a giant yellow rubber ducky, with his face obscured by yellow mesh underneath the beak. We all swiftly walked over to him, in various states of disbelief.

Aunt Maura was turning red. “Take that ridiculous thing off!” she shouted.

“What’s the problem?” Bill said, his voice slightly muffled through the costume. “You told me to come in costume. I’ve been wanting to try this costume out for a while!”

“But,” I explained, “it’s a Renaissance Faire, not a Halloween Faire.”

“Could have fooled me, Gypsy Girl,” he retorted.

Uncle Ralph was covering his face with his hands. Mom and Dad were trying to console him. The Twins, unperturbed, were poking at his costume and asking where his arms were.

“Look,” Bill pointed with his beak towards the gate. “I’m not the only one who isn’t coming as a human being.” We looked and saw that there were two tall men with red body paint and horns giving their ticket to the man at the turnstile.

Don was cracking up. “I love it, dude! Keep it on!”

And so it was decided that we would go in together, but for the sake of the adults’ sanity, we would split up as quickly as possible. Mom and Aunt Maura went shopping for jewelry and Christmas presents, and Dad took Uncle Ralph to the pub, leaving me in charge of The Twins, Don, and Rubber Ducky Bill. I had hoped Bill would help me with the kids, but I could see that he was just there to have a good time by himself. In his duck suit.

I had already planned to meet up with my friend Alva, who was working that summer in the “Ye Olde Fryed Vegetable” booth. She waved at me when she saw me coming, but stopped waving when she saw Bill. “What is that?” she asked when I got close.

“My weirdo cousin Bill. He’s…an odd duck,” I smirked. “But he’s harmless. Just let him do his thing.”

“Okay, whatever,” Alva said. “I don’t really have a break right now, but I’ll meet you after the lunch rush, okay? By the gaming booth.” She wanted to introduce me to her new boyfriend, who worked there.

“Ah, of course. And where is that?”

In one efficient move, Alva pulled out a map and pointed to a spot in the middle, then handed it to me. She smiled at Don and The Twins. “Hi guys, nice to see you again. Is there anything you want? I’m sure Minnie will be happy to amp you up on sugar and salt.” She winked at me.

Don leaned over the counter. “Do all the wenches here show as much boobs as you do?”

I punched him in the arm to shut him up, but Alva’s face had already turned beet red, and she quickly turned away from the counter. “I’m sorry,” I called out to her as I ushered the kids away. “After lunch, by the gaming booth. I’ll make it up to you.”

I decided that the best way to keep the kids entertained was to go to shows; first we saw a sword swallowing act, and then I took The Twins to have tea with the Queen. Don wanted to go to the wench auction, but I vetoed that decision and took them all to a swashbuckling pirate show instead. Everywhere we went, Rubber Ducky Bill followed, and from what I could gather, he was happy to just tag along.

By lunchtime, however, Bill was beginning to get uncomfortable. “Itfsh shweaty in herefff,” he said. Or at least, that’s what it sounded like to me (his voice was even more muffled than it had been at the beginning of the day). “Alsssho, I ffthink I’m chafingff.”

“Then take it off,” I told him as we walked towards the row of food vendors. There was a horrendously long line for turkey legs, but Don really wanted one, so we were doomed to stand in line until we got one.

“I can’tff!”

“Why not? Nobody’s stopping you.”

“I…” Bill mumbled something under his breath.

“What? I can’t hear you.”

He waddled closer to me and leaned in so that his beak was touching my head. “I fftook my clothessh off to get into thissh suitfff,” he whispered.

“Oh my God.” I peered into the mesh that covered his face, trying to look him straight in the eye. “All of your clothes?”

“Um…pretty muchfff.”

I looked around at the crowd. One of the actors — I think it might have been Shakespeare — was talking to Don and The Twins, trying to get them to help him write his new play or something like that. Shakespeare was actually pretty cute. The Twins were loving every second of it, and even though Don was trying to play it cool, I could tell he was just as into the interaction as The Twins. I ran over to Don and whispered that Bill and I were just going to go to the gaming booth around the corner, and we’d be back in a jiffy. He nodded and puffed up his chest a little bit, looking less like a pimply horndog and more like someone who could actually look out for his little cousins.

Muttering a quick prayer that all would be well with the kids, I grabbed Bill’s wing and dragged him to the gaming booth. My only hope was that Alva’s new boyfriend had some spare clothes somewhere. Bill’s movements were becoming increasingly frantic as he scratched and pulled at the duck suit from the inside. “It’sff so hotff!” I could hear him whimpering.

I spotted a handsome blonde guy standing by the archery line. He was totally Alva’s type, so I took a chance. “Are you Jack?”

“Er…yes,” Jack answered. He glanced at Bill suspiciously.

“I’m Minnie. Alva’s friend?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” He held out his hand to shake mine. “I’m Jack. Alva has told me a lot about you.”

I smiled coyly. “She’s told me a lot about you too.”

“Mmmff,” said Bill.

Jack moved to stand between me and Bill. “Is this duck bothering you?”

“Oh, no. He’s…well…my idiot cousin.” I explained Bill’s problem. “I have a feeling he’ll get heatstroke if he stays in there much longer; I don’t want to take him all the way up to the parking lot. Is there some way you can help? Maybe give him a change of clothes?”

Jack looked skeptically at Bill. “Um…”

“Please?”

At this point, Bill decided he’d had enough and began to take the suit off, only to realize that the zipper was on the outside. He banged his arms against the inside of the suit in frustration.

Jack sighed. “He’ll have to go to the backstage area to get changed. I’ll be breaking a lot of rules by bringing him there.” He moved towards Bill to lead him away from public view.

But Bill was now in full panic mode, and he tried to attack Jack with his only free appendages: his feet. Unfortunately, his wild faux karate kicks only set him off balance, and he fell over onto the dirt road. Jack had to jump on top of him to pin his legs as he tried to find the zipper.

At this point, we were starting to attract attention. A small group of passers-by had formed a semi-circle around the action. I could hear the comments circulating in the crowd, and I could feel my face turning red.

Then a voice called out from within the crowd. “My word! What have we here?”

There was a commotion, and Shakespeare stepped forward, with Don and the Twins in tow. God, he was cute. And I was so embarrassed.

Jack was almost done getting the zippers and snaps undone on the duck costume, but Bill was still panicking. “Helpff!”

“Methinks the duck doth protest too much,” said Shakespeare.

The crowd laughed.

Jack unhooked the last hook, and Bill burst forth from the duck suit, panting and gasping like a man emerging from a deep water dive. He was completely drenched in sweat; his skinny white body was so wet that he slid completely out of the costume before any of us realized what had happened, and there were several gasps in the crowd before Jack threw his jacket over Bill’s lap.

Shakespeare took over and waved his hat with a flourish to grab the crowd’s attention. “It’s a miracle!” he declared. “A boy has sprung forth, fully formed, from the head of a duck! I think I have an idea for a new play.” He saw another actor behind the crowd and waved at him. “Oh, Marlowe!” he called out. “You will simply love this story. Mayhaps this will be the play that will give you as much fame as I.” Winking at me as he passed, Shakespeare strolled quickly towards Marlowe, and the two actors expertly moved the crowd away from Bill.

I think I fell in love with Shakespeare right then and there.

Jack did his best to cover Bill up and rush him to the backstage area.

I looked around and saw that the crowd had all but dispersed, save Don (who was laughing so hard that tears were running down his cheeks), The Twins (who were exchanging concerned glances), and a few others. I did a double-take as I noticed Mom (who had a very angry look on her face) and Aunt Maura (who looked like she was about to faint) among the lookers-on.

“Um…hi, Mom. Aunt Maura. Did you buy anything cool?” I didn’t know what else to say.

Aunt Maura opened and closed her mouth several times, but words never came out.

Mom looked up at the sky. “Please tell me you had nothing to do with this.”

“Mom.” I shook my head. “How long have you known Bill? How could you even think that this was anyone’s doing but his own?”

A wry smile crept onto Mom’s face, despite her attempts to maintain a disapproving countenance. She looked away and busied herself with looking after Aunt Maura, who was starting to come around.

“I think I’m…going to be sick,” Maura complained.

My mother rolled her eyes.

Just then, Jack and Bill re-emerged, Bill wearing a game booth uniform that was slightly too small. The Twins, visibly relieved, ran to him and hugged him.

“Thank you,” I whispered to Jack.

“Both you and Alva owe me,” he murmured back. “It’s a good thing I like her so damn much.” We shook hands and I promised to make it up to them both.

“Heeeey!” Dad and Uncle Ralph were wandering drunkenly down the street. “We heard something was going on with a duck and we were wondering…” Dad’s voice trailed off as he saw the rubber duck carcass on the ground. He looked up at Bill in his too-small costume and blinked several times. “Oh.”

Mom took over. “Maura’s getting a migraine,” she announced. “I think it’s best if we left now.”

And so, with much wrangling and complaining and general fuss, we all piled into our respective cars and headed to the hotel.

We didn’t go back the next day. But I returned by myself the next weekend. You know, to make it up to Jack and Alva. And also to see if Shakespeare was single. (He was!)

And that’s the reason why I love the Renaissance Faire. Nothing like this could ever have happened at Disney World.

This week’s Indie Ink Challenge came from Cedar, who gave me this prompt:

A migraine, a miracle, and a large rubber duckie.

Maren at the PA Renaissance Faire, 2005

Just as a side note: if you know me in real life you know that I have spent a lot of time at Renaissance Faires over the years (I even met my husband at the PA Renaissance Faire), so some of this story was informed by my experiences there. However, just so you don’t get too confused, everything else about the story is pure fiction, spun from the deep, dark recesses of my imagination.

My challenge went out to Greg Perry, who will answer it here by the end of the week.

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Rising Power

[Read Part 1 of this story]

Fog rolled off the Featherpass mountains like an overflowing cauldron, spilling into Magicka Bay. The sun glinted off the surface of the ocean.

It was a dreary day.

Kip sighed and turned away from the tower window. She was frustrated with the monotony of her days at the Magicka. She had arrived six months ago, and they had yet to begin her instruction in the magical arts. Indeed, she was treated more like a servant than a student: her days were filled with menial household tasks, from cleaning to cooking, from sun up to sun down. Occasionally, Rory would show up to take her away from her chores for an hour or two, but only to take her hunting or fishing, and he preferred to answer her questions with grunts or one-word answers. Still, she liked Rory, and she looked forward to these times with him; she always tried to do well at her chores so that he would return more frequently.

Perhaps she had imagined becoming a mage would be more glamorous. She knew it was dangerous, being one of the Magicka: ordinary folks either feared or worshiped those who could bend energy to suit their needs…but most people in the four worlds feared the things the Magicka could do.

She shivered at the memory of the men who had raised her, the elders of Olstrick who had branded and exiled her once they found out about her powers. The nightmares no longer came every night, but she still felt fear when she got too close to a fire, and sometimes she thought she saw some the men following her in a crowd.

She shook her head. Get back to work, Kip. It was the only thing for her to do if she wanted to stay here. And no matter how dreary her days were, she still wanted to stay. She hurried down the stairs to the kitchen.

Cook was already there, of course: he was there before the first cockcrow each morning. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, directing various servants as they busied themselves preparing the day’s meals. He caught sight of Kip as soon as she entered the room.

“Well, look who has finally decided to join us!”

Kip frowned. “I’m sorry I’m late, Cook. I–”

“No excuses. Just results!” Cook liked to say that. A lot. He took her by the hand and led her to a table by the oven. “Today, you will make bread. Remember what I told you?”

She nodded. She had been making bread now for a week. “Flour, yeast, honey, salt, milk,” Kip called out each ingredient as she pulled it from the shelf. There was already a bowl of water at her workstation. Satisfied that Kip knew what she was doing, Cook turned his attention to another part of the kitchen.

Kip carefully measured out the yeast and honey and mixed them into the warm water. She wondered what exactly went on in that bowl that caused it to bubble. She imagined tiny yeast bugs in the bowl gobbling up the honey and burping out bubbles. The visual was so absurd that a giggle escaped her lips.

As soon as she began to laugh, the bowl became frothy.

Almost too frothy.

Kip frowned. She must have lost track of time. She peeked up at Cook, to see if he noticed that she had been daydreaming, but he was engaged in deep conversation with another servant about the merits of duck meat.

She added the rest of the ingredients and mixed them up to make the dough. After it was kneaded enough, she rolled the dough into a ball and put it in a bowl to rise. She wondered, again what those little imaginary yeast bugs might be doing. Were they gobbling up the flour as well? Maybe they were making themselves so fat that the flour around them expanded? She looked closely at the dough, hoping to watch those little bugs in action.

Right before her eyes, the dough began to rise. Faster than she thought possible. It should have taken at least an hour to get to the size that it was now, but only seconds had passed. What was going on?

She glanced at Cook again, but he hadn’t moved.

For that matter, neither had anyone in the kitchen. Even the cauldrons over the fires had ceased to bubble.

It was as if time itself had stopped, except for Kip and the rising dough.

Her eyes widened, and she reached her hand out reflexively, as if to stop the dough from rising any further. As soon as her fingers touched the dough, everything and everyone in the kitchen began to move normally, as if nothing had happened.

Except her dough had fully risen, even though she had only begun making it a few minutes prior!

She frowned and looked at the ball of dough with skepticism. Was someone playing games with her? She looked around the room surreptitiously. Everyone had their heads down, concentrating on their own tasks.

Kip supposed that the only way to find out who was behind this trick was to finish making the bread. She punched down the dough and continued to knead it for a few minutes. She then divided the dough into smaller balls and laid them out on a board to be put in the oven.

Before placing the loaves in the oven, she scanned the room again to see if anyone was watching her, but still saw no one interested in what she was doing. With a wince — she still didn’t like to be too close to fires! — she pushed the loaves into the oven.

She watched intently as the dough reacted to the heat. Again the loaves began to grow, but this time at a regular pace. She thought again of the yeast bugs, picturing them burping more as it got hotter and hotter.

And then, once again, it happened: the loaves began to grow larger and larger, at lightning-quick pace, gaining a lovely golden sheen after only a few seconds. These loaves of bread were almost done, and less than a minute had passed.

The fire was still burning brightly in the oven, but as Kip looked up from her work, she saw that everything around her was moving much more slowly than normal. Time had not stopped, but it had slowed considerably. She grabbed the handle of the bread board to pull it out of the oven, but yelped and jumped back as she realized that she had forgotten to put on her gloves.

Her reaction kicked everything back to normal speed. None of the servants even looked up as they heard her cry out.

Cook, however, did take notice. “Kip?” he inquired in a strangled voice.

Kip didn’t turn around. She didn’t want to see the look of rage on Cook’s face. “Um, just a minute. I need to get these loaves out of the oven.” She grabbed a glove and busied herself with her task.

“Kip.” Cook’s voice was more commanding now.

She closed her eyes and sighed. “I’m sorry. I know the bread is messed up. I think someone is–”

“No, Kip,” insisted Cook. “Open your eyes and see what you’ve done.”

Photo by Dana Nguyen

Squinting, she opened one eye, and then the other, and she saw on the table before her four perfect loaves of bread, each with a small series of grooves on the top that looked like it had been cut out with a knife as it had baked. The design was eerily familiar: it was the mark she knew was her own. It had not yet surfaced on her skin, for she was not yet a mage, but she had seen it in her dreams, and she knew there was no other design quite like it.

She slowly lifted her eyes to Cook. “Did I…do that?”

Cook folded his arms in front of his chest. “Looks like you just discovered your Way. I think it might be time for you to learn some self-control before you make too much of a mess out of my kitchen.” He pointed at two loaves that were still in the oven and beginning to burn.

“Oh no!” Mortified, Kip ran over to the oven and pulled the loaves out. As soon as the bread was safely out of the oven, Cook placed two arms on her shoulders and looked her square in the eyes, stopping her string of apologies.

“No excuses. Just results.” He smiled. “And I think I like these results.”

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Kelly Garriott Waite, who wrote:

The sun glinted off the surface of the ocean. It was a dreary day.

I challenged FlamingNyx, who will answer my prompt here before the end of the week.

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Mark of the Magicka

Kip gazed up at the iron gates in front of her. The entrance to the Magicka was forbidding, but deceptively so: the metal was twisted into an intricate design that left many holes large enough for a man to climb through. Upon closer inspection, however, Kip noticed that the air in the space between the bars faintly glowed blue, and her heart beat a little quicker when she imagined what might happen to the fool attempting to breach the gates.

“State your name and business,” a low voice called out. Kip looked around, but she saw no guard house or window in the smooth walls. In fact, from what she could see through the gates, the courtyard itself was deserted.

Summoning her courage, she stepped forward and squared her shoulders. “My name is Kip. They sent me here from Olstrick.”

“We don’t have room for every orphan to come begging for shelter. If Olstrick is full up, they shouldn’t be sending you here. Move along, boy!”

Kip frowned and crossed her arms over her flat chest. “Beg pardon, but I’m a girl.” Sister Kay said in a few months I’d be bleeding, and then I’ll be a woman. “I was sent here because…they don’t want…someone…like me.” She raised her left hand to show a large, dark circle on her palm.

Silence.

Kip lowered her hand slowly and bit her lip. Her palm still itched something fierce, with the new skin having just begun to grow back after the elders at Olstrick had branded her as a witch, and their voices still echoed in her mind: Mark her before she marks the rest of us. She’ll grow up to be a monster, just like her mother.

Still no response from inside the keep. If the Magicka didn’t let her in, she had no idea where she would go. “Hello?” She called.

The blue glow between the iron bars grew brighter, and with a click, the gates swung open. A broad-shouldered man with dark eyes and an even darker beard stood behind the gates. He wore black leather armor with a silver crescent moon emblazoned on the chest, but his thick-as-logs arms were bare, save a ring of symbols and animals tattooed around each of his biceps. Kip’s jaw dropped.

Photo taken by enderFP

“Well, I’m not going to wait all day,” the man said.

She didn’t need to be asked twice. She was inside the gates before they could change their mind about her.

Once inside the courtyard, she saw that it was not at all deserted as she first thought; in fact, there were so many tents and tables set up that she realized there was a full bazaar in the middle of this castle keep. She looked back at the gates and wondered why she couldn’t see it from the outside.

The man followed her gaze. “It’s enchanted, boy,” he growled. “Lots of things in this place are. You’ll get used to it.”

Kip craned her neck up at him and frowned again. “I’m not a boy,” she insisted, but he was already walking through the marketplace stalls, and she had to race to keep up with him.

The marketplace was a maze of vendors and wares, and Kip lost her bearings after the first few turns. Every once in a while, the large man would stop and point out different vendors in the stalls. As he mentioned each person and what they did, the tattoos on his arms began to shift and turn as if in response. Kip began to get dizzy watching the tattoos, but they were so fascinating and intricate, she couldn’t look away.

The man stopped walking abruptly and turned to face Kip, who nearly collided into him. He bent over to look her straight in the face.

“Listen, boy,” he warned, “I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing, but whatever is, quit it. My spirits haven’t been this talkative since I got my first mark, and it’s driving me nuts.” His inky eyes were angry.

Photo by enderFP

She shifted her gaze back to his tattoos. They had all stopped moving, but the creatures had shifted so that they were looking directly at her. She reached out to touch them. “What are they?”

In the blink of an eye, he grabbed her wrist. “First rule of the Magicka, boy: never touch another wizard’s mark. Not without permission.”

His hold tightened. Her palm began to burn, as if the fiery brand was pushing into her flesh all over again. Tears came to her eyes, but she refused to cry out.

“Rory!” A woman’s voice rang out sharply from the crowd. The man released Kip’s hand, and the burning immediately ceased. He dropped to one knee in a reverent bow.

Kip looked up and saw the most beautiful woman in the world standing before them. The woman’s long auburn hair was pulled into a loose braid, and she wore a flowing azure tunic with vertical slits all the way up the side, and as she moved, Kip caught glimpses of a large, ornate tattoo of roses on the woman’s ivory skin. As she looked into the woman’s deep blue eyes, Kip was overcome with awe, and she, too, dropped to her knees.

“Rise, child,” the woman said, with a gentle voice. Kip stood up, but kept her gaze to the ground. “Has Rory here been bothering you?”

Kip glanced sidelong at Rory, still kneeling before the woman, his gaze also averted. “No, ma’am. I shouldn’t have tried to touch his mark. It’s the first rule of the Magicka.”

The woman laughed. Were those bells tinkling, or was that just her voice? “A quick learner, this one.” She placed her hands on Rory’s broad shoulders and leaned forward to kiss the top of his head. “Be at ease, my champion. Arise, and accompany us. We shall both take the child where she needs to go.”

Rory rose, and Kip could see that all the anger in his face had disappeared. He grunted and walked ahead of them through the crowd.

The woman turned to Kip and held out her hand. “I’m Lady Rose.”

“Kip,” she responded as she shook the lady’s hand tentatively. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Ask away,” said Lady Rose, her eyes scanning the crowd as they navigated around the stalls.

“These tattoos — the marks — what are they?”

Lady Rose smiled. “It’s the mark of the Magicka. We all have them inside us. When you embrace your own abilities and follow our ways, the marks rise to the surface and show themselves to the world.”

Kip looked at the circle burned into her palm. “But…why would you want to reveal that?” Tears came to her eyes as she remembered the angry faces of the men who wielded that brand.

“It’s true that there are many in the world who fear us,” Lady Rose said gently as she took Kip’s dirty, scarred hand into her own. “But there are also those who love us, for we provide great services. We use our abilities to help the crops grow, to solve problems…and to heal.” She opened Kip’s hand, revealing new, smooth skin, with no sign of any scar.

Rory turned around in time to see Kip’s eyes grow large in amazement. He chuckled, and for the first time, Kip felt like Rory was beginning to acknowledge her as a human being. “Folks around here are grateful for what we do, and these marks show them who we are.” With a wink, he pointed to a small building at the edge of the courtyard with several scantily clad women draped around the entrance. “The tattoo means I get all their services for free.”

Lady Rose loudly cleared her throat, and Rory quickly shut his mouth and turned back around, leading them at last to the tower entrance. At the doors, he bowed to them both. “Welcome to the Magicka, boy,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll see you tomorrow, for your first lesson.” And with that, he wandered back towards the front gates.

Photo by alyssagoesbang

Kip noticed that the roses on the lady’s side were undulating, growing all the way up her back and entwining her arms. They were so realistic, Kip thought she might prick herself on one of the thorns. She grew dizzy watching the roses bloom and fade in rapid succession.

Lady Rose turned to Kip and cupped her face with both hands. “You haven’t even learned what magic is and already you’re tapping into some of the strongest sources of energy. With the right guidance and enough training, you could easily become one of the most powerful mages in four worlds.” She leaned over and kissed Kip on the forehead. “But for now, Kip,” she murmured, “Go inside. Find your room. We will start your training tomorrow.”

This week’s Indie Ink Challenge comes from Brad McDonald, who writes:

The tattoo means I always get their services for free.

If you’ve been reading along, you know that I decided to put a little twist on this challenge and create a challenge of my own! I wasn’t flooded with responses, but the ones I did get were really great! Much thanks to alyssagoesbang, enderFP, and Tara Roberts (whose tattoo unfortunately didn’t make it into the story, but was awesome nonetheless). They are really beautiful, and I loved the stories that went with each one.

I challenged Runaway Sentence (again! woohoo!), who answered it with a surprising twist here.

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Tattoo Contest: Submissions Needed!

This week for the Indie Ink Writing Challenge, I got a really interesting prompt, and I decided to do something a little different with it this time.

My prompt came from Brad MacDonald, who wrote:

The tattoo means I always get their services for free.

I have a really good idea of what I want to do, and it involves some sci-fi/fantasy writing. But I would love to feature a picture of a real tattoo. I don’t have any tattoos myself, but I know there are some really excellent tattoo artists out there.

So, I’m putting a call out to anyone on the interwebs: if you have a tattoo that you love, or if you are a tattoo artist or graphic artist or just have some really awesome doodles for a cool tattoo, send them my way! I’ll feature my favorite tattoo in my story (which I will post this Thursday).

Unfortunately this contest does not involve money; but if you win, you will get some exposure, internet promotion, and my undying love.

UPDATE: I’ve closed submissions and am now furiously typing out my story so I can get it in before tonight’s deadline!

UPDATE TO THE UPDATE: Read the story that was inspired by the submitted tattoos!

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Drifter

“You’ve done it again, Kelly.”

Startled, Kelly looked up from the magazine he was reading.

Pettigrew stood at the door of the cockpit, arms crossed. “Every time you have been on watch this week, you’ve managed to get us off course.” He reached over and grabbed the magazine from Kelly’s greasy hands. “What the hell has got you so distracted?”

Kelly started to protest, but it was too late. “It’s nothing, just…a magazine I picked up when we were docked at New Mercury.”

Pettigrew thumbed through the dog-eared pages. It had only been five days since their stopover at New Mercury, but Kelly had clearly read it cover to cover several times over. With months at a time between ports, most crewmen considered any new reading material a lifeline to stave off the boredom, but this magazine was more worn than most after five days; it looked like it had been been through the wash and then some. And there weren’t even any naked pictures! He tossed it back to Kelly. “Well, stop reading and look to your station. We’re drifting towards a supernova, and Cap’n will be pissed if she has to burn another wormhole just to fix your stupid mistake.”

Photo taken by the Chandra X-Ray telescope
Kelly’s eyes grew wide at the mention of a supernova, and he began to busy himself with the computers at the helm.

Pettigrew snickered and went below.

Kelly had never meant to end up in space. When he was young, while all the other children were playing Cops & Aliens, he had dreamed of staying on Earth and opening his own ice cream shop. He loved ice cream — the real kind, not the stuff they feed you in space.

But before Kelly was old enough to tell anyone about his dream, Da had gotten a promotion and shipped off to Cerberus to oversee the uranium mines. And then Ma had gotten sick and died before Da’s first message even made it back home. Da had sent for him immediately, but the trip from Earth to Cerberus took longer than expected, and by the time he saw Da again, Kelly had grown into a young man. Da had been able to tell right away that Kelly would never make it on the inside of a mine, so he had immediately signed Kelly up to be an engineer on a Runner — mid-sized ships that delivered goods from one planet to another. “You can go anywhere in the universe, m’boy,” he’d said, thumping Kelly on the back. “Who wants to stay on a dingy ol’ planet, anyhow?”

Kelly never was able to tell his da that he hated space.

A warning light flashed on the console in front of him. Kelly sighed and moved his hand to the controls to pull the ship out of light speed. With luck and a little bit of finesse, he could do it slowly enough not to wake the Cap’n.

He really didn’t want to wake the Cap’n.

He moved the throttle ever so gently, but halfway down, the lever stopped. He gave it a little more pressure, but it didn’t budge. He crouched under the console to investigate the problem.

“What the…Kel-LY!!!”

Kelly jerked to attention so quickly that he banged his head on the console. He winced.

A short, stocky girl stood a few inches away, her short hair sticking every which way and her face bright red with anger.

“C-c-cap’n Rowan,” Kelly stammered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Well of course you didn’t mean to wake me, idiot,” Cap’n Rowan sneered. “What in the Seven Sisters of Pleiades do you think you are doing to my ship?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Kelly objected. “I just–”

“No, you’re right. You’re a moron. A scab that keeps growing back. I took you on against my better judgment because your daddy owns the biggest mining business in ten systems, but you don’t seem to have any of your daddy’s sense, do you?” Her face started to turn purple, and she poked him in the chest repeatedly for emphasis.

“I-I-I, there was gum–”

“I don’t give a flying turd what your excuse is this time. You’ve fallen asleep at the helm more times than I can count, and now Pettigrew tells me that you’ve gotten distracted again reading some stupid magazine.” She leaned down and picked up the magazine. “What is this rag, anyhow?”

“Just a–”

Cap’n Rowan’s eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the cover. “Gelato Companion? What kind of a pervert are you, Kelly?” She leafed through the pages quickly. “Chrissake, there’s not even any naked pictures!”

She stopped with a sudden realization. “Oh my god. This is something you really love, isn’t it, Kelly?” she said slowly.

Kelly swallowed.

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice got sickeningly sweet. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have treated you this way. I would have just done this.” She carried the well-worn magazine to the trash bin and threw it in. With a push of a button, it was incinerated.

Stifling back tears, Kelly busied himself with the controls at the console. But Cap’n Rowan was back in his face. No matter which way he turned, the little woman was inches away. “Aww, are you going to cry? Is the pansy-ass gelato-eating crybaby going to cry? Do your fracking job, Kelly. Get us to where we need to go. Because as soon as we get there, I’m throwing your ass off the ship.”

Something in him snapped. He knew he wouldn’t see his da again, but he didn’t care. The supernova loomed large on the monitor, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be somewhere, anywhere, away from space. He reached down to the throttle and pushed it as high as he could go. Faster than light speed, straight into the supernova.

She was still shouting at him, but he didn’t hear her anymore. Everything was moving so slowly. Pettigrew running in, diving for the wormhole switch; Cap’n Rowan looking scared, for once. And then light. And heat. So much heat.

And then cold.

This week’s Indie Ink Challenge came from Carrie, who writes:

drift into trouble

My challenge went out to Angela Alvarez, who posted her awesome response here.

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Synopsis

After a couple weeks’ hiatus, I’m back in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge. It’s good to be back, folks. This week’s prompt comes from Head Ant, who writes:

An opera is being written about your life. Summarize the first act.

I’ve put the challenge at the top this time because I wanted to explain a little bit about what I decided to do with this totally exciting and incredibly daunting task. An opera about my life?? How in the world would anyone be able to put my complicated life into approximately three hours? I mean, heck, Harry Potter’s life had to be told in almost 20 hours, and they left out huge chunks of plot from the book. Not that I’m anything like Harry Potter, but you know what I mean.

Most opera plots paint pictures in very large brush strokes. If you don’t believe me, just take a look at some of this year’s Twitter #operaplot contest submissions, where you have to summarize an entire opera plot in 140 characters or fewer.

The whole medium of opera necessitates skimpy plots because most of the stage time is taken up with arias about how a character is feeling. Often, action will take place off stage and explained in exposition by one of the characters as a storytelling tool to move the plot forward.

In addition, the characters portrayed in opera are usually larger-than-life archetypes who make stupid, stupid mistakes. It makes for great storytelling, but terrible living…and I decided at a very early age that I had had enough drama in my childhood to last a lifetime, so I tend to avoid the stupid, stupid mistakes as an adult. (Not that I don’t make mistakes, mind you; I just don’t make monumentally stupid, opera-worthy mistakes. At least I try not to).

With that in mind, I decided to create my own autobiographical opera synopsis in the style of Les contes d’Hoffmann, which is a collection of stories in which the poet E.T.A. Hoffmann is the protagonist. Each act is a fantastical tale that deals more in metaphor than reality. (This way I can also protect the identities of the innocent and not-so-innocent…but the overarching story is still autobiographical in nature)

I also decided that if I was going to create an opera synopsis, I couldn’t just stop at the first act; I had to finish it. Also, I decided my opera was going to be sung in Italian. Just because. Clearly I had way too much fun with this challenge!

My challenge went out to Penny, who will post her answer to my prompt here before the end of the week.

The Adventures of Supermaren: the opera

Cast

Maren – mezzo-soprano
Teresa, her friend – soprano
Gianmarco, a suitor – bass-baritone
Giotto, a lawyer – tenor
Stefano, his friend – tenor
Raimondo – baritone

Chorus – friends, party-goers, wedding guests

Dancers
The Puppeteer
Young Maren (child dancer)
The Mother
Puppets

Synopsis

Prologue: Ballet-Pantomime

The Mother and The Puppeteer dance a pas de deux. Young Maren enters, and The Puppeteer begins a puppet show for Young Maren. During the show, The Mother leaves, and the Puppets begin to play with Young Maren. At first she is delighted by the attention, but soon tires and looks for her mother. The Puppets do not allow her to leave. She begs The Puppeteer for release, but instead, he attacks her and forces her to dance a twisted variation of the first pas de deux. The Puppets carry her off the stage.

Act I

A Victorian Mansion.
Maren is in a tower, singing of her romantic ideal and wondering if there is someone out there to sweep her off her feet (“Chi sarà il mio principe?”). Her friend Teresa enters, with news that the guests are arriving for her birthday party, and that the very rich Gianmarco is expected to attend. They sing a duet about the potential of a rich mate (“Non mi dispiacerebbe”). They descend the stairs to find a party in full swing. Gianmarco arrives with his friends and immediately declares his love for Maren (“Non riesco a respirare”). While he is singing, however, The Puppeteer arrives and Maren becomes afraid. She is the only one who can see him. The Puppeteer begins moving Maren around the room, throwing her first at Gianmarco, then making her spurn him. Embarrassed, Gianmarco becomes angry and tells her how worthless she is. She begs him to understand, with a reprise of “Non riesco a respirare,” but The Puppeteer makes it so that she cannot sing the right words.

Gianmarco laughs cruelly at her antics and says that two can play at that game; he picks a random woman, kisses her in front of everyone, and announces that the party will continue at his house. Laughing and cheering, the crowd follows him out the door, leaving Maren alone.

Act II

A library.
Giotto and his friend Stefano are arguing over a legal point and having a great time with their debate. Maren enters, singing sadly, with The Puppeteer not far behind her. Giotto asks who she is. Stefano replies that she is a singer who has been cursed to be unlucky in love. Giotto then asks who the man is behind Maren, and Stefano does not know what he is talking about.

Curious, Giotto approaches Maren and the two start a conversation about their love of books (“I libri possono cantare”). Giotto points out The Puppeteer behind Maren, and she becomes frightened. When Giotto addresses The Puppeteer directly, he does not answer, but gestures menacingly at Giotto. Giotto encourages Maren to confront The Puppeteer, using some of the most powerful words in the world: Shakespeare’s Hamlet (“Difenderci, O angeli e ministri della grazia!”). Defeated, The Puppeteer disappears and Maren is released from his clutches.

Filled with gratitude, Maren declares her love for Giotto, who sadly informs her that her love can never be requited because he only has eyes for Stefano. He leaves her, quoting the holiest of books, Winnie the Pooh: “You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

Act III

A Renaissance Faire.
Maren and Teresa sing bawdy songs about how they don’t need a prince anymore: just someone who will please them. Raimondo, who has been watching them sing, stands up and applauds. He will please Maren quite well, he boasts, and takes her into his arms. As he does so, The Puppeteer appears, and attempts to capture Maren once again. But she is no longer afraid of The Puppeteer, and she joins hands with Raimondo and Teresa to banish him once and for all (“Basta, basta!”). Defeated by the power of love, The Puppeteer loses all his magic, and his Puppets, now freed, surround him an devour him.

Epilogue

Maren and Raimondo are married, and for a wedding gift, he gives her a red cape and tells her that she has the power, through her words, to reach others who have been abused or held captive by their own fears. As she puts on her cape, Maren pledges her love to Raimondo and they declare that they shall conquer the evils of the world together, to the cheers of the throng (“Evviva, evviva!”).

Here are some of my own submissions to the #operaplot contest (no, I didn’t win):

  • Exiled prince meets tyrannical queen who decapitates her suitors. Of course he’s got to have her now. Typical. [Turandot]
  • Don’t you hate it when your boss is after your daughter and you try to assassinate him but you kill your daughter instead? [Rigoletto]
  • Bad-ass dude is taken down through paranoia by a disgruntled worker. Though strangled, his wife sings for a while before dying. [Otello]
  • Hey girls: saved by a hot guy in a swan boat? Do you want to marry him? Then listen carefully: DON’T ASK HIM WHERE HE’S FROM. [Lohengrin]
  • Ugly monster gets bullied by children, grows up to be an existentialist. [Grendel]
  • If you love someone, stab her in Act IV. [Carmen]
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Straw Into Gold

They call me Rumpelstiltskin.

I’m telling you that up front, because for a very long time, people could never remember my name. And when I finally could get someone to say my name out loud, I ended up becoming villified by the media for centuries. Never mind the fact that I took a poor girl and elevated her to the richest and most powerful position in the country. Never mind that I brought the kingdom from the brink of financial ruin into economic prosperity. They always forget that point when they tell the story; they like to focus only on the negative bits.

Maybe it’s time I got to tell my side of the story. Maybe you won’t be so quick to judge next time.

It all started when I was a stupid teenager. I was exploring the caves near my house and stumbled upon a pile of old, discarded spinning wheels, probably from The Burning Times (a few generations ago, when the king ordered all the spinning wheels and spindles in the kingdom to be burned. I never could figure out why someone would want to destroy such an important tool of industry, just on the off chance your daughter might be hurt using it. That king had eliminated a major export: fine cloth. The economy had begun to take a nose dive from there, and the kingdom was now heavily in debt. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face!).

On the back of the heap, one spinning wheel stood out that looked to be not as broken as the rest. The wood was still in good condition after all these years, and all the parts were still intact.

And then I noticed something glittering on the bobbin. Gold thread!

I rummaged through the rest of the heap for hours, but couldn’t find any more. Still, even this small bit of gold was more than I had seen in my short lifetime; I moved the fly wheel back and forth, watching the gold gleam on the bobbin. There were a few tufts of grass stuck to the orifice, which I tried to pull off, but they did not come off so easily. Instead, the fly wheel seemed to pull the grass through the orifice right onto the bobbin, transforming it into gold right in front of my eyes.

With the sun already beginning to set, I wasted no time. I strapped the entire spinning wheel to my back and returned to my house, imagining how excited my family would be when I showed them this unusual object.

To my dismay, nobody recognized me when I came home. No matter what I did or said, my family and neighbors treated me like a complete stranger — and nobody in town liked strangers. I was beaten and left for dead by the side of the road, with my spinning wheel still strapped to my back.

I was discovered the next day by an old wise-woman who had been cast out of the town years ago after being accused of witchcraft. She took pity on me and brought me to her home in the middle of the woods. It was she who told me that I should never have put my hands on such a powerful magical item. “You’ve probably been cursed with anonymity,” she informed me as she nursed me back to health. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before.”

I sat up in bed. “You have? Is there any cure? Should I destroy the spinning wheel?”

She chuckled. “The previous owners obviously couldn’t destroy it. What makes you think you can?”

“Then what should I do? How do I get my life back?”

Her withered face turned thoughtful. “If you can find someone who will remember your name and say it out loud, the curse should be broken.”

“Then do it. Say my name.”

“What is it, dear?”

“It’s Rumpelstiltskin.”

“I’m sorry, what? I couldn’t hear you.”

“Rumpelstiltskin.”

We went back and forth like this for several minutes, until she finally shook her head. “I think the curse is too strong for me. The second after you tell me your name, I forget it. You’ll have to find someone who is really stubborn and has a really strong motivation for remembering your name.”

The wise-woman let me stay with her, and in return I helped her around the house and the garden. Knowing I was stuck with the spinning wheel, I decided to put it to work for me. I learned how to spin straw into gold. I never spun too much, but we were able to afford plenty of fresh-milled corn and flour, and I kept us both well-clothed.

Every night after dinner, the wise-woman and I would sit in front of the fire and brainstorm ways to break my curse. Our plans got more and more elaborate as the months wore on, although we both knew that in all likelihood I would never find a cure.

Two winters after she found me, the wise-woman died. I stayed in her house, took care of her garden, but with every passing year, I became more and more determined to find someone who could speak my name out loud and break the curse. Every night I made plans, just like the wise-woman and I used to do, but I did so patiently and methodically. I learned how to read people and manipulate them through their greed. It’s amazing what people will do for gold. I should know.

I got my lucky break a few decades later, when a new miller moved into town. His eyes lit up the first time I brought my strands of gold to him as payment for flour. He invited me to dinner that night, and I knew he was hoping to foist his daughter off on me to get to my gold. I happily accepted.

His daughter was very beautiful, but she was not very bright. She paid more attention to her looks than her domestic duties; dinner that evening was terrible. She seemed frightened by her father and shy around me. When her father left us alone together, I tried to make her a little more comfortable.

“You’re not very attracted to me, are you?” I asked bluntly.

“Oh…uh–” she stammered, glancing nervously at her father’s silhouette in the garden.

“It’s okay. I know I’m no catch.” My beating so many years ago had left me with a disfigured face and one leg that had healed shorter than the other.

“My father thinks you would make a good husband.”

I peered closely at her. “Don’t you want to know my name first?”

“Oh, of course!” she answered, giggling. “But I know your name already, don’t I?”

“Do you? What is it?”

“It’s…um…it’s…I can’t remember.” Her bright blue eyes welled with tears. “But I’m sure I know it!”

I gently placed my hand on her arm, and she flinched slightly. She was perfect for my plans. “Don’t worry, my dear,” I said. “I don’t actually want to get married.”

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Would you like to be my friend instead?”

“Friend?” Her eyes widened. “I…suppose,” she answered. “As long as Father doesn’t mind,” she added, the nervous edge coming back into her voice.

That’s when I put my plan into action. I gave the miller’s daughter some of my golden strands and told her to keep them in her yarn basket. I visited often, bringing more and more golden strands, especially when I noticed her father taking them for himself. I set up the road block that caused the king to pass by the miller’s house that day, and I was the one who suggested to her that she start spinning by the road, with her shiny golden strands hanging out of her basket.

I was all too happy to oblige her when she came to me for help after the king demanded that she spin straw into gold. And at the end of every night that I would deliver her gold, I would see her slumped over her spinning wheel, dried tears streaking her cheeks. “My name is Rumpelstiltskin,” I would whisper in her ear. “Tell the king who is helping you. Say my name and we shall both be free.”

But she never said my name.

That last evening, I arrived in her cell, and I was angry. “What is my name?” I demanded.

“I don’t remember,” she replied. “I know you’ve done so much for me…but I need your help again. I’ll give you anything.”

I pretended to think about it, but I knew what I was going to ask for. “Will you give me your first born child?”

She gasped. For a moment, I thought she was going to refuse, but she glanced at the skein of gold I held in my hand. She nodded. “Anything.”

And so I brought her the rest of the gold and whispered my name in her ear at dawn.

The king, pleased with all the riches this stupid woman had provided him, married her. I sent her messages, trying to remind her who I was, trying to get her to say my name, but the harder I tried, the less she remembered me.

Finally, she gave birth to a son. And I watched from afar as she nursed and cooed over her baby. Finally, I thought. She will have motivation.

In the middle of the night, I sneaked into the nursery and plucked the sleeping baby out of his cradle.

“I knew you would come.” She had been sleeping in a chair near the cradle and had woken up as I had entered the room.

“We had a deal.”

“I know…but…he’s my baby. I can’t let him go. I just can’t.”

I sighed and put the baby back down. He tossed and cooed but did not awaken. “Then I have a deal for you. Say my name, my true name, and I will never return.”

“But I don’t know it!” She began to weep in frustration.

“Well, then, I’m sorry. I’ll just have to take–”

“No!” she cried. “Give me three days. Three days, and I’ll figure out your name.”

We stared at each other for a long time. Finally, I turned and limped out of the room. “Three days, your majesty. And then your son is mine.”

You know the rest of the story; she used the vast resources she had at her disposal to find out my name, but the curse affected everyone. It wasn’t until she followed me out into the woods herself and saw me in front of my little cottage, singing a song about my name.

She thought she was the victor; she thought she had saved her baby and defeated the monster — that’s what she told people I was, after everything I did for her! What she never realized was that I was just as much of a winner as she.

Once my veil of anonymity was lifted, I had no desire to go anywhere near that cursed spinning wheel again. I tried starting over again, but the queen was so afraid that I would tell everyone that she hadn’t spun the straw into gold that she spread terrible rumors about me (That bit about me stamping my feet until I fell into hell? Not true. I happened to step on a rotted board and got my leg stuck in the floor for about a second. They don’t keep those palaces in nearly as good shape as you might think). I hoped to put the past behind me, but the rumors kept following me, wherever I went. I almost began to wish for anonymity again. Almost.

All those years of planning paid off, though. I knew exactly how to pay her back for making me infamous. I waited until her son had grown and her husband had died, and then I had the spinning wheel hand-delivered to the queen. She couldn’t resist touching it.

Think about it: in all the times you have heard this story, did you ever learn what her name was?

This week’s Indie Ink challenge came from Jurgen Nation, who gave me this prompt:

Name something (a person, place or thing). Then take it from there.

I challenged Stefan, who answered his prompt in kick-ass fashion here.

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Project No-Poo (Part 5): Staying on the wagon?

If you are just tuning in, read my previous posts about Project No-Poo:
[Part 1 – Why no poo?]
[Part 2 – Becoming a dirty, dirty hippie]
[Part 3 – Conditionally unconditioned]
[Part 4 – What happens when you put vinegar in your hair]

After all these experiments and my intense detox period, I noticed that I was starting to run really low on my Terressentials Mud Hair Wash. Should I buy more? Should I try something different? I looked at the pros and cons of the mud wash.

The Good

Surprisingly, the mud works as a cleanser. It takes a while to get used to putting mud in your hair (and more importantly, making sure you wash all of it out!), but it really does get the dirt and oils out, and even more importantly, it pulls out all the silicones and waxes and other synthetic stuff after a while. If you ever just want to go through a hair detox, I would recommend it highly.

At $1.28-$2.00 per ounce (depending on the size), it’s three times more expensive than my old shampoo ($0.40 per ounce); but since I only plan on using it once every 5-7 days, I figure I’d actually be spending less money in the long run with the mud hair wash.

The Terressentials product line is 100% USDA-certified organic, and it’s free of detergents, sulfates, or any synthetic chemicals. My tree-hugging conscience can rest easy because I’m not doing any harm to the environment, and I have to admit, I like watching people do double-takes when I tell them that I wash my hair with mud.

The Bad

As one might guess, washing your hair with mud does have its down side. My tub looked like I had committed the gruesome murder of a golem every time I used the hair wash. This was especially true during the detox period. I had to scrub the bathtub every day, which was a little annoying, to say the least. (I suppose if I’m only going to use the mud once a week, that’ll give me a good excuse to clean the tub when I’m supposed to clean it anyway, right?)

I also began having serious issues with my drain. My husband and I both have long hair, and he has a beard, so we have a heavy-duty hair catcher over our drain, which I empty after each shower. Clearly the mud was going down the drain and getting clogged on some hair that had made it through the hair catcher, so I had to get in there with a Zip-It and pull out some nasty stuff. I really didn’t want to use a harsh chemical drain cleaner for several reasons (primarily because this whole experiment has been about being all eco-conscious and stuff), so I used an earth-friendly enzyme drain cleaner, which worked just fine…but the plain fact of the matter is, the mud does clog the drain.

The Hairy

If I am going to continue with the Terressentials product, it was clear I’d also have to supplement my hair regimen with some sort of conditioner. The mud works by taking away dirt and oils, but it also takes away the natural oils as well (which is why you aren’t supposed to use it every day). Hence the frizz. The Shea Butter Curl-Defining Gel does a good job of post-shower styling, but one thing I noticed is that it is rather heavy, and I’m not exactly sure how good a conditioner it is.

Back to Coconut Oil

While I was at Whole Foods looking for shea butter, I also picked up a jar of coconut oil (organic, unrefined coconut oil, with nothing else added) to try on my hair as a natural conditioner. The last time I used coconut oil, I used some cheap petroleum- and wax-filled product, which didn’t work out so well…but this time I went for the real deal.

Applying the coconut oil

Everything I had read about coconut oil said that I should apply it about an hour before taking a shower, or even let it stay in my hair overnight. I guess this gives the oil time to soak into the hair shaft and makes it harder to wash out or something…I’m not entirely sure. Nevertheless, I diligently applied the oil to my hair, little by little, until it was completely covered.

Coconut oil is extremely easy to apply. It’s solid at room temperature, but once you get it on your hands, the warmth of your hands melts it right away. so I was using only a little bit at a time. I spent more time making sure my canopy curls got a lot of coverage, because they were the ones that needed the most help.

When I was done, my hair was super shiny! I looked in the mirror and this song came to mind:

It was also pretty greasy, so I didn’t want to keep it in overnight; plus, I worried about the oil going rancid if I left it in for too long. I opted for washing it out after an hour.

But here was my big problem: I had almost completely run out of mud wash by this point. I definitely didn’t have enough to get all this coconut oil out. Should I go back to shampoo to get the excess oil out of my hair?

Castile Soap

Sitting at the edge of my tub was Dr. Bronner’s Lavender Liquid Soap, which is about as crunchy-granola-hippie as you can get. I knew this was safe to put in my hair, for sure. I got in the shower and started to get my hair wet. The coconut oil started to take on a little waxy texture, which made it hard for me to run my fingers through my hair.

I poured a little bit of the liquid soap into my hands and began to distribute it through my hair, making extra sure to massage my scalp and work up a little bit of lather. I happen to know that with Dr. Bronner’s soap, a little bit goes a LONG way, so I went little by little until my hair was detangled enough that I could run my fingers through it again.

Success! The coconut oil made my hair really soft, and the castile soap washed all of the excess oil away. Since I didn’t need to style it, I did not apply any shea butter gel; I simply dried my hair and got ready for bed. The next morning, I wet my hair and styled it with the shea butter gel, and I was good to go.

My New Hair Regimen

I did end up buying more Terressentials mud wash. I am going to use it once a week to get rid of the dirt and build-up, but if I feel like I need to clean my hair more often, I will use Dr. Bronner’s. I’ll give myself a deep conditioning treatment of coconut oil every so often — maybe every other week? I’m not sure yet — and I will use the Beautiful Girls shea butter gel after each shower to activate my curls and hold the moisture in the hair so I can keep my curls all day long. I’m still on the hunt for a nice leave-in conditioner, but I want to keep the synthetics out of my hair, so it’s got to be something special. I’ve also ordered some of Terressentials’ Cocoa Butter Body Oil as a possible conditioner…I’ll report on that as soon as I try it out.

Throughout this entire process, I’ve gotten advice from all sorts of people on what to do and how to maximize my curls. Everyone has a different regimen because everyone’s hair is different, but most people I have talked to don’t think you can do it without synthetics. I aim to prove them wrong.

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Project No-Poo (Part 4): What happens when you put vinegar in your hair

If you are just tuning in, read my previous posts about Project No-Poo:
[Part 1 – Why no poo?] [Part 2 – Becoming a dirty, dirty hippie]
[Part 3 – Conditionally unconditioned]

After the detox period, I was still struggling with my frizzy hair, especially on the top layer (the “canopy curls,” according to Curly Girl: The Handbook). My “crouching curls” (the protected layers of tightly coiled curls found close to the scalp and underneath the canopy, according to Massey) were doing quite well, despite my recent abuse. But then again, the crouching curls have never gone away for as long as I have had hair.

An example of Early Music Hair. That's not me! I promise.

What I was really worried about was that top layer. When it gets dry and frizzy, the whole shape of my head looks weird, and I really didn’t want to develop EMH (Early Music Hair – that inevitable descent into truly looking like a hippie, especially amongst those who specialize in early music…which I do sometimes…yikes! See photo)

Apple Cider Vinegar

After my last bouts with less-than-all-natural curl solutions, I decided to go the apple cider vinegar (ACV) route; at least I knew that only contained one ingredient. A quick search told me that I should dilute 1-2 tablespoons of ACV in 1 cup of water. I had slightly more than 2 tablespoons of ACV left in my pantry, so I fudged the ratio a little bit…but I took my bottle of ACV solution into the shower with me to try it out.

Here’s the thing: ACV totally works. it seals the hair cuticle and keeps moisture in, which cuts down on frizz and makes your hair shiny. My hair felt and looked great. I could run my hands through my hair easily, without getting stuck or tangled. However, if you do decide to do it, I have a few caveats based on my own experience:

1. NEVER, ever, pour an ACV solution over your head in the shower after you have shaved. I did, and it stung! Ouchy. If I do it again, I’ll be using the rinse over the sink.

2. Make sure if you’re going to fudge the ratio like I did, err on the side of more dilute rather than more concentrated. After my little experiment in the shower, I thought I had rinsed all of my ACV solution, but I was plagued with the smell of vinegar all day long. I had to apologize to my colleagues for my Salad Head, and my husband told me (as he wrinkled his nose) that I smelled like boardwalk fries. NOT SEXY.

Shea Butter

I finally decided to take a trip to Whole Foods and see what kind of hippie hair products I could find that were über natural and synthetic-free. Whole Foods also sells my old conditioner, so I knew that just because Whole Foods carried it didn’t necessarily mean I didn’t have to read the labels. I had read quite a bit about the benefits of shea butter to seal moisture in the hair shafts, so I decided to look for plain old shea butter or at least something with no synthetics in it.

The only shea butter product that I could find on the shelves that had any kind of smell or consistency that I liked was Beautiful Curls, and of their products, the only ones that appealed to me were their Leave-In Conditioner and Curl-Defining Gel. I took a look at the ingredients:

Curl Activating Shea Butter Leave-In Conditioner: Comfrey (Symphytum officinale) Extract (aqueous), Arnica (Arnica montana) Extract (aqueous), Certified Fair Trade Shea Butter (Butyrospermum parkii), Virgin Coconut Oil (Cocos nucifera), Cetearyl Alcohol (and) Behentrimonium Chloride, Emulsifying Wax, Panthenol, Potassium Sorbate, Magnesium Sulfate, Choline Chloride, Coconut Oil (and) Raspberry Fruit Extract (and) Ylang Ylang Flower Extract, Citric Acid.

For the most part, these ingredients are fine. But cetearyl alcohol and behentrimonium chloride are synthetic chemicals, and magnesium sulfate, although naturally occurring, is one of those dreaded sulfates that people warn about when talking about how bad shampoo is for you. I put the bottle back on the shelf.

The curl-defining gel seemed to have more basic, non-synthetic ingredients.

Shea Butter Curl-Defining Gel: Chamomile (Matricaria recutita) Extract (aqueous), Yarrow (Achillea millefolium) Extract (aqueous), Aloe Vera Gel (Aloe barbadensis), Agave (Agave azul) Extract, Certified Fair Trade Shea Butter (Butyrospermum parkii), Panthenol, Coconut Oil (and) Apricot Fruit Extract (and) Ylang Ylang Flower Extract , Xanthan Gum, Guar Gum, Potassium Sorbate, Citric Acid.

The Curly Girl handbook suggests putting a gel in your hair while it’s still wet, to seal in the moisture, so I figured this gel might be just the ticket. A quick search for Beautiful Curls on my iPhone brought up an explanation of their Fair Trade practices for the shea butter farming and production, and not only that, the package told me that 10% of my purchase would go towards benefiting their West African community empowerment projects. It wasn’t super cheap, but it wasn’t the most expensive thing on the shelf, either…and I was hoping I wouldn’t have to use it on a daily basis.

So what happened when I used it?

Not too shabby.

[Coming Up: Part 5 (the final chapter) – Staying on the wagon?]