Archive for the ‘Authors’ Category
Princess Tulip Ariel Jade*
Thursday, September 17th, 2009
* One of my daughters briefly changed her name to this.
Tulip Ariel Jade, called by her subjects “Sue,” had been sent to bed without her supper. Again.
“And it’s totally not fair,” she said to herself, flopping down as hard as she could on the bed. The covers puffed up at the sides with satisfying vigor. So she did it again. And again, and again, and again, till a voice said “Stop!”
Lying across the bed, sheet rippled and ridged around her, Tulip froze. Silence settled over the room. Then she thought she heard a very soft scrape. She wriggled forward and flopped her head down to look under the bed, upside down, hair puddling on the floor and dust in her nose.
Dust bunnies. A Brat doll she’d been missing. And little people, all dressed up, dancing like in the old movies Mom liked. Dancing to no music.
The ladies wore frilly dresses that made bells around their legs, mostly in pastel colors. The men wore black suits that went well with the dresses. The people were all about 3 inches tall. They ignored her while she watched them, her face prickling as the blood pooled in her head. Finally she had had enough.
“Hey!” They kept on dancing. “I’m learning to dance,” she said. “Ballet. Ms Michiko is very nice. She’s from Houston.”
Just then Tulip fell off the bed. “That didn’t hurt,” she announced. One of the ladies beckoned to her and smiled. Tulip had been wanting to join them, so she ran under the bed. The lady was just a little taller than Tulip.
“My name is Lady Parimore,” the dancer said. “And you?” She raised one eyebrow (Tulip had once tried for a week to learn how to do that).
“Tulip Ariel Jade!” she said, with relish. No one would contradict her here.
They let her join the dance. One of the gentlemen didn’t have a partner, and he taught her the steps. He was very handsome and just her height, with black hair, green eyes, and a smile on one side of his mouth, like Uncle Rudy. He said his name was Mr. Pin. He wore a black suit, a ruffled white shirt, and a pink bowtie that matched her dress. The other men’s bowties matched their partners’ dresses too. And now there was music. She flew through dance after dance. It was wonderful.
At last the dancing was over. Mr. Pin whispered in her ear: “Come with us.”
“Really?”
He nodded.
“But what about my things?”
“You’ll have new things, even better ones,” said Lady Parimore.
“Will I be a princess?”
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Pin said.
End
Following Directions
Wednesday, September 16th, 2009
A sequel to yesterday’s “Directions.” (You’ll probably want to ready that story first.)
No problem with the first few. Goat path and royal city road were easy enough; the old woman was a little suspicious, but I helped get her cart out of the ditch and got the flower.
The trouble was the highwaymen. When they “robbed me of everything,” everything included the directions. Which they read. Then Octothorp, the leader of the highwaymen, had one of his henchfolk run back for my goat and planted the old woman’s flower.
We were climbing before it finished growing. Since I was the one it kicked least, I got to carry the goat. We must have been ahead of schedule, since the dragon didn’t show up for nearly an hour. It took quite a bit of terrified running before we wound up upwind of it.
When we finally got a snootfull of goat dander wafting the right direction, the first sneeze incinerated half the highway men, and, by the time the fourth sneeze shook the coins loose and sent the dragon shivering and sniffling away, only Octothorp and I remained.
We looked at the heaps of coins, re-read the instructions, looked back at the coins (the heavy, heavy coins), and then at each other. It was clear neither of us had remembered to save a couple petals from the “old woman’s” flower. No magical wings for us.
“Maybe the stalk we climbed has bloomed,” I said. We could see the vast stem in the distance, the only non-cloud thing in sight.
When we got there, having dragged as much gold as we (and the goat) could carry, the plant was wilting. The petals were too floppy to sustain flight, the stem that was our only remaining way home was rapidly shriveling.
“I’ve worked too hard for too many years to give up now I’m finally a success,” said Octothorp.
“There’s nothing here,” I said.
“Someone built that cloud-castle,” he pointed to the direction sheet. “Take what you want, and I’ll still have more than enough to make a new start. Been meaning to settle down…”
I filled my pockets, slung the goat over my shoulder, and started for home.
Things went well for me from then on — pockets full of gold are as good as the best directions. Some days when the sun slips, glittering, behind the clouds, I wonder how Octothorp is doing, and whether he ever reached his destination or his destiny.