500 Words a Day - Happily Ever After

I recently took up the challenge of writing 500 words every day, using writing prompts as a way to get the creative juices flowing. While most of what I've written so far has been too personal to post, I thought I'd post today's effort. Please be kind!

PROMPT: Happily Ever After
And they all lived happily ever after.
That was the idea, anyway, thought King Thasareus, downing his third glass of whisky for the night and waited for one of his servants to whisk it away to the kitchen. This wasn’t the way it had been supposed to go.
Back in the day, he had been simple Thass, youngest son of a poor farmer, with dreams of knights and swords. While his six older siblings had learnt how to work the farm, he had been out in the words swinging sticks at imaginary monsters, pretending to climb towers and rescue princesses. Dreaming of having servants to wait on him, and all the food and drink he could wish for.
Then the dragon really came, and it didn’t seem so fun anymore.
Thass had been sixteen years old when the dragon burnt down the village, carried off the princess, and demanded tribute. The old king had promised that whoever slew the beast would be the heir to the throne, and… well, you know the rest.
But it turns out that getting what you want is not the same as wanting what you get.
Princess Katara had been grateful, for sure, and he couldn’t deny there had been a certain animal magnetism between them at first, but that had quickly turned into disdain, which morphed over a few years into disgust. She had grown up in a royal palace with the best tutors that money could afford. She spoke seven different languages, and could compose love poetry in them all. After ten years of living in the palace, Thasareus was still struggling with his letters. The chasm was just too large to be bridged.
Two years after the rescue, the old king passed away. He’d never been the same after the dragon’s attack - it was nerves, really, and he slowly wasted away. Somewhat reluctantly, the other nobles had crowned Thass king in his place, renamed his King Thasareus I. They saw his incompetency, his ill-suited nature, but they couldn’t go against the clear commands of the beloved king, not when all the common folk were cheering on ‘their man’. Besides, the noblemen of the court new better, Thasareus had realised after a couple of months, they knew that they had time on their side.
The memory of the small-folk was short, and their gratitude fleeting. All the other nobles had to do was bide their time and soon enough the mood would turn against the new-crowned king, once it was clear that he was in way over his head.
Now, Thasareus was king in name only, a figure head for the Royal Council to make the decisions, and sign them in his name. He had stopped going to their meetings a year ago.
Soon, they would tire of being the puppet masters and seek the public glory that came with the crown - only their fear of each other was holding them back. One day, Thasareus would wake up to see a paid assassin looming over him with a knife in his hand, wondering which of his ‘advisors’ was behind it. Perhaps it would be Queen Katara herself.
“More drink!” Thasareus called down the hall.
No one answered. The servants had vanished. One by one the hallway torches went out.
Maybe this was it, Thass wondered absently. He put his head on the cold, marble table, and closed his eyes.

Cinderella and Passover - the Magic of Midnight

    There is a story told across cultures, especially in Europe, of a woman oppressed by her stepmother and stepsisters, who, aided by magical or supernatural help, meets a fabulous prince at a ball. Whether her name is Aschenputtel, Cendrillon or our more common Cinderella, there is a common trope that she has to leave the ball by midnight or else all the magic becomes undone.

    At midnight the coach will turn back into a pumpkin, the horses back into mice, the gorgeous gown back into rags, and the marvelous glass slippers will disappear.

    There is this tendency in western literature to see midnight as the witching hour, the time that is most dangerous, when evil stalks abroad.

    It is no coincidence that Edgar Allan Poe’s the Raven begins “Once upon a midnight dreary” or that the Headless Horseman from Washington Irving’s ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow’ is described as “like a Midnight blast”. The dead of night is all that is unnerving, disquieting, unsettling, as the dawn seems endlessly far away.

    But the Pesach story is, in some ways, the opposite of Cinderella. Cinderella on the night of the ball was free and happy but at the stroke of twelve all the magic came undone - but in the Torah's description of the Exodus, in Exodus 12:29, we see that our freedom began at precisely midnight:

    29 And it came to pass at midnight, that the Lord smote all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the first-born of Pharaoh that sat on his throne unto the first-born of the captive that was in the dungeon; and all the first-born of cattle.

    At that moment the Israelites were no longer slaves - the midnight hour indeed brought danger and death (even the Israelites had to protect themselves with blood on the doorposts) but it also brought redemption.

What is the significance of midnight?

The Book of Josiah - Chapter 18

    It wasn’t his fault. Not really. He was afraid of his dreams and so he fought the darkness. What had happened to his beautiful dreams? Once he had dreamt of other worlds and other times, when a man could be a hero, where he was free to live out his fantasies. But he had squandered his infinite dreams and now was left with only two.
    In one, he watched a cup of tea fall to the floor, so elegant, so graceful, and shatter into a thousand pieces like a drop of rain as it hits the ground; and an inhuman screech filled his ears as brakes burned, tires slid and a car, all too close, collided with a brick wall. It was inevitable and he was bound to watch, over and over again.
    But relatively speaking that was the good dream. In the other, he woke up in his bed to find Ammi lying beside him, worn by the passing of years but as beautiful as ever. And he would wake her up and tell her about the strange dream he had had, and how he had imagined the crash, and her funeral, and his sorrow, and she laughed and said “what a funny dream” and they both laughed together until Dinah came to find out what was going on; and she was so beautiful it ached his heart, and he told her about his strange dream, and how she had died and he had gone to her funeral and been unable to say a word, and he laughed because she was so full of life - they all laughed.
    Joe felt himself falling asleep again and drove his nails harder into his leg - he had to stay awake. it wasn’t his fault that he kept falling asleep in this meeting. How could he go to sleep at night knowing what waited for him in the shadows?
    His head jerked backwards and he knew that he couldn’t help himself. In a few minutes he would be asleep, and there was nothing he could do about it. No, he wouldn’t accept that.
    Eli was still talking but it was just a senseless drone, like an itch at the base of Joe’s mind. He did not understand a word that was being said but couldn’t ignore it. He had to seem interested but to do that he had to stay awake. Rising from his seat in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner, Joe went over to the water machine and poured himself a large cup of water.
    ‘I need something stronger than water,’ Joe thought but then was immediately angry at himself for thinking it. He did not drink any more.

Mirror, Mirror - Reflections on Parashat Vayakhel/Pekudei

    “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”

    The image of the evil queen from Snow White, standing before her magic mirror, has become a fundamental part of western culture, from Disney’s classic cartoon to Charlize Theron, in Snow White and the Huntsman, and Julia Roberts, in Mirror Mirror. The evil step mother, obsessed with her own reflection, her own beauty lasting forever, has become a key part of our idea of what mirrors mean.

    We might then be surprised to find mirrors at the heart of the tabernacle, the mishkan, whose construction we read about this week as the conclusion of the book of Exodus.

    Exodus 38:8 tells us about Betzalel making the basin, the kiyor, with which the priests would wash themselves before beginning the service:
   
    8] And he made the basin of bronze, and the base thereof of bronze, of the mirrors of the serving women that did service at the door of the tent of meeting.

    We know that the mishkan was constructed from the offerings of the people, whatever their hearts moved them to give, but why construct the basin out of mirrors? What place do mirrors have in our most sacred places?

The Tales - A Poem

1.
In a dark and brooding night,
Of endless sighs and scorching gales,
The shaman sat in the fire light
And told the ancient tales.

Across his veined and furrowed face
The fire-light danced in glee,
As in a hushed but forceful voice
The shaman spoke to me:

Dreamscape - Behind the Scenes

So far I've posted seven tales of the Dreamscape, posted in the order in which I wrote them. They are:
•Gladiator
•Birth Day
•Sir Gallant 1 and 2
•Genesis
•Prophecy
•The Dinner Party 1 and 2
•Woman of his Dreams 1 and 2

But I haven't written anything about why or how I began to write this cycle. I decided that that ought to change.



Origin of the Dreamscape
I've been working on stories in this world for a long time. I distinctly remember when the first words of Gladiator came into my head as I was walking to the train station in Bristol having spent the weekend with my future wife. Suddenly the opening words coalesced in my mind, and I had to keep repeating them over and over so as not to forget them before I had a chance to write them down.

That was about 7 years ago.

The initial idea was, I believe, the science-fiction element - a dystopian London where the homeless are driven underground and forced to live in the dark and filth. There I imagined they created their own parallel reality of dream and fable, a place where no one suffered and everyone could have all they wanted. I believe that the element of the dream world was very much inspired by Neil Gaiman's Sandman (which is my favourite book of all time and if you haven't read the series, you really must).

Development of the Tales
But what made this idea better than many others I've had over the years, I think, is that this world provided a frame for far more than just science-fiction stories. In this world of dream and fable I could explore ideas of religion, fantasy, mythology and fairy-tale.

I realised that within this one world I could tell stories in every genre I love.

(more after the jump)

Tales of the Dreamscape - Woman of his dreams - Part 1

 

   Her beauty was, of course, legendary. Even in the Palace of Dreams itself, tales of Aurore’s golden curls and entrancing smile were whispered over the endless feasts. Talk of her beauty was the joy of every young man who dreamt of romance, and the envy of every young woman who dreamt of the same. But hand in hand with the tales of her beauty came stories of her father, Noxus, and his unreasonable and overwhelming attachment to his only child - for he would not allow anyone to court her who had not passed a series of gruelling tasks. What exactly these tasks were, none could say for certain. Some described ferocious battles with seven knights dressed in black. Others said that whoever would marry Aurore must best her in a chariot race or bring her a black diamond. But all one could say for certain was that many had sought her hand and so far, none had succeeded and, having been bound to secrecy, none would describe the challenges they had faced. But suitors kept on trying and kept on dreaming.
    Jack Numbskull had just turned sixteen years old, and felt ready to strike out on his own. His mother, not being an especially adventurous dreamer, had raised him on a small farm. Jack had helped to plough the fields, sow the seeds and bake the bread of dreams. At night, they had sat by the fire and Jack listened to his mother tell him all about the noble deeds of the Duke of Dreams, the Dusk Warrior and Sir Gallant, grandmaster of the mouse. Jack did not remember his father - his mother would say nothing about him when asked but shake her head sadly - so Jack used to imagine that his father had also been a brave hero, riding to the rescue of those in distress.
    Now Jack was no longer a child and he longed to have his own adventures, go on quests that his father would be proud of. So naturally, when his mother told him the story of Aurore, he resolved to make his way to her house immediately.
    “Jack, my son, no one has yet passed the tests of Aurore’s father, Noxus. How can you hope to succeed where so many have failed?”
    “Mother, I must go to seek my fortune wherever it lies. The Unreal gods will guide me.”
    “Jack, Jack. Must you go? Will you not stay here and mind the farm. Who will help me when the harvest comes?”
    Jack smiled. “Dream up a donkey mother, for I must be off to see the Dreamscape and win my bride. It’s what my father would have wanted.”
    His mother smiled a little at that, and nodded absently. Jack Numbskull gave her a hug, a kiss on the cheek and set out on his way, whistling tunelessly as he went.