Tag: Fiction

Spain.

The horse appeared solid, heavy. It’s legs sounding into the earth, announcing its own existence. The rider was insubstantial. All in black, night and shadow struggled to believe he was there at all. Death twinkled in the starlight on their left side. They rode hard through the night, slowing only as they began the ascent to Arabella. The rider dismounted at the sign post before the small village square. The thin shadow of a man approached the fountain at the center. Death glowed at his left hip. The eerie light cloaked the man in shadow, nearly erasing him, confirming his lack of essence. The horse wandered behind him. It did not fear death. After drinking their fill, rider and mount parted company. The horse smelled grass nearby. The rider smelled frozen earth, pine, and death. Like the horse, he followed his nose.

An introduction to Waverly’s Tale, part 3

The next part of this story is difficult to tell. It contains the strangeness that occurs when we retreat into personal cocoons and long to outgrow them. Heroines often have a space of time redacted from their history. We tend to avoid talking about how little girls become women, how common becomes uncommon. How truths become fiction. Goldman cuts this part from Buttercup’s story. He does it with the phrase, “What with one thing or another, three years passed.” Like Buttercup, we learned a lot. Though our education could be described as nothing more than intense drudgery with a side of general, Gen-x angst. We’re going to skip it.

What with one thing or another, two years passed…

An Introduction to Waverly’s Tale, continued.

A lot happens to a kid in the 2190 days between 12 and 18. The once little girls who wove a self-styled cocoon of acceptance around each other, emerged as full-fledged pre-teens. This is a dangerous and difficult time for women. We’re fragile, yet flexible, eager to find the limits of our malleability. Our bodies expand and lengthen at alarming and completely random rates. We gain knowledge with a terrible cost; life is pain. Our internal organs declare war on comfort. The first battles of womanhood rage within us. We turn on those closest to us. Especially our parents. (Sorry, parents.) They knew this would happen. Every month? FOREVER!? It was inconceivable! It remains total bullshit. (Sorry, kids.) We learn to weaponize our self doubt and throw daggers of insecurity with surprising accuracy. We toughen our own skin and fabricate our first set of emotional armor. Bonnie was challenged by cherubic curves, all at once. She spent her days in agony as her spine took its time lengthening. I was challenged by sharp edges and stagnation. I spent my days honing acerbic wit and sarcasm. At night, I remained small and in the shadows of becoming but not quite.

An introduction to Waverly’s Tale.

This is not a sequel to The Princess Bride. For years, I thought it would be. Maybe for years I hoped it would be. I spent a long time searching for answers. Who kills Humperdink? Does Inigo become the Dread Pirate Roberts? What happens to Fezzik? Is True Love really that terrible? (Spoiler: It is.) Why did you read this? Stay with me. Yes, it is a story about a lost Princess, a Pirate, of Friendship and True Love. Yes, there are giants and witches and miracle men and evil Princes. It is a story of how love change us. It is a story of Princesses and of Brides but it is not Morgenstern, nor Goldman. This story started with them. So, it is with The Princess Bride, the book and my obsession with it, that we will begin.

Wherein past and future arrive at the present. Masks are exchanged and brothers are reunited.

The Revenge made way quickly. The eerie wailing fading behind them did not fade quickly enough. For days, the men aboard would have an echo of it seize them. Only one serious injury resulted when a sailor fell from the rigging trying to cover his ears even though there was nothing but silence and sea on the wind. Mostly it would raise goose flesh and cause an involuntary shudder. At least there would be no positive gossip to lead others to One Tree.

The sea was calm but the ship was heavy and it’s passage threw waves and spray with exceptional force. There was a shadow behind it, but it was not the ship’s own. It was not yet dawn and the moon was new. There was no light to cast the ship’s shadow, but there was a shadow none the less. It kept pace with the vessel, occasionally causing a whitecap of it’s own. A lithe creature moved through the rigging. Barely visible. A liquid drop of ink hiding behind letters. It glided over masts, slipped down ropes, through partially filled sails. In the pre-dawn mist, it tricked the eye into doubting. Was it there? Liquid black dropped to the rail of the ship, silent and smooth, then it was gone. Over the edge to towards the shadow in the water.