Generate Your Own Fairy Tale
Here:
My ring and shoes vanished under the guise of morning.
I saw the devilish look in the serpent's eye as his spiny tongue wrapped around my body. My legs felt as if they were being stabbed with a thousand tiny needles.
After I took the needle from its place, I pryed my father's bones from the floor and put them in my satchel.
As I reached the mountain's top I took my father's bones and held them to the ground. The people of the earth relinquished their skins and flesh taken over the years of people passing over their home. The skins attached the bones and rose, forming into the figure of a man I knew from when I was young.
I saw the familiar clearing with my father’s chopping block and the axe he used for splitting wood on the ground beside it. Home. I ran through the trees, the wind in my ears, my breath leaving my throat in heavy huffs, my feet slapping the earth beneath the trees of these woods, these woods that had stood between myself and my home for so long.
Before I entered my home my brothers came out, and, thinking I was a peddler, asked how much the jade I carried was worth.
The soil on my skin turned into sprinkles of gold dust. The people proclaimed me some kind of god.
The needle from my tongue flung towards the lying man and struck him in the heart. It gave him poison at the place where it would hurt the most, and soon the man became a limp purple figure of stone.
I was offered a place in the palace, but I could not accept. I wanted to be with the mountain; I felt it move under my skin as I knew part of me was in the mountain too.
My ring and shoes vanished under the guise of morning.
I saw the devilish look in the serpent's eye as his spiny tongue wrapped around my body. My legs felt as if they were being stabbed with a thousand tiny needles.
After I took the needle from its place, I pryed my father's bones from the floor and put them in my satchel.
As I reached the mountain's top I took my father's bones and held them to the ground. The people of the earth relinquished their skins and flesh taken over the years of people passing over their home. The skins attached the bones and rose, forming into the figure of a man I knew from when I was young.
I saw the familiar clearing with my father’s chopping block and the axe he used for splitting wood on the ground beside it. Home. I ran through the trees, the wind in my ears, my breath leaving my throat in heavy huffs, my feet slapping the earth beneath the trees of these woods, these woods that had stood between myself and my home for so long.
Before I entered my home my brothers came out, and, thinking I was a peddler, asked how much the jade I carried was worth.
The soil on my skin turned into sprinkles of gold dust. The people proclaimed me some kind of god.
The needle from my tongue flung towards the lying man and struck him in the heart. It gave him poison at the place where it would hurt the most, and soon the man became a limp purple figure of stone.
I was offered a place in the palace, but I could not accept. I wanted to be with the mountain; I felt it move under my skin as I knew part of me was in the mountain too.
Is that how the Brothers Grimm did it - who would've thunk? Do they have other genres? Do you think Cormac McCarthy has one at home?
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