Tag Archives: storytelling

The Woman’s Wee Man

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So much did she love her wee Sammy Crockett

she kept him tucked safely inside her shirt pocket.

He didn’t much mind the prospect at first

he never was hungry, nor parched from a thirst.

The lining was soft, the fabrics in style

He seemed satisfied, at least for a while.

 

But the day she took him on a long morning  stroll

he started to feel like a con on parole.

He yelled from her pocket, “Enough is enough!

“Yes, I HEAR plenty, but I want to SEE stuff!”

Like bands playing songs, leaves blowing off trees,

a man at a circus atop a trapeze,

the people at market buying their wares,

the making of popcorn at our county fairs!”

 

Well, she loved him so much she planned to devise

something he’d like that would fit his wee size.

She built him a house from a splendid, smooth boulder

and attached the small building to the top of her shoulder.

She filled it with pillows, a couch and plush chairs

and cut out some windows to give him fresh air.

12488204 - image of a hand holding up a house on nice clear blue background.

 

“Look dear,” she said as they ventured to town,

“The queen has arrived with her shiny jeweled crown!

She continued to talk as she traipsed over ground

But her husband said nothing, no peep nor a sound.

 

She turned to the silence, looked in the wee house

and there, snoring deeply, lay Crockett, her spouse.

The townsfolk could hear as she said without doubt,

“He seemed to forget that he yearned to look out!” 

She carted him home, placed the house on a shelf

and decided to do something fun for herself.

 

 

Screenshot 2017-10-15 15.44.43

 

 

first image- 123rf.com

second image:  youtube.com “Walk cycle-the proud naked old lady”

 

Four Quills of a Tale- as scribed by Elias Kent (Entry 5)

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(Four Quills of a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)

Entry 1

Entry 2

Entry 3

Entry 4

 

My hand cramps and I must stop. Not from fatigue, but sadness. How can a great storyteller lose her voice, her color, her light, her purpose in life? Because I, like the rest of you, are fools. Although we would like to believe otherwise, she is not immortal.

The goose-feathered quill quivers on my desk and pleads for me to continue. I pick it up and point the nib to the fine parchment and allow it to take control.

I had been walking both old and new countryside for so many years that, whenever I chanced upon a pond’s reflection, I scarcely recognized myself. The lines in my face became more abundant. My once beautiful auburn hair was laced with coarse gray. Even my thoughts became barren as if poured out of a once beautiful and ornate decanter.

            And, my sweet Goose. Her feathers were also withering as if in sorrowful response to my countenance. Or, perhaps, I withered in response to her feather’s atrophy. Who is to say? And which answer matters?

            Remorsefully, feeling I had little if nothing left to give, I finished a brief story then left the crowd of villagers awaiting more.

            I am unsure as to whether Goose followed me, or I her. But my heart says it was the later. We continued to wander and the further we traveled, the more my footsteps played a sorrowful tune. Needing rest, I discovered a large rock to serve as my pillow. I laid my weary body and soul on the crisp, dying grass and watched as Goose pecked around for silverweed and clover roots before she settled beside me.

            Hours, perhaps day later, I awakened to find the empty space beside me where Goose  had last been.

Four Quills of a Tale- as scribed by Elias Kent (entry 3)

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Dear bloggers, I need your help. After rediscovering something I wrote a few years ago, I am recovering the story and editing as I go. Is this a worthwhile project? Have you read the last two entries? No pressure, but any comments or advice will help me in this endeavor. Thanks so much!

(Four Quills and a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)

Entry One

Entry two

Alas, I remember something new.

“There is a canteen in fine leather casing on the kitchen table,” the old woman had told me. “Drink from it and quench your thirst before you depart.”

Stitched into the leather were gems of topaz, emeralds, rubies and other fine stones I did not recognize. I had picked up the canteen only to realize something anew. The colored gems where not gems at all, but oval splashes of color flush with the leather, yet so vibrant, I felt I could have pulled them off and filled my pockets.

Upon her suggestion, I had pulled out the cork and drank the refreshing liquid allowing its contents to soothe my questions and irritations. Then, quite peculiarly, my heart began to pound and my palms moistened. It was then, the first time in my months of travel that I yearned for home.

Unmoving from my desk, I Elias Kent, find myself dubious regarding the box before me and the old woman who allowed me to take it home.

Yet, the villagers never waivered in their faith of the free-spirited Katarina. And why would they? In her ingenious manner, she had mesmerized her listeners with a prolific and creative tongue. Tis’ the reason for their bewilderment when she disappeared.

Months went by and when traveling carriages, horsemen, and tradesmen heard no news of Katarina, her admirers fell into despair. Some became angry calling her “The Great Deserter.” Some believed she had become ill or had been taken by thieves who held her captive for her stories. Other speculators believed Katrina had given so much of herself, that she faded into the darkness like cold ashes blown into empty air.

I force myself to look down from these thoughts and pick up one leaf of the parchment. Exquisite it is! Like a jeweler feeling gold for the first time.

But what is the scrawl? Have my eyes defrauded me? Why have I not seen this before?  I pick up the small square of paper and read:

These feathers, made into writing quills, came from my goose, my muse. Trust them to write the story but know that…

The remaining words have faded away like our Katarina. I am no longer deterred. Her story must begin.

 

Four Quills of a Tale -as scribed by Elias Kent (entry 2)

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Entry 1

(Four Quills and a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)

As you can imagine, I was agog with surprise and confusion. I had traveled miles and miles in search of the mystical Katerina and there, in that small cottage, my journey ended with an old woman who merely handed me a box of quills and folio of parchment.

Now, as I stare at the items before me, I can only muster the shake of my head. How can these things help me discover what happened to the Great Storyteller?

I do not, dear reader, relish the idea of keeping you in the dark, nor do I intend to quicken your despair. I do, however, require you be provided with a parcel of background about our magical storyteller, thereupon allowing you to not only feel her heartbeat, but its unfortunate absence.

Katrina traveled far spinning her tales so clearly that villagers felt like clay being molded by a gentle potter’s hand.

After departing each village, her cascading auburn hair and multi-colored skirt disappearing into the distance, her tales kept the residents alive with exuberance as if she had dribbled potent nectar from a sorcerer’s cup over the entire town, leaving them enraptured.

The oft-feuding townsmen became docile. Fussy children played with a new aloofness. Hardworking laborers rejoiced as they leaned over hot melting irons or carried objects twice their weight. Women washing clothing in the river disrobed, danced, and splashed one another as if small children.

Katerina had given them something they had all been longing but were unaware they lacked – something new and tantalizing. Something fresh. Exotic stories of gold raining in a forest, a two-headed serpent who entertained himself by singing opera while he ate, a feathered boy whom the red-beaked eagle thrillingly hunted.

Then, after time, Katrina disappeared and it became my life’s focus to find her.

And now, I stare at the quills next to this parchment and work up the courage to pick up the first of four.