Elizabeth Russell's Blog, page 23

Ruth and Boaz – Part 1

The soft light of candles flickered across her shadowed neck. The forgiving darkness of night enclosed the swirls of her skirt. The filmy swirls of hair adorned her bowed head.

She was too innocent to be sensual and too sensual to be innocent. Just old enough to know the ways of the world, and just young enough to not have experienced them.

I watched the way her dew-drop earring dangled against her flushed cheek, the way her painted nail ran along the paper on the desk, the way her mouth pouted prettily as she read the printed words.

I came up beside her. “What are you reading?”

She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the parents sitting near the fire. I was a good four years her senior and she felt the difference. I was old enough to have experienced the ways of the world, but not old enough to regret them.

“It’s an old bible of Mr. Derry’s,” she explained. It was his house we were at. His living room in which we stood. His book we were reading. But it was her hand that glanced across the pages.

“It’s the story of Ruth and Naomi.”

“Oh? Not the story of Ruth and Boaz?”

She looked up at me where I towered close, half a head above. Her face, at this angle, did not catch the lamplight. I was standing closer than she thought was proper, but though she wrapped herself in caution, she did not pull away.

“Ruth loved Naomi first, above herself,” she explained, “and that was how Boaz learned to love her so much. Above himself, above anything. It is first a story about Ruth’s love for Naomi.”

She was firm, and I was surprised by the layers of her speech. Though she was young, she was not naive. She knew what I wanted, and I knew she would not give it to me. But still I did not move.

In my turn, I glanced back at the adults. The same fair hair that piled richly on the head of the girl beside me gleamed brightly on the head of her mother, who laughed lively among the others.

“She must be my love, you know,” she whispered while I looked. “For now. It will keep me modest, and teach a man how to love me.”

“Tied to her, are you?” I jabbed.

Now she stepped away, more in contempt than discomfort. She walked into the hallway and meekly, I followed; the long panels of oak gleamed darkly out here away from the lamps, reflecting only the moonlight streaming through the wall length windows. She turned suddenly back to me.

“Haven’t you ever loved anyone?” she pleaded, her voice deeply trembling. “Haven’t you ever loved me –  for who I am?”

She wanted the truth, not pleasant niceties. Had she wanted me to lie, she would have remained in the civilized parlor; but no, she had led me to the natural light of the honest moon, and I could not lie here in this shrine. I did not respect man, I did not know God, but I loved natural beauty, and she knew I could not lie here – not when she pleaded with me.

So I simply sighed and looked at the floor. I was fourteen again. Confused, honest, yearning. “You know I haven’t,” I whispered. “You know I’ve only ever loved myself. You’ve known that for forever.”

“I know. But I thought you were only immature. I thought, when you grew up, I thought you would change. I came back with that hope – I came back to meet you again for the first time, but you were only a dandified version of who you’d always been.”

“Well that’s your fault you know. I never pretended to be anything else.”

“Oh, I know! I know! That’s what’s so pitiful about it. Did I fail you?” she asked after a painful pause.

“You could never!” Without noticing, I had darted forward and grasped her hands. I was closer now than before, yet she was not uncomfortable. But I was. I suddenly backed away, looking anywhere but at her, mumbling an apology.

“Why? Why make excuses? Why pull away?” Her voice shone with hope for me. Hope I could not answer or fulfill. “Don’t you realize – oh, don’t you know that this is your real self? The self you hide so well, no one but me has ever seen it. This is the man you were born to be!”

Without another word, I turned about, took my coat from the rack by the door, and let myself out into the dark night.

The End of Rebels — and the 1 Disappointment from Dave Filoni

I’m going to take a break today from my usual topics to talk about the ending of one of my favorite TV shows, Star Wars Rebels!

[image error]With Kevin Kiner’s Season 2 soundtrack playing in the background, let’s settle in to discuss this masterpiece of Dave Filoni.

(Spoiler alert!)

My family watched the final three episodes last night, and my, what a finish! It lived up to all my expectations! –except in one thing…

The finale gave us a satisfying ending for each major player. It masterfully completed Ezra’s story arc – reminding us of why he’s fighting, what he’s lost and found, who he has become, and it even – bonus! – gave us his trials! (I honestly didn’t expect that) It brought all the themes together seamlessly – Sabine’s artwork, what they’re all fighting for, what makes it worthwhile to fight, the wolves and Purrgil, the owl painted on Sabine’s armor for good measure (which changes to the Purrgil later), and even the Jedi Temple! And it provided closure on all the existing villains – Price, Thrawn, and the Emperor himself. (Vader’s timeline was already tied up in A World Between Worlds when Ashoka acknowledges to herself and Ezra that she cannot save her master.)

So with all that amazing storytelling, what was the one thing that disappointed me? Dave Filoni and his team crafted a complex narrative with many twists and turns, set-ups and pay-offs that brought so much satisfaction to me as both a Star Wars fan and a lover of stories, but then they decided to throw something big into the very end of the show with absolutely no set-up — Jacen Syndulla. [image error]

Now granted, I am very excited about Kanan (or Caleb) and Hera having a child together. That’s pretty awesome, and opens up worlds of possibilities in future stories! But where was the set-up? As fans, we are left to imagine, futiley, where and when this child could have possibly come from? Kanan and Hera were not physically affectionate with each other until just before she left Lothal, leaving Kanan behind. Hera does not say “I love you” to Kanan until five minutes before he dies. (cue heartbreak – it was such an epic death!) Kanan knows, deep down, how Hera feels about him, but he’s not been able to get her to admit it. He’s surprised when she kisses him before taking off. Maybe that’s because she’s doing it in public and Kanan didn’t think she was comfortable with that, you say? Maybe, but now we’re grasping at straws. As an audience member, that shouldn’t be our job, and we haven’t had to do that for anything else in Filoni’s saga, so why for this?

I’m really not sure why there was no set-up for this sudden child. Maybe they wanted to keep the romantic tension tight for the audience, and weren’t considering the awkward timeline, or maybe the child was a last minute addition. Those are the only two options I can think of. The only other option left is to consider that Kanan and Hera had a casual relationship together, purely physical, in which they never talked about the fact that they loved each other. But first of all, that does not at all line up with their personalities, high moral code, and personal self-restraint, and secondly, we are once again grasping at straws and making up our own answers.

But since that is the only route left to us, I will present the answer I like to believe, even though it does not entirely line up with everything.

My Fan Fiction for Kanan and Hera’s Relationship

Sometime around the end of season 1, Kanaan and Hera go on a mission to a distant planet. While there, their feelings for each other escalate, and they wonder why they’ve never been together. Kanan brings it up and Hera pulls back, but then in the course of their mission, Kanan nearly dies and Hera realizes how much he means to her. [image error]They have a private wedding according to the laws of that planet and a single night together. But in the morning, Hera tells Kanan they can’t do this. His most important mission right now is training Ezra, and they can’t get in the way  of that. “But when he doesn’t need you anymore,” she tells him. “I’ll be here.”

Years go by. Kanan is blinded and draws deep into himself. Hera feels she has lost him and throws herself into the rebellion, renewing her dedication to the cause at the expense of all else. [image error]After a long while, they both acknowledge in their hearts that they are further apart than ever romantically, even though they are so close personally. Kanan is a Jedi now, Ezra is able to handle himself, and even Sabine has found peace with her people. But Hera has only one goal in mind – defeat the Empire and protect her family. She is denying herself the strength she needs to see this through, and Kanan can see it. He decides to pursue his wife.

When they return to Lothal, he remembers they’re earlier relationship, what they felt for each other. He starts to get sappy, and to his joy, he finds that she responds. Slowly, she opens up to him, though he feels the walls that still closely ensnare her heart. [image error]One night, while on Lothal (after episode 4), she opens to him and they have a romantic evening, but once again, in the morning, she says they should return to camp and they do not discuss their future. Kanan knows she is all he wants and he’s tired of this rebellion that keeps them apart. Suddenly, he accosts her with his frustration.

“When are you going to feel you’ve done enough for this rebellion?” he asks her when she prepares to leave.

“I guess when the empire is overthrown and people are free to live their lives they way they want again.”

“And when that time comes, how do you want to live your life?”

“Hm, I don’t know. I guess I never really thought about it.”

He realizes she does not take their previous marriage into account. “So I guess you never really thought about us.”

“Kanan, we’ve talked about that before.”

“Have we?”

“You know how I feel.”

“Do I?”

They’re cut off, but later, Kanan brings up their conversation.

[image error]“Hera, about what happened before…I don’t want you to think…” He doesn’t want her to think he’s pressuring her. He knows they agreed to not talk about it for awhile – maybe ever. “I just…” It’s just that he’s miserable without her, and he thinks she’s miserable without him, and suddenly, she kisses him and it throws him off guard. He realizes she has let down her walls, and when she returns, they will have a real marriage.

So there you have it, a window in which Jacen came about and Hera and Kanan adhere to their high moral codes, although it’s a bit far-stretched. But it’s romantic and let’s us inside their heads.

May the Force be with you!

[image error]

“Self-Portrait of a Man over Thirty” by Elizabeth Russell

I was told to write a self-portrait. Yes, write one. It’s an amusing thought, I think…after all, artists paint self-portraits all the time, so why shouldn’t writers write them? These were the questions put to us this afternoon at my bi-weekly night art class with Jane Caulfield. She, a middle aged woman with three children and as many smile wrinkles around her eyes, prodded us to look carefully at our features and dig deeper into our view of ourselves.

“You can learn a lot from a face,” she told us. “It goes beyond the auto-biographies authors are so key to pen. It delves into the soul behind it, revealing, like a Monet, the garden beneath. If you look at a face at just the right moment, you’ll uncover more of the mystery in them than you ever thought possible. So study your own face, see what it looks like, and ask what it is telling you about yourself.”

I’ve got the mirror propped up in front of me right now, and I’ve been staring at my face for a half hour or so, trying to uncover secrets. It’s really just my face – I look at it every morning when I shave, and every evening when I rub the light, comfortable stubble and ruminate on the events of the day…

Very well, I suppose I should write something. First, a critical and forgiving technical analysis.

I have an oval, angular face. It juts into a small, strong jaw at the bottom and curls into a full, jaunty cowlick on top. Jaunty, what a fun word. I wonder if that describes something deeper. Am I jaunty?

My eyes are large almonds, possibly more of a rectangular shape. They’re deep, brown wells with a lot of hope behind them. I’m pretty hopeful, I guess. Some crow’s feet around the corners reminding me that I’m over thirty. Funny, there are exactly three lines on either side, probably one for each of my failed relationships.

Ok, I just smiled at that, and it really changed my countenance. The heavy paunch of my cheeks lightened and firmed into a more youthful glow, and my eyes, even though they scrunched on the bottom, grew bigger somehow. It seems almost as if my face finds smiling more comfortable and is more used to it. I suppose that means I have an easy smile. That’s good. I like how I look when I smile.

I think I’m a pretty likable person…so why am I still alone? I know that if I found someone to share my life with, I’d dedicate all my energies to their happiness. But I have no one…no one to give that energy to. I’ve only ever had three relationships in the span of my thirty-two years. What’s with that? I smile easy, I’ve got nice eyes,  I’m full of hope – just all round good guy.

The closest I ever get to flirting with anyone is Jane Caulfield. She flirts with me a little once in awhile. She is a beautiful woman in the prime of life, comfortably satisfied by her husband and, what’s more important, her husband is satisfied by her, so she can afford to be a little flirtatious. It’s fun sure, and harmless sure enough, but I want something that’s not harmless. Someone I can dive deep into and come up either buoyant or scarred. That’s what I want.

I would have thought I would be terribly lonely by now, but it’s surprising how much you can get used to and comfortable with. Maybe I don’t want to find someone?

Ok, maybe I veered too much off topic. But that’s my self-portrait. I sure hope Jane doesn’t ask us to read them aloud in class.

 

Photo Credit: Fred Herzog ( http://www.equinoxgallery.com/artists/fred%20herzog/art/22013)

Self-Portrait of a Man over Thirty

I was told to write a self-portrait. Yes, write one. It’s an amusing thought, I think…after all, artists paint self-portraits all the time, so why shouldn’t writers write them? These were the questions put to us this afternoon at my bi-weekly night art class with Jane Caulfield. She, a middle aged woman with three children and as many smile wrinkles around her eyes, prodded us to look carefully at our features and dig deeper into our view of ourselves.

“You can learn a lot from a face,” she told us. “It goes beyond the auto-biographies authors are so key to pen. It delves into the soul behind it, revealing, like a Monet, the garden beneath. If you look at a face at just the right moment, you’ll uncover more of the mystery in them than you ever thought possible. So study your own face, see what it looks like, and ask what it is telling you about yourself.”

I’ve got the mirror propped up in front of me right now, and I’ve been staring at my face for a half hour or so, trying to uncover secrets. It’s really just my face – I look at it every morning when I shave, and every evening when I rub the light, comfortable stubble and ruminate on the events of the day…

Very well, I suppose I should write something. First, a critical and forgiving technical analysis.

I have an oval, angular face. It juts into a small, strong jaw at the bottom and curls into a full, jaunty cowlick on top. Jaunty, what a fun word. I wonder if that describes something deeper. Am I jaunty?

My eyes are large almonds, possibly more of a rectangular shape. They’re deep, brown wells with a lot of hope behind them. I’m pretty hopeful, I guess. Some crow’s feet around the corners reminding me that I’m over thirty. Funny, there are exactly three lines on either side, probably one for each of my failed relationships.

Ok, I just smiled at that, and it really changed my countenance. The heavy paunch of my cheeks lightened and firmed into a more youthful glow, and my eyes, even though they scrunched on the bottom, grew bigger somehow. It seems almost as if my face finds smiling more comfortable and is more used to it. I suppose that means I have an easy smile. That’s good. I like how I look when I smile.

I think I’m a pretty likable person…so why am I still alone? I know that if I found someone to share my life with, I’d dedicate all my energies to their happiness. But I have no one…no one to give that energy to. I’ve only ever had three relationships in the span of my thirty-two years. What’s with that? I smile easy, I’ve got nice eyes,  I’m full of hope – just all round good guy.

The closest I ever get to flirting with anyone is Jane Caulfield. She flirts with me a little once in awhile. She is a beautiful woman in the prime of life, comfortably satisfied by her husband and, what’s more important, her husband is satisfied by her, so she can afford to be a little flirtatious. It’s fun sure, and harmless sure enough, but I want something that’s not harmless. Someone I can dive deep into and come up either buoyant or scarred. That’s what I want.

I would have thought I would be terribly lonely by now, but it’s surprising how much you can get used to and comfortable with. Maybe I don’t want to find someone?

Ok, maybe I veered too much off topic. But that’s my self-portrait. I sure hope Jane doesn’t ask us to read them aloud in class.

 

Photo Credit: Fred Herzog ( http://www.equinoxgallery.com/artists/fred%20herzog/art/22013)

Halfbreeds

Chapter One — The Bullbeast

The children ran as fast as their abnormally short legs would carry them to the edges of the Terrible Forest and there crouched among the brambles in the thicket. Once down, not a leaf stirred from place—these children were adept at making themselves invisible to Human eyes. Bobakin lay still and silent, watching the townspeople growing larger as they neared, when from the other side, the forest side, something else caught his eye—a boy, quite close and quite conspicuous.

“Get down!” hissed Bobakin from the brambles. The boy  was a Halfbreed, judging more by his ragged attire and mud- streaked face than his stature, which was upright and fearless. Yet the boy, though he heard, did not respond; there seemed an air of defiance about him in his straight back and fiery, orange eyes.

“Get down or they’ll see you!” said Bobakin again, and this time the other boy saw the townspeople, quite near now, and the fire in their eyes, so he disappeared in the brambles as effectively as a magician.

Carl Drax, the leader of the town, was ahead of the others and paused before the brambles where the children hid. He surveyed the bramble patch with his stern, blue eyes and handsome brow, seeming to meet the gaze of each fugitive there, and then turned to look over the wheat field on the other side of the road. It was tall, plenty capable of concealing even the tallest of  their band, but the man could see nothing.

He whirled back to the villagers, with their axes and pitchforks and knives, and declared, “Halfbreeds have made their escape! For now.”

Disappointed and grumbling, the people turned back to the village and went away. Carl glanced again over the cornfield and then looked over his shoulder toward the Terrible Forest, knowing wherever the children were, they would see the leer of hatred and resolve on his face and know they were not safe.

Bahia breathed a sigh of relief and picked herself up from the thicket. “Bobakin,” she said—he was the oldest and they all looked up to him. “What do we do now? Where do we go?”

“See here!” broke in the newcomer, pointing an accusatory finger at them. “You can’t expect to escape men if you’re all together. It’s only on your own you won’t get caught.”

Bobakin saw some of the littler Halfbreeds’ eyes fill with tears, and in indignation, turned on the naysayer. “We just did. And we’ll do it again. There aren’t so many of us—only ten or twelve—and it’ll be no use being alive if we’re alone!”

All the Halfbreeds plucked up courage and grinned at each other. Even the newcomer shrugged his thin shoulders; maybe this tall Halfbreed had a point.

“We can’t stay here,” said Bahia, glancing over her shoulder.

The village huts were still in sight.

“But we can’t go too far,” said Nappy, an unusually short Halfbreed—shorter even than the children of the Schumps, but bright for his eleven years. Everyone always listened when he had an idea. “If we keep going this direction we don’t know what we’ll find; it may even be the Schumps. And if we go into the woods it definitely will be.”

“Then what do you suggest?” asked Bobakin, and the newcomer was impressed to see someone so tall deferring to someone so little.

“The lake. There are two of them, and the villagers never use the smaller one on the backend. We’ll need water and the stream nearby is as good a place as any to get it. The buildings are all abandoned, some even say haunted, so not even the children will  be out that way, running into us.”

“But it’s so close,” whimpered Fafolio, her brilliant orange eyes filling with tears.

“Would you rather be close to the Schumps?” demanded Nappy, and Fafolio shook her thick brownish-green curls.

“Maybe the Schumps aren’t as bad as you all think,” said the newcomer.

[image error]The Halfbreed girls at the Rosenchanz barn

Before the children could rebel at such a suggestion, Bobakin interjected, “Alright, we’ll go where Nappy says. He’s right, you know. We have the best chance there. We’ll go through the wheat field, where we won’t be seen, but stick together or someone will be lost. Once we’re on the other side, we make a break for the Rosenchanz Barn. Everyone take a partner and let’s go.”

As the children paired up, he turned to the newcomer. “Coming?”

“You don’t want me,” he said defiantly.

“You’re a Halfbreed, aren’t you? You belong with us.” Then the tall boy flashed him a smile and said seriously, “Just learn to curb your tongue when the little ‘uns are around.”

And they made their way through the wheat field.

Bobakin was wrong when he said there where ten or twelve in total. He had never counted them all before. There were seven.

Yet if anyone had ever gone missing, he would have noticed instantly, knowing each child by name ever since most were old enough to toddle.

There was Bahia. She had been the first, and they knew each other best of the whole world. She was twelve with dark, straight, brown hair and stubby, bowed legs. Her eyes were the color of the sky at midnight, and her face ruddy and rosy when not drained from hunger.

Next came Nappy, the smart, little one, with his owly- orange eyes and short stumps of legs. His arms, which were just a bit too long for his body, gave him a gangly look despite his short stature.

Then there was Fafolio. She was holding tight to little Kaka as they made their way through the field. They were both from another village, a foreign world it seemed to the others, but were accepted since they too had been ostracized as Halfbreeds. Fafolio was nine, with the orange eyes and green hair of a Schump but the graceful figure of a lady, and Kaka seven with wistful, orange eyes yearning for a mother he still remembered.

The last two were held fast by Bobakin and Bahia and were the littlest of the group: Bebbin and Brine. Bebbin did not look any way at all like a Schump with his yellow curls, brown eyes, and chubby little body not yet rid of its baby fat. But he walked different, almost as if he were bowlegged. But Brine was different and might have been supposed, had he not been witnessed to issue from a Human mother, to be a full-blooded Schump. He had been the first to join Bobakin and Bahia.

They reached the edge of the wheat field, and Bobakin looked out from among the golden stalks. The distance to the barn was only fifty yards; they could make it at a run. So everyone grasped tight hold of their partner and made off.

But then Kaka cried out—two farmers had seen them and were running their way.

“Run! Run! Go faster!” cried Bobakin, but what could they do? If they made it to the barn, they were still discovered. There was no sanctuary and no means to defend themselves.

Then Bebbin tripped, and Bobakin lost hold of his little  hand. Bebbin, in blind terror, swerved, making for the animal pens. Bobakin cried out and went after him, but Bahia was faster. With her skirt whipping behind her and her legs pumping like a locomotive, she screamed for Bebbin to stop. But the little boy was flying on the wings of panic and could not listen. He was already closer to the two men than to the other children.

He reached the pens, which rose chest-high to a man, and leapt over them. Even the men did not have the height or ability to accomplish such a feat, and they swerved to circumvent the fences.

Bahia reached the first pen and started climbing it with Bobakin close behind.

The little boy was possessed of a reckless disregard for all and anything that could harm him. He aimed toward the pens on the outer extremity of the fields. These pens were known to the  little boy in his rational mind, and normally, nothing would have tempted him toward them. Now he fled there as toward life itself.

Bahia saw where he headed and tasted tears in her mouth though she did not know she had been crying them. But her whole heart ached with despair for his little life as she saw him vault into the pen of the Manticore.

The Manticore lay in his golden glory at the back of the fenced pen, sleeping. And when Bebbin landed inside, Bahia knew he was doomed. But the beast awakened slowly, and blinked slowly, and slowly raised his head, and by then, Bebbin was through the pen and into the next one. Bahia came to the fence of the Manticore and wanted to cheer when she saw the boy was through, but there were still the men.

And she did not see what was in the very last pen.

When Bebbin landed in the final pen, his only thought—the thought that had driven him across the fields, over the fences, and through the pens—was escape. He must escape. He had run far but never saw what he encountered until he ran up against the giant wall of the barn. It blocked his path, forming an insurmountable barrier and an endless partition to freedom. And so he stopped. Right in the center of the last pen.

Something growled close by. His little four-year-old body, breathless and shivering, quaked to hear it. He turned around and saw the Manticore which was still asleep and in the next pen over. Then he looked around and met the eyes of the Bullbeast.

The Bullbeast was unlike anything mankind had encountered before. Like the Schumps which resembled Humans, the Bullbeast resembled a bull. But ever so much mightier and frightful,  with  tusks  like  a  boar  and  a  mane  like  a  lion.  It was vicious and wild, with a queer, caged look in its eyes. Now, it  stared at Bebbin.

He stood a moment, frozen with fear beneath its gaze, waiting for it to pounce. But it only lay still, watching him. The  little boy backed up and climbed over the fence on the side with the barn. The men had paused in their chase when they saw him enter the pen of the Manticore, but now that he was safely through, they advanced. And there were more men now, a quarter of the village it seemed, and they were all making their way toward Bebbin.

But then something even more extraordinary happened that caused the men to pause again. The Bullbeast, which had never left its enclosure before, climbed the fence and alighted beside Bebbin. And Bebbin was not afraid. Cautiously, he put forth his hand and stroked the Bullbeast’s muzzle. It licked his face and purred.

In their consternation, the men forgot all about the other children as they watched the beast’s actions. Bebbin made his way around the enclosure—not away from the men as one might expect—but toward them, with his little baby hand nestled in the creature’s mane. Two or three of the braver men advanced, but the Bullbeast raged. They stumbled back in fear, watching from a distance. Then it nuzzled the boy. He accompanied the child all the way up the path toward the barn, turning upon anyone who ventured near. Bahia got off the fence of the Manticore, and she and Bobakin met Bebbin and the beast. The Bullbeast did not endear himself to them but was not savage either, simply handing over his precious charge. After making sure the children marched back on their way to the barn, the Bullbeast returned to his pen.

The village men did not dare follow the children after that. They decided, anyway, to put if off for the time being. The Bullbeast’s actions were peculiar and, in the minds of the villagers, a blessing on the children—or a curse. For, to those superstitious folk, it was the same thing. The children were cursed and so were protected by a demon of a creature. There was no other explanation.  If  these  simple  people  had  known  of  the  ancient Human idea that innocence, when abandoned by mankind, will often receive aid from the most unlikely of sources, they would not have given it proper weight to their situation. The children, for the time being, were blessed by a curse.

**

Chapter Two — Schumps, Humans, and Halfbreeds

The Halfbreeds had been living in the Rosenchanz Barn for a week, and everything was going well. After the event of the Bullbeast, the Humans left them well alone. Their first night, Bobakin built a fire and everyone gathered around to enjoy roasted rabbit.

The newcomer found he enjoyed the company more than he bargained and was easily accepted by the other children.

Brine sat down and offered his carrot. “Here, I don’s need it so much—I’m liddler.”

“How old are you?” asked Bahia of the newcomer, as she served out the rabbit.

“Nine.”

“Truth?” she exclaimed. “I’d have put you for older. You’re just ’bout the Human size for your age.”

“Sure.” he shrugged rebelliously. “But I’m a Halfbreed, all the same.”

“No one’s sayin’ you’re not,” said Bobakin. “What they call you?”

“Some’s  called  me  Pincher.  But  ’riginally  I  was  called Denmin.”

“What’s pincher?” asked Kaka. “That’s a funny name.”

Denmin-once-called-Pincher answered quickly and dismissively. “Means crook stealer thief.”

“Course yer a crook, yer a Halfbreed. It’s all the same.”

“No, it ain’t. Not where I come from. Only sometimes, when a Halfbreed is cast out. Then he’s reckoned to be a thief.”

Everyone was looking at him curiously, and he realized it was not the same for them. “Don’t you cast out Halfbreeds sometimes? Affer all, you’re all out here, running. You can’t be beggars.”

Bobakin leaned forward, curious and anxious to understand. He explained, “We can’t be beggars, you see. Because we’re Halfbreeds. We’re not supposed to be alive, even. So we run, so we’re not caught, so we’re not killed. That’s the way it’s always been. If you’re a Halfbreed, you’ve no right to live amongst Humans.”

“Sure, I’ve heard that. And course, if you’re a Halfbreed, you’re less than a Human, but that doesn’t mean you’re killed for  it. Just cast out, or beggerin’, or vagabondin’. Truth is you’ve got it nasty here, don’t ya? Man, I thought something wasn’t right when every folk I see is trying to kill me, but I just figured they reckoned  I stole something big. That it would pass.”

“This here is our life,” said Bobakin, “and we’re the lucky ones, ’cause we’re alive.”

“Truth,” said Denmin, more as an exclamation than agreement; he was a bit overwhelmed with it all. “So…” He leaned forward, trying to understand. “When that man Carl came to our village and started preaching his gospel of ‘Humanity ’gainst Schumps’, and his talk about ‘demons living amongst us’ and all, your village does it?”

“Sure. That’s the way it’s been long as I can remember,” said Bobakin.

Kaka snuggled closer to Denmin. “What’s ‘demons’?”

“I think it means Schumps,” the new boy told him.

“Course it does,” said Bobakin. “And they’re evil,  worse than Humans, ’cause Humans are only evil to Schumps and Halfbreeds, but Schumps are evil against everything.”

[image error]Bobakin, age 17

Denmin looked at Bobakin with respect. There was something  inspiring  and  intriguing  about  this  tall  lad  with  his greenish-brown curls and fiery-firm hazel eyes. “So how come you’re alive?” he asked him.

****

When Bobakin was born, he was as normal as any other boy in the village, only rather bald. He had a loving mother and father and knew nothing of the evils of the world. Then one day, when he was four years old, he saw a child burned in the square. When he asked his father why, he told him the boy was evil, “a Schump.” And from the fear in his father’s voice and the shudder of his shoulders, Bobakin knew he never wanted to meet a Schump. As  he grew, he heard tales about the Schumps—how they looked with their eyes the color of hell’s fire, hair the rank growth of green weeds, and short, stumpy legs that caused them to waddle and hobble like a lame duck. Some of the villagers told ghost stories to the children, warning them if they weren’t good, they’d change into a Schump for their sins and be burned to death.

When Bobakin was five years old, his hair finally began to grow in; and one day, after he’d had a bath and was combing it before the mirror, he saw to his horror that his hair was green. Only a small tinge of green in the muddy brown color, but it was there. He was transforming into a Schump for his sins and would be burned to death.

He ran out to the garden and rubbed mud all into it to conceal his disgrace and keep alive. Miraculously, this trick worked, and Bobakin managed to keep his secret for three whole years, often forgetting his shame, and even enjoying life. He went to school to learn his numbers and letters and was a bright child— far ahead of all the others in his class, though his teachers always complained of his dirty hair.

Then one day, and this day did not seem any different from any of the others, his mother walked by him and ruffled his hair.

“You’re so dirty!” She laughed at him. “You always are, and no amount of bathing ever seems to get it out of you.” And on an impulse, she grabbed a jar of water and poured it over his head.

There was a ghastly silence, and Bobakin was afraid to look at her. When he did, her face was white. “A Halfbreed,” she whispered, and it was the first time he ever heard the word. “My only son, a Halfbreed. I swore, I swore it was your father’s—I did— I swore you were. But you’re not—you’re a Halfbreed.”

“I will be burned?” he asked with wide open eyes. She did not answer, but he saw the look on her face.

She ought to have sounded the alarm, as they had done with so many children before, but right then she could not move. Bobakin saw she no longer looked at him as a mother looks at her child, but as a woman looks at a frightening thing: a snake or a rat that has wandered into her kitchen. This gave him the courage to do what he must, the courage to turn tail, then and there, and run away from home forever.

****

“And so I left,” said Bobakin. “I learned to live in the wilderness, on the outskirts of villages. To steal, hunt, fish, trap, anything to keep alive. I was all alone for a long time; until one  day, I met Bahia. And then Brine, and slowly we’ve all come together. And now you’re here.”

“Your own mother would have burned you?” asked  Denmin, shocked out of his aloofness and defiant independence.

“It was what she needed to do. But I think…I think she didn’t want to. She wanted me to run away because it would be easier than seeing me die.”

Bahia took Bobakin’s hand.

“We are a curse on this earth,” she told Denmin. “A curse on our parents and villages. But we run away because we do not want to die. That’s just the way the world is.”

Bobakin squeezed her hand and then told all the children to go to sleep.

Nappy, who had been Denmin’s partner through the wheat field, offered the newcomer a space beside him on the ground, and they lay down together. They were the same age and drawn together as children often are by ties indefinable and unseverable, instant and lasting.

Nappy gave Denmin a sharp look as they lay down together. “If you’ve been around Human villages before, have you seen Schumps?”

Denmin, his boyish heart relishing the chance to cause a sensation, raised his eyebrows. “Once, a few years ago.”

“What did it look like?”

A thrill went down Denmin’s spine at the awe in the other boy’s voice. “It was at night, from far away, so I only saw his outline. He was large, with fat, short legs that were bent the wrong way.”

“Was he hairy?”

“Naw, don’t think so. Just on his head. I saw him sneak into a village, and pretty soon there was lots of yelling and screaming and bells were making a racket. Then he ran out, carrying a Human woman slung over his shoulder.”

“A woman? Why? Did he kill her?”

“Don’t think so. Lots of women were taken, but they always came back after a few days.”

Nappy rolled onto his back with a sigh of wonder, and both boys grew quiet. Denmin was pleased with the effect of his tale, but presently, his thinking came back around to Bobakin’s story. Reflecting on it sobered him, and finally, he nudged his bedfellow. “Nappy, I’ve been thinking, and the Schumps are evil, right?”

Nappy opened his eyes. “Sure.”

“But Humans are good?” pursued Denmin.

“Yeah, probably.”

“Well, if we’re Halfbreeds, then we’ve half the blood of Humans and half the blood of Schumps, so I reckon we’re only half evil and half good.”

“Say!” said Nappy. “I never thought of that. Yeah, maybe we’re not all the evil we’re made out to be. Would be a big relief to be good.”

“Sure. And maybe, if we try hard enough, we can be gooder than the evil in us.”

“Yeah.” Nappy smiled. “Maybe.”

**

Find out what happens to Bobakin, Bahia, and the rest of the halfbreed children by clicking here!

To check out reviews, click here.

Dani

Dani had had another fight with her mom. Screaming over her shoulder that no one understood her and no one ever would, she stormed into her bedroom and slammed the door. Lying on her bed face first, chest heaving and hot tears stinging her eyes, the late light of the sun slanted in slits through her window blinds and painted a pattern of striped shadows across her back.

Why is everyone so stupid all the time? she railed in her mind. It felt good to say ‘stupid’ since her parents always told her not to use the word. It made her feel bad, and she wanted to feel bad right now.

She looked down at her fluffy pink sweater and green jeans and decided she looked much too sugary cute right now. Pulling them off, she went to her closet and pulled out her spaghetti-strap black dress. Mom always said she couldn’t wear it without a shirt underneath, so reveling in her defiance, she pulled the velvety material over her bare back. She tugged her black hair out of its side braid and let it hang loose about her round face. Now she felt sufficiently dark and mysterious.

Like the mysterious goddess she was, she went to her bed and laid down upon it, idle and staring at the ceiling. Mom had told her to stay in her room until she was ready to apologize, but since she knew she never would, she determined to stay there forever.

I will die on my bed just like this. They will find me, pale and thin from hunger, lying on my back, with my hands crossed over my stomach like this. That thought gave her great satisfaction. Won’t they just be sorry then? she exulted.

She rolled over, pulled out her second-hand ipod that used to be her father’s, and plugged it into the speaker. Slow, moody piano music began to play, and as she settled herself back into her death-prepared pose, she felt sufficiently funereal.

She closed her eyes and let the music take her on a wild voyage. First, it was just a tinkle, a simple melody reminder of sadness and loss. She thought of how her mother had carelessly lost her affections through her strict, demanding regimes. Serves her right because now she’ll learn. But it’s too late – she can never win me back.

[image error]

Then the tune suddenly exploded into dramatic misery, violins and trumpets soaring into a riotous blend of weeping. She responded and pathetic tears rolled down her cheeks, catching in her ears and tickling them warmly. Perhaps my face will still be wet when they find me. But when she reflected that she wasn’t even hungry yet, let alone starving, she wiped them away. No point wasting good tears, she thought.

She had missed the transition in the music and listened again. It was now floating softly over a moonlit lake, resigned to its sad, lonely fate and welcoming the gentle lull of stream, wind, and quiet sky. She could see herself there, floating between earth and heaven, gazing at the gray clouds above with peace and hopelessness. Life is not a fairy tale, she declared to herself, and the tragic romance of the thought lifted her spirits. It is a miserable, literal place where people expect you to be normal. I am a princess really, but no one knows it. I am a saint, but no one sees it. I will be ground into course mediocrity just like my parents. Just to make them happy, I’ll marry some guy I met at a church function who claims to love God, but really fights with me once every day. Then they’ll be sorry when they realize I’ve ended up just like them. Don’t they want me to be special? Isn’t that what parents want for their children? Why do they want me miserable?

The music had grown urgent, intense, demanding. Her heart had responded, throwing insistent questions into her brain. They claim to love me but how do they show it? By not understanding me, that’s how. They can’t understand, in their benumbed brains, how all my actions stem from real purity. All I want is to be good and change the world. Why can’t the world see that? I’m not like any of them – I’m special!

Reaching its dramatic climax, rising in pitch, intensity, and noise, hurling its last great defiance into the void of the universe and expecting no answer, the music suddenly ceased. But then slowly, softly, it entered the final stages of the piece. No longer did it defy, no longer did it bewail, and no longer was it hopelessly resigned. Like a hammock rocked by the wind, it rested and swung, accepting the misery and pain but forgiving it too. Gently, it remembered the other facts of life – love, hope, patience, and quiet strength. Briefly recalling all the themes from before, but with a new note of healing in each, the piano was left alone again at the end. Richer for its journey and hopeful for the future.

Dani sat up and turned off the speaker. Her stomach was growling. She pulled off the dark dress and put back on her sweater and jeans. After all, it was kind of chilly inside. She went to the door and cracked it open. The smell of beef roast penetrated her nostrils. Well, she couldn’t really stay up there forever. Mom wasn’t stupid after all. She regretted calling her that, even in her thoughts. Quietly, she stepped out of the room, closed the door behind her, and went downstairs.

Image Credit: AK47 on tumblr – http://ak47.tumblr.com/post/75368829942

Elves and Concrete

Once a little boy was born at the bottom of a long line of other boys and girls. Because he was the very last, all the traits, good and bad, of all the previous children funneled down to him, and filled his little body with all kinds of creativity, ingenuity, naughtiness, and sweetness.

This little boy was peering down at the concrete when we were stopped at a red light the other day. He causally remarked that the street had cracks in it. “I don’t know why it has them,” he said.

“You don’t know?” I asked. I could have told him that as the weather grows colder, the molecules in the concrete freeze, expanding and pushing against each other until finally, the road heaves up and falls back down again, divided. I could have told him that, but instead, I told him the truth. “Well, there are little tiny elves with little tiny pickaxes who come out to mine the concrete. They collect the rocks from it to build their castles.”

[image error]“Hm,” he said, accepting the truth as only a child can. He was silent for a long while, before he asked me to explain exactly how small the elves and their pickaxes were.

“Oh, I’m not sure. Pretty small, I would imagine, since we can’t see them. No one has ever seen them, you know.”

“I can see them,” he said, looking out the window and at the street.

I was surprised. I’d never known anyone who could see them before. “You can? Well, how big are they?”

He sized them up. “About the size of penguins.”

This was bigger than I had expected.

When we were leaving the store a half hour later, he stared at the ground as he held my hand across the parking lot.

“There are more cracks here,” he said, but I didn’t hear him. I was distracted by other things. “There are more cracks here,” he repeated, tugging my hand.

“More cracks?”

“Yes, the elves have been here, too.”

“Ah, yes!” I said, remembering. “You’re right. We just can’t see them.”

“Because they’re black.” He climbed into his car seat.

I thought I understood. “Oh! So they can blend in because the road is black.”

He looked at me from the corner of his eye, then double-checked the road to make sure nothing was wrong with his own sight. “No.” he corrected me when he had made sure. “The concrete is purple.”

I saw that he was right, and I shook my head as I drove home. I had thought I had all the answers, but it was clear now that he was much more in touch with reality than I.

[image error]

Images courtesy of LJHolloway Photography, @mybabydom, and nos.twnsnd.co/search/child+in+car

“Rumpelstiltskin” by Elizabeth Russell

Hello. Come in to my little shop, why don’t you? Sit on that little stool, eh? Gaze about at my lovely golden wares, yes? Lots of lovely golden things.

What’s the matter? You got a problem with me? Oh, I see you know who I am. Well, then, I won’t condescend to tell you my name. That witch of a queen has made it known across the entire god-forsaken world.

Oh, won’t look at me now, eh? Turnin’ to awkwardly face the wall? Well, tell me now – must have had a reason for coming in here. What was it! To gaze at the dwarf? “Did he really stamp his foot through the floor?” “Can he really spin straw into gold?” That’s the great, monumental question!

[image error]In his anger he plunged his right foot so
deep into the earth that his whole leg went in

And now I’ve made you cry. Everyone cries; no one likes Rumpelstiltskin – no one loves him. There’s a reason for that, and it’s probably why you’re still here – why you haven’t left the little stool in the corner. To hear my story.

And why not? I’m old and defeated, and I don’t know how it can hurt me anymore to tell it. But you won’t like it. It’s no fairy story of magic wishes. But maybe that’s what you want. Do you feed on other’s misery? Do you revel in their demise? Well, you will revel in mine.

Once, there was a little boy born of a pauper father who abused him from the moment he struggled out of the womb and gasped his first breath of cold air. Who would not begrudge the child a morsel of happiness? Who would not take pity upon him the moment they felt his fragile life in their hands?

[image error]She had no
idea how straw could be spun into gold, and she grew more and
more frightened, until at last she began to weep.
But all at once the door opened, and in came a little man.

His father. He fed him like a dog from only the rinds of squashes and the pits of plums, the bones of pigs and the bladders of cows. He beat him on the head until the boy was almost senseless, but it only fueled him into a passion of rage and revenge. He sat day and night in the grime of the mud floor hovel, scheming hatred in his heart. One day, as he gnawed on the bone of a raccoon, sucking even after all the flavor was long gone, he saw a rat scurry across the ground.

“If only I was like you, fortunate rat, who can gather for himself all the food he needs and go contented, unmolested, to his hole beneath the ground. If I could but thrive on my own without the help of a parent, I would be content.”

To his unbounded surprise, the rat answered him. “If you would like to be self-supporting, commend thyself to the devil, for he surely is in a place to help you.”

The urchin glanced about the low hovel. “Surely the devil would never come to such a low and dirty place as this, for he loves wealth for its own sake, and will revel in it where he may.”

[image error]Round about the fire
quite a ridiculous little man was jumping.                            He hopped upon
one leg, and shouted –
to-day I bake,                            to-morrow brew,
the next I’ll have the young queen’s child.
                                                          Ha, glad am I that no one knew
that Rumpelstiltskin I am styled.

“You are correct,” the rat returned. “Travel to the cloven pine bereft of its needles in the midst of the city, and you will find the devil’s palace.”

So the boy set out with only the rag about his middle, for that was all that belonged to him in the world. When he arrived in the city, he wandered about until he reached the tree, shriveled and hunched in a black corner of an alley, not even attempting to reach the light of the sun with its branches. The boy climbed in and found himself in the midst of a great palace, shining with gold and jewels and black ebony and lined with carousing courtiers. In the midst of the mighty hall sat the devil on a throne of glittering garnet.

“Why do you seek me?”

“I wish to support myself so I can be rid of my father and wreak my revenge upon him.”

“You can have what you seek in return for a favor.”

The boy swore to agree to anything.

“Every year, you must bring me a child in exchange for you to keep your soul. If you hold to this bargain, you will come to spend eternity here with me amidst these riches, but if you break it, you will be condemned to eternal damnation.”

The boy agreed to the bargain, and the devil swept his scepter into the glistening air and transformed him from a useless, starving child to a dwarf who could spin straw into gold.

And so you have heard my story. Every year, I kept the bargain by tricking women into giving me their children, but then the queen discovered my secret and crushed me, and so I have lost my soul. Now I will spend eternity in hell, and it is only a matter of time before I find myself there. Do you pity me? Do you hate me? Do you laugh at me?

[image error]“Perhaps your name is Rumpelstiltskin?”
“The devil has told you that! The devil has told you that,” cried
the little man.

But wait – don’t I know you? Why are you suddenly so familiar, and not at all horrified by my tale? I remember you – you were there, that day, in the devil’s chamber! You come here to claim my soul and bring it to your master.

But stop! Come no closer! Pray, don’t rise from your humble, tottering stool! For I have a plan, a scheme, a new deal – I intend to travel to the neighboring village, and my friend the rat will assist me in my plan. He and his family will infest the town, and when the villagers scream in panic, I will lead the rats away with my friendly piping. Don’t you see? Then those stupid people will trust me. They will pay me. They will grovel at my feet. Then I will tell them to gather all their children in the square so I can lead them to a happy place for the day. The parents will gladly give up their little ones, trusting blindly to my happy music; and piping merrily, I will lead the innocents to the cloven pine. There, I will deliver a hundred children for my pay.[image error]

Don’t you see? The devil will have to accept. I know he will. He will make this bargain – he must! Don’t move! For he would never take all those children and still demand my soul. No, I have been a faithful servant and brought him many souls. He will be merciful.

And I will trust to the devil’s fair nature, for what is our bargain to a hundred children? The devil does not keep account. He will forgive me. He must. He will….

 

Photo Credit:

Rumpelstiltskin cover image; Rumpelstiltskin’s foot through the floor; Ann Anderson’s Miller’s daughter; and Arthur Rackham’s dancing dwarf are courtesy of artpassions.net

The Devil Told You by Rie Cramer, courtesy of artofnarrative.tumblr.com

The Pied Piper by Arthur Rackham, courtesy of steelthistles.blogspot.com/2012/04/pi...

Further Reading:

 

[image error] Grimm’s Original Rumpelstiltskin tale
[image error] The Original Pied Piper Tale – “The Pied Piper” by Robert Browning
[image error] Steelthistles.blogspot.com – An excellent article on the nature of Fairy Tales through the lens of the Pied Piper
[image error] Is the Pied Piper story a true tale? 

 

 

 

Evangeline

I had never seen her in the bookshop before, but she looked like she had always been there. I almost didn’t notice her this time, and I thought, maybe I just missed her other times, like a spring flower you never saw before because you weren’t looking close enough. The straining light from the blue glass window glinted against her mousy brown hair, and silhouetted her sharp profile. Receding chin, jutting nose, and pursed lips…she was an introvert, I decided. And she probably doesn’t have any friends.

I didn’t mean that in a mean or debasing way, just an observation. In fact, she would probably grow up to be successful, outgoing, and confident – she had that look about her: in the intelligent stance of her casual legs and the carefree way she clasped her hands behind her back as she leaned in to squint closely at the titles before her.[image error]

After a moment – and in that moment I captured her in my mind, locked and sealed away for remembrance, as I occasionally liked to do with fascinating patrons – she swung herself forward, picked up a selection from the shelf, and in the same fluid motion, pulled back and twirled toward me.

[image error]

She brought only that one book to the counter and I was surprised. Most girls like her would come with their arms laden and overflowing, staggering beneath the weight of centuries of words, fully intending to one day read every book under the sun, and buying as many from me as they could, as if to get a head start. But she had only the single volume.

“Rembrant?” I asked. It was a good choice – one of the best biographies I had ever read, and I told her so.

[image error]She was leaning her elbows on the counter, her feet at least four feet away, and her toes on one foot musically tapping the old wooden floorboards. “Mmhm,” was her tiny answer accompanied by a tiny smile. Her eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, and I suspected they weren’t seeing me or anything around her. They were penetrating the leather and cardboard bindings surrounding us, transporting her into worlds and lives beyond our own.

“Have you read it before?”

“No, but he’s my next case study. I do case studies, you know.”

Such an answer was too wonderful and casual not to pursue. I purposefully took my time filling out the paper receipt. I loved not having to mess with ipads and swipers and glitchy apps: my eyes and hands were good enough for me. “What do you mean by that? What do you study?”

“Oh, artists, poets, musicians, politicians, and religions.”

“Wow! And you’re making your way through Rembrandt?”

“He’s the next one, yeah. I just finished Palestrina.”

I blinked. How many young people today knew of Palestrina? “That’s quite a jump, isn’t it?” I asked. “From Palestrina to Rembrandt? About a hundred years, I’d say.”

“Rembrandt was born only twelve years after Palestrina died. Not too big of a gap. I don’t think time and history are as long and disjointed as we like to pretend.”

“A lot can happen in a hundred years.”

“But a lot stays the same, or else just keeps moving in the same direction.” She was still leaning against the counter, but her head was perked up now, and her brown eyes, [image error]magnified by her thick lenses, were looking deep into me, as if I was the book cover, hiding deep secrets inside me. “I’ll bet Rembrandt heard Palestrina’s music and was inspired by him. I think we spend too much time thinking about the negative things that influence people. But what about the beautiful things? Those have just as much influence, don’t they?”

Instead of answering, I asked her how old she was as I stuffed the book into one of our custom-made cloth bags.

“Fifteen. How old are you?” she shot back.[image error]

I told her I was thirty-four. “But I was asking,” I continued, “because I think you’re going to change the world someday, and I wanted to know when I should start looking for your name in academic circles.” She almost blushed, but instead tossed her long, straight hair over her shoulder with a flick of her head. “By the way,” I said, “I have a magnificent illuminated copy of Rembrandt’s paintings in the back. I’d give it to you for half-price. Or, you know what, you can have it. It deserves to be with someone who will care for it like you will.” Before she could answer, I went to the back and brought out one of my treasures: The Collected Works of Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn. It was old, heavy, and large, and as she gathered it into her arms, it seemed to swallow her whole. But in a good way, as if Rembrandt’s works, shut up and hidden inside the hard-cover binding, had illuminated her with beauty and truth.

[image error]Rembrandt’s “Girl at a Window”

Though she looked nothing like his “Girl at a Window,” she was her in that moment. Innocence, potential, darkness and light, shadow and depth, and for one moment of eternity, I was captivated. This – she – was at once a Madonna and a mortal, a goddess and a girl.

 

She thanked me with awed breath, and turned to go, and just as she reached the door, and I had returned to my place behind the wooden counter, she looked back, fearless and buoyant, and declared, “My name is Evangeline Nova. And you can look for me in ten years.”

[image error]

Artwork copyrighted to Casey Childs. Check out her amazing artwork at caseychilds.com

Behind “My Wolf Friend”

Throughout July, I wrote a three part story called My Wolf Friend. Inspired by a playlist compiled by my brother, it tells the story of a little boy and a wolf named Andrew, who together battle a pack of evil wolves.

[image error] You can read the story here

My brother Andrew had compiled a playlist full of songs by Mumford and Sons, Of Monsters and Men, and other artists, which mention wolves.

The songs were:

Mumford and Sons: The Wolf

Of Monsters and Men: Wolves Without Teeth and Six Weeks

The National Parks: Monsters of the North

and Warren Zevon: Werewolves of London

The only one I did not use was Werewolves of London. It had a completely different feel than the others.

As I listened, a story began to take shape and each character began to have his own theme song. Eventually, I branched out into other songs, mostly incorporating more Of Monsters and Men.

Dirty Paws[image error]

I Of the Storm

Mountain Sound

Empire

And Little Lion Man and Broad-Shouldered Beasts from Mumford and Sons.

[image error]Some of the songs are very clearly related to the story, and some only incorporate one or two lines, or else simply inspired an idea. It was super fun to write, and I encourage you to listen to the songs and compare them to the feel and flow of the story.

Thank you to all the artists for your extraordinary music! Art inspires art, and it is a  splendid thing to participate in that.