Story club was funny this week. You can tell that we have all felt traumatized from a cps investigation. Everything was on the dark side.
Anya
Daring David once met a man that bursted with pride. The man was incredibly brave but stupid too, and how he knows are the things he did and said that day. And these are things he did and said:
I am so brave,
I'll go in the dragon's cave.
Then I'll go out to the sea,
and face a shark with nothing but me.
I will go in a cave,
then I'll go out to sea
And then I will face ye.
The funny thing about that is when he was proving it, he did not get out of the dragons cave.
Rachel
Fine! I'll write a story and when I'm done unless I've won, I'll tear it up to shreds. Then I'll go and eat some bread.
Kate
13 Fairy sisters wished to make the stories of the world, but the people of the world would not cooperate- for they wished to design their own destinies. So the fairies sunk most of the island in the sea and only kept the peek people to play with and arrange their lives to suit the fairies’ plots. Every man’s life was authored by the sisters without them perceiving it. The background characters were forced into anonymity and the chosen favorites were blessed and sent out for adventure, Those people the author fairies did not take a liking to had tragic endings. All the people of the land were played like dolls and their destinies were no longer decided by themselves. One of the fairy sisters took an interest in a certain man, beautiful and arrogant. She stopped writing his life and became an audience to the 13 fairies fantastic play, just to see what her man would do. Soon she fell in love with him and gave up her power to marry him. The other twelve sisters were angry and amazed. They cut off the traitors wings and left her to die- for without wings a true fairy cannot live- with her daughter’s story only half told. The dark-auburn-haired little girl was disliked by her aunts- for she knew all of their meddling or story making amongst man. She would dream all night of the tales they would form for their unknowing human playthings and of the plays they would write for the unknowing unwilling actors. She would sit by the sea and look down into the depths and sing to the submerged Kingdoms and forest who would not have their stories told for them. The fairy’s child had dark redwood hair and marble jade eyes and looked more like a composed little doll than a girl, but the twelve fairies had no power to author her. So they made her life miserable by authoring those around her to be brutal. However, they always watched to see if the little doll would grow wings- for as her mother was on her deathbed she plead to the other sisters that if her daughter were a fairy it would atone for her treachery and they would take her as the thirteenth authoress. Seeing as it was a sister’s final wish, they had mercy and accepted the condition, and so the girl lived.
Most books read are written by men telling the tales of fairies and fiction, but have you ever wondered what the fairies write of men? Of the stories they weave and tell? Have you ever surmised what glorious fanascies they could dream up about the mysterious and alluring world of men? Here now is one of them, not a fairy tale, but a human one, written by the subtle authors of their world, the fairy.
They are not all nice tales. Like humans, animals, and all life, fairies can be good or bad, sober or silly, disturbed or enlightened, wicked or righteous, and so their stories would differ as much as ours from one author to another. I’m afraid dear reader that this story begins with a very terrible tale. A disgusting piece built up by an ingenious perturbed mind, but here is where all must begin, gross, dark, and eriy as the beginning must be, a story must always begin at the start.
The dream began in a large mansion with walls haunted by a family curse. It followed up winding stairs to a small unused closet where the man of the house was hiding. None can hide nor fight the indomitable opponent called curse, but there he hid. Inside the dim walls of the little room Horror was whispering all kinds of terrifying things in his ears, and as he listened to her morbid thoughts a deep seeded terror grew inside. The dreamer felt this terror and heard those eiry words as dreamers often do and so it was no surprise when at the simpe chime of an ordinary clock, the man jumped up suddenly and ran screaming from the room. He ran out into the the bright sky of noon day and senselessly into the town, not heeding the little boy that followed him.
Then came the road. The dreamer saw the carriage storming down the road, but the wild man controlled by fear did not. Here then must be the next victim of the family curse. The man ran into the road, the carriage swerved to avoid him, there was confusion and the gross sounds of trampling and when the carriage had left, the man stood still, but his boy lay dead in the street. No bystander stopped to help, each walked on the other side of the road. One stopped to open a paracol. One waited only to clean their glasses before moving on. The curse had it’s claim and Horror was pleased with her tale of woe and Merryweather finally woke up. She always dreamed about the stories her aunts made with men, and always dreaded the ones begotten by the fairy called Horror. A dream was bad enough, but tomorrow would tell the tale in reality.
Mr Higbee was walking down the road carefully carrying the papers he hoped would make his fortune when a primal scream rang through the streets. A man came dashing madly toward the road. Mr Higbee felt no panic or aw, he only began to clean his spectacles to better see why the blurred form sounded so panicked. A carriage was coming. If that man did not collect his whits quickly and get out of the road he would be trampled. Somehow the idea didn’t bother him. He hated that it didn’t. It ought to, but in that moment it didn’t. He felt pacified somehow. He continued cleaning his spectacles as indifferent to the pending disaster as everyone else about him, who casually walked on. The man reached the road; the carriage reached the man; the spectacles were carefully placed on Mr Higbee’s long nose. Then he saw what he had not before, a child. The carriage swerved to dodge the man and Mr Higbee dashed into the street. There was confusion, a scream, the sound of bones cracking against horses and wheels. Then the carriage was past, the dust cleared and the panicked man stood still. He stood looking at the blood of Charles Higbee. The curse had failed. Horror raged, and Mr Higbee groaned, but the child was safe.
It would be many days before Merryweather had any idea of heroic deed of the man on the side of the street but when she did it was not heard without a few thankful tears.
“What should we do with him?” was the cry of her aunts.
Mr Charles Higbee was not an old man. This point must be stressed early on in meeting the character- for he acts so much like an old stodgy cripple that the reader, as well as anyone who knows him, is prone to forget. He is an ordinary unloved and unrecognized character. Fore ordained to obscurity, because nothing immediately recognizable in him could insight tragedy, heroism, romance. Inshort he was not exciting and no quality of person distinguished him. Too plain and scencial for love, too realistic and level headed for horror or tragedy, too indifferent for law or history, too rich for a pauper too poor for a prince, and there was a certain seriousness in his brow that stowed laughter. To add the killing stroke he wore spectacles! No main character can wear ordinary unromantic spectacles! It would be simply criminal. He was the perfect two dimensional regular man. He knew it, and sometimes felt confined by the obscurity pressed upon him. Some men are burdened with glorious purpose; Mr Higbee was burdened with gloriless regularity. Perhaps it was in rebellion of this that he did what he did. Perhaps it was mere opportunity, but I rather believe it was done because he is actually quite irregular- not in any way generally recognized or appreciated, but in one that will slowly unveil itself--for Mr Higbee was determined to be good, and that is very unusual indeed.
John
Papercrafters despise the rain. Their little paper birds take flight
and flit from place to place within their homes. Then they soar
through an open window and take to the outside world.
Until it rains.
Then little damp lumps of paper found about the yard are all that
remains. The papercraft unbinds from the soggy heap, just as a spirit
leaves a dead body.
Me
I never liked this life so well…
Sickness and sorrow
in every tomorrow
crime and wars and darkness abound
Never kindness and love to be found
…I often I thought I lived in hell.
I never liked this life so well…
Though I thought it wrong!
I shouldn’t feel down so long!
Maybe I should count my blessings
Instead of numbering all the messings
…Maybe I am not in hell.
I never liked this life so well…
Then one day, I understood
We aren’t so worthy nor so good
We make the wars and crimes abound
We oppress til no kindness is found
… we made our world into a hell.
There isn’t much I can do, oh well…
I’ll just do my best to endure this hell, well.
***No one else wanted to participate***
***Don't worry, we all laughed at our dark humor and none of us are suffering from depression.***
