Puss in Boots - Prologue/?

Kat stalked irritably into the throne room. She was not best pleased.

"Really, Father?"

"Really, Katherina, can you not find something more appropriate to wear?" the king said, frowning.

"Really, Father?"

"I know you have an irrational taste for crude clothing -"

"- practical clothing, but that's not the -"

"- but surely even you can appreciate the need to look your best for such a guest as Prince Beauregard."

"Prince Beauregard."

"Yes, Beauregard," the king said, shifting uncomfortably. "He is handsome, honorable, charming... willing to overlook your, er, peculiarities... I cannot fathom your lack of interest."

"Shall I count the ways?" Kat snapped. "He is dull, timid, and 'overlooks' my 'peculiarities' because he's incapable of seeing anything in me except what a painted canvas could show. Oh, and he's a dangerously irrelevant distraction in this moment of national crisis."

"Crisis?" the king repeated, blinking. "Oh, sweetie, I would hardly call it a crisis..."

"Ogres, border. Miller, dead. Crisis."

"I am sure the generals can deal with that, sweetheart."

Kat's "Right" was slathered with enough sarcasm for even the king to notice. Unfortunately, he chose to press on.

"We can discuss this later. For the present time, please you return to your quarters. Perhaps the ladies-in-waiting can make you presentable in time to ... Katherina!"

She was gone.

The Trolls

Inspired by my students on a day when faith and optimism were... difficult.

They ramble polymorphous on;

they wild and careless play.

They try their different faces on;

their costumes they display.

 

Who are they, and what shall be?

they wonder. So do we,

we rooted, turgid, frozen folk,

no more formless-free.

 

They dance and play and sing their way -

pirate, ninja, queen -

as shifting shadows shiftless slide

From beast to superbeing.

 

So we were once, and once were so,

Astronauts and elves

Wizards, cowboys, paupers, princes;

Now merely ourselves.

 

They change and grow and change still less

Discarding extra faces

They slowly pick out one last few

They still, and take their places

 

As they become what they shall be

As they join us frozen

We cry in fear or ecstasy

At finished forms they've chosen

 

Some are heroes, strong and brave

Some are butterflies

Some are gypsies, wild and free,

Some are sages wise

 

Some are beauties, some are beasts

Some are dancers 'mid the throng

Some are jesters, some are kings

Some raise voices e'er in song

 

Some, more daring, change still more

Growing tree-like high

Stronger, fairer, stranger still

Child of sun and sky

 

And some, more careless, change still less

like troll-folk, trollish grown,

Shunning sun, sky, joy, and life

Till sunlight turns them stone

The Youngest, Part Two

(Part One here.)

The queen mother was not satisfied with these odds, however. "Here," she said, "take this honest woodcutter's son with you, and treat him kindly. And if he should win the prize as his kind are wont to do, let him do so, and rejoice that you yet live and have the hope of another of the princesses." The young prince knew the wisdom of accepting his mother's gift and did so gladly.

The Youngest - Part One

And from January 2007! 

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived a king, his loving queen, and his three lovely daughters. And the strange thing about these daughters was this: they had learned that the youngest of three sisters is bound to be the fairest, sweetest, wisest, and most fortunate, in turn binding her elder sisters to a life of jealous ill-nature and an unhappy end. The sisters thought this unfair, and so took it in turns to be the youngest, each in her turn becoming the jewel of the family while the other two contentedly awaited their turns and enjoyed being fair enough, sweet enough, wise enough, and fortunate enough. But their secret they told no one, for fear that the charm would break.