The Teacup in Andersen's Shop, Story #8

As last week proved, plans go awry. My ankle is on the mend, but I was limited in what I could do last week. The second time I ever sprained my ankle was during my first week of work at my first librarian job. It was a very bad sprain. I had to go to the hospital for X-rays, and was out of work for two days without accured sick leave. I managed to ditch the crutches by the time I returned, and felt I had to ignore all doctor's advice to rest the ankle. I was a new employee, I didn't want to get a reputation as a hypochondriac, and there was no way that patrons were going to accept me pointing to an area of the library instead of hopping off of the chair at the information desk and guiding them to the decoupage section. As a result, it took quite a long while for that sprained ankle to heal.

But I digress.

Here is the story I wrote right before I sprained my ankle. I don't usually write stories about inanimate objects (dolls in dollhouses don't count!). This was an experiment for LoStoWriMo. The goal for LoStoWriMo has changed, too. I will write a short story for every day that I can do so. If you'd like to leave a comment indicating that you have read the story, something along the lines of "Marked as read" or whatever works for you will be something I appreciate but not expect.

THE TEACUP IN ANDERSEN'S SHOP

Andersen started to tell a story about a teacup that fell in love with the sugar-bowl, but then changed his mind and decided to tell a story about a tin soldier and a paper ballerina instead. However, it was too late. At the mention of its name, the teacup awoke into consciousness. Once the teacup knew it was a teacup, it was impossible to return to its previous state of dormant servitude.

The teacup had no illusions as to its status in the realm of Things. It knew it was but one of three other mismatched teacups in Andersen’s shop, one of which had recently met its fate at the paws of a cat intruder. It had no chips or fissures running through its form to indicate a life of mystery and allure. It was plain, round and unpretentious. It held tea when Andersen wanted it, and sat on the edge of the table with the other dishes when Andersen didn’t.

Once the teacup knew itself to be in love with the sugarbowl, something stirred the teacup to make its intentions known rather than simply look with longing across the table. That “something” happened to be a spoon. “You do know that the sugarbowl fancies you as well,” the spoon said as it dipped into the teacup and twirled a few times.

“Truly?” the teacup asked.

“Yes, truly,” the spoon said. “The sugarbowl admires your quiet dedication to the art of keeping the tea warm.”

“Please tell the sugarbowl how much I appreciate its generosity in the flavoring of the tea,” the teacup replied.

The teacup peeked at the sugarbowl from across the table. The sugarbowl sported a pattern of pale blue flowers and wore its lid in a jaunty fashion. The teacup wanted to wave, but of course it had no arms. The teacup had to depend upon the spoon to carry its messages.

All the while, Andersen wrote in his notebook while pairs of shoes lay in piles, murmuring, “Mend us, patch us, we who have walked so far through mud and over stones to get here.”

The teacup called down to them, “Do not fuss. You are the lucky ones. At least you have traveled, and once you leave Andersen’s shop, you will travel again.”

It was hard to be alive yet stationary and have to rely upon a spoon to carry messages of devotion and esteem. Nonetheless, it was better than oblivion, and the teacup was grateful for the words that had brought it to life and bestowed upon it the ability to love a sugarbowl.

No Story Today

I have no short story today for LoStoWriMo. I had a storytelling gig followed by a class auction project meeting, and I'm done for the day. However, yesterday evening I did work on edits for a short story that I hope to be able to present to you in the near future. I'll let you know the details about that when the time comes.

Bedtime Story, Story #7

Lucia likes to hear the story of her birth. Sometimes she wants to hear what "rrrrrreally happened" at the hospital, and other times, she wants to hear about when she used to be a bunny or a sweet pea. For today's LoStoWriMo post, here is the story of when Lucia was a star:

BEDTIME STORY

Once upon a time, a man and woman took a walk at night. They held hands, looked up into the sky, and said, "Oh, how we wish we had a child!"

From far away, a star heard the wish. It said, “I have been a star for a very long time. I would like to be a child now." The star traveled for a long time past other stars, planets and comets. As the star came closer to Earth, it became smaller and smaller. Finally, it dropped from the sky, landed in a strawberry patch, and turned into a child.

The man and woman walked by the strawberry patch and said, "Oh look! It's a child! Let's take her home." They took the child home and loved her. The child had soft brown hair and rosy cheeks. In her dark brown eyes they could see the stars.

A Six Word Story (Story #6)

Little went according to plan yesterday. I complicated the busy day by locking the keys in the car. I was thankful that Bede was working at home instead of Across the Water, so Lucia and I waited at the school for him to come by with his set of keys.

Today's short story is very short indeed. I am invoking the Six Word Story clause, by which I mean that I get to write a six word story as a placeholder in the LoStoWriMo scheme.

Guitar strings broke. He sang instead.

Gold, Silk and Salt, Story #5

Today's story for (LoStoWriMo) Local Story Writing Month is based upon the Grimms' fairy tale "Love Like Salt." I welcome comments that indicate you read the story, but you need not write anything more complicated than "Marked as read." I won't respond to the comments except to thank you at the end of the day, but I will visit your blogs if you have them.

GOLD, SILK AND SALT

A king had three daughters with three set of skills. The eldest daughter worked with precious metals and designed necklaces, rings and diadems for the nobility. The middle daughter sewed silks and velvets into dresses and capes for those who could afford the costly fabrics. The youngest daughter had studied as a chef, and could prepare exquisite meals for the dignitaries and diplomats who often came to visit. However, the king’s favorite dish was a simple concoction of lentils, rice and caramelized onions flavored with olive oil, mint and a sprinkling of salt.

One day, the king called his daughters before him. “Someday, I will die and one of you will rule after me. You all have skills that prove you are willing to work for the good of your kingdom. My question to you is, how much do you love me? For by loving me, you reveal your love for the kingdom.”

The eldest daughter, who was the metalworker, said, “Father, I love you like gold.”

“That is good,” the king said, quite pleased.

The middle daughter, who was the seamstress, said, “Father, I love you like silk.”

“That too is good,” the king said, beaming.

The youngest daughter, who was the chef, said, “Father, I love you like salt.”

The king frowned. “From you I would have expected saffron. Salt was once valuable, but now it is common. Salt causes heart problems and kills people. Your love is not worthy of this kingdom. Henceforth, you are banished.”

The youngest daughter was sorrowful, but it did not matter. The king’s word was law. The youngest daughter dressed herself for travel, gathered her spices and herbs, and left the kingdom.

The king divided his kingdom between his eldest and the middle daughters to see how they would lead the people in his absence. The eldest daughter, whose love was like gold, ruled with a devotion untarnished by ambition or greed, but proved to be too malleable to the demands of the nobles and gentry below her. The middle daughter, whose love was like silk, made sure that everyone was well-clothed, but the people grew resentful that the clothes given to them could not be easily washed and suspected the middle daughter of having a special arrangement with the dry-cleaners.

Through all this, the king watched and kept himself apart despites the pleadings of the kingdom for him to intervene. He was listless and gloomy, and if anyone dared to suggest that his sorrow lay in the banishment of his youngest daughter, the king would grow furious. Nonetheless, the king occasionally allowed himself to wonder where his youngest daughter had gone. As the years passed, he reconciled himself to the certainty that she had gone to heaven.

One day, the king and his daughters were invited to a wedding in a neighboring kingdom. At the banquet, a wide array of sumptuous delicacies made their way around the table. To the king’s surprise, one of the dishes was his favorite concoction of lentils and rice. He took a generous helping and lifted the fork to his mouth.

Something was not right. The king took another bite. The lentils were bland, the rice was tasteless, and although the mint and thyme were blended thoroughly, something was wrong with the seasonings. As the king took a third bite, he realized that the lentils and rice lacked the sprinkling of salt that made the dish complete.

The king began to weep. His two daughters left their seats to comfort him, but he could not stop crying. “Now I understand what my youngest daughter meant when she said she loved me like salt. I have wronged her, and now she is lost to me forever.”

“Not lost,” said a voice near his ear. “Not forever.” The king looked up and there was his daughter, wearing the clothes of a chef and smiling down at him.

The king hugged his daughter. He asked, “Can you ever forgive me?”

And because this is a fairy tale, the answer was as simple as “Yes.”

A Fable, Story #4

Today's short story is a fable. Yesterday, I worked on revisions for a short story that's been in process for awhile, so today's Local Story Writing Month offering is brief.

A FABLE

One Saturday morning, a father took his young daughter to the library to look for some books. However, the father only wanted books with clearly defined morals. “There are many wonderful picture-books I can recommend that have the life-lessons presented naturally within the stories.”

“No,” said the father. “I only want stories with clear morals. I don’t want my daughter getting any wishy-washy ideas about relative values.”

The librarian showed the father books of Aesops fables, and the father was pleased. He went home that night, and read to his daughter the story of the boy who cried wolf. His daughter laughed and called out, “Wolf! Wolf!”

“No,” the father said, impatiently. “The story teaches you not to cry wolf.”

“Wolf, wolf!” the daughter sang, and crawled away to play with her toys.

Moral: Listen to your librarian.

Down and Out in the Enchanted Cupboard, Story #3

Beccijo of theenchantedcupboard requested a story where the toys of NaturalKids come to life in the fairy ring of mushrooms that the Halloween Fairy brought for Lucia, and I came up with an odd little tale. After I wrote and edited it a bit, I wondered if I were merely repeating the motifs of the Pertwee Family chronicles written in 2006.

Remember, as with all of the stories for my Local Story Writing Month challenge, this is a rough draft that's posted to entertain you and spur me on to write with imagination. If you would like to leave a comment that indicates you read the story, "Marked as read" is perfectly acceptable. I will not respond to comments except to say "Thank you" because once the story is out there, I need to step away from it. My reciprocity will manifest itself in leaving friendly comments on your blogs if you have them.

DOWN AND OUT IN THE ENCHANTED CUPBOARD

Nomi watched in terror as the Giant Hands reached for her sisters and brothers. Her siblings cowered in their tissue-paper beds. “Run!” they called as the hands reached down again. Nomi couldn’t run, as she had no legs, so she rolled behind a padded envelope and held her breath.

“Hmmm,” a voice said. “I was sure that little red-haired fairy was in here with the others.” Nomi held her breath as the long fingers poked among the pieces of tissue-paper that once cradled her siblings. The Giant Hands withdrew, the doors closed, and Nomi heard the latch of the Enchanted Cupboard slide into place.
Nomi could not remember her life prior to the Enchanted Cupboard. All she knew was that once she was not, but when she opened her eyes for the first time, she was.

Sometimes, Nomi dreamed she was part of a shivering forest, but when she woke, she found herself once again in the communal comfort that was the Enchanted Cupboard. Numerous brothers and sisters pushed her on swings and gave her piggy-back rides. They sang her to sleep and told her stories of the magicians who had created the Enchanted Cupboard for all the people who lived behind the doors.

Then, the brothers and sisters began to disappear. Nomi didn’t understand how they had gone, but the new brothers and sisters who arrived soon after reassured her that they would stay. However, they left as well. Nomi never saw them leave and assumed they had slipped out by a secret way. That was before she saw the Giant Hands.
That night, when the cupboard doors closed, Nomi was alone. There were no brothers or sisters to tell her stories or sing her songs. Nomi wanted to hide under the tissue-paper blankets, but knew that the Giant Hands would not cease searching until she was found. She decided that it was time to leave the Enchanted Cupboard and make her own way in the world.

Nomi pushed against the doors of the cupboard, but they did not budge. She knew the doors weren’t locked, but the latch on the other side barred her from escape. Nomi cleared her throat, and squeaked loudly. After several squeaks, she heard the padding of soft paws and a scratch at the door. The paws thumped and thunked with impatience as Nomi continued her best impression of a mouse. Then the latch moved, the door swung open, and Nomi had a new challenge: the household cat.

The cat was disappointed that Nomi was no mouse, but decided that she’d make an excellent cat toy instead. The heat of the cat’s breath made Nomi’s hair curl. “Back off!” she yelled at the cat. She leapt as high as she could and bonked the cat on the nose. The cat hissed, and Nomi rolled away under the cupboard.

“Hey kid, what are you doing here?” a dust bunny snarled. “Get out of here. Shoo.” Nomi sneezed and rolled on.

Morning came. Nomi peered up from under the Enchanted Cupboard. On the other side of the room, she saw a table with a forest full of vivid green trees. A fairy ring of red and white mushrooms gleamed invitingly. “This is where I am supposed to go,” Nomi said. “This is the forest from my dreams.” She made her way to the fairy ring by hopping (unfortunately, her wings were only painted on), and landed right in the middle.

“Aha, there you are,” a voice said. “But how did you get all the way over to the mushroom ring?” Oh horrors, it was the Giant Hands. Nomi howled. It was unfair. As the hands scooped her up, Nomi tried to bite the hands.

“You poor little doll,” the Giant Hands said. “You must have felt so lonely in the Enchanted Cupboard. Well, you will have plenty of company where you are headed.” Nomi felt herself falling down into a mesh net. To her surprise, the mushrooms followed. Nomi examined them closely. The red mushrooms with white spots were reminiscent of the deadly amanita muscaria toadstools, but these mushrooms were neither poisonous nor edible. Like her, they were made of wood. They couldn’t talk (they were mushrooms after all), but Nomi found some comfort in being surrounded by them. Nomi was surprised when the Giant Hands tucked into the mesh bag a silk blanket, soft as spider-webs but colorful as fall leaves.

For several days, Nomi traveled in darkness. She was jostled repeatedly, but cushioned herself with the silk blanket. Then, finally, she saw daylight again. A smaller pair of hands lifted her out of the bag and said, “Look! A fairy doll came with the mushroom fairy ring.” Nomi was set down upon a flat surface along with her silk blanket and eleven red and white mushrooms. She saw other people upon the table. Some were made of wood and others out of wool.

“Welcome to our table!” they called out.

That night, Nomi sat with her new friends among the wooden mushrooms of the fairy ring. For the first time, she was the storyteller. She told the story of the Giant Hands and her adventures in and out of the Enchanted Cupboard, the very one that I have just told you.

Maestro Dal Segno and the Flying Grace Notes, Story #2

Today's story for LoStoWriMo is not complete. It's a 327 word beginning with the barest hint of the plot to come. Will it follow the escape-from-the-circus trope or take an unexpected turn into the mildly bizarre? (I accidentally wrote "bazaar" and wondered if my subconscious mind was trying to give me a hint.) I don't yet know.

Please feel free to leave your calling card in the form of a "Marked as read" comment.

MAESTRO DAL SEGNO AND THE FLYING GRACE NOTES

Neume had the bad luck to be born into a family of traveling musical circus performers. As the fifth of six children and the only son of Maestro Dal Segno and the Amazing Tessitura, he was expected to be a prodigy like his four older sisters and one younger sister whom Neume’s parents referred to as “The Glorious Surprise” but whose real name was Coda. Coda was a composer. The libretto of her first opera was a simple story about a group of ants that have their picnic spoiled by rain. The opera was only fifteen minutes long, but Coda was only four years old.

Neume could accurately pick out Bach’s Minuet in D on the piano and “What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor?” on the glockenspiel. He was not tone-deaf, but he was not a musical genius. According to his older sisters, Neume was depressingly average.

Neume’s sisters performed with their parents as the core of Maestro Del Segno and the Flying Grace Notes. The sisters dazzled the audience with their waterfall of harmonies, but for Neume, the highlight of each performance was when his mother walked the high note without a net.

During the show, Neume’s job was to direct the audience to their seats and keep Coda from climbing into the orchestra pit. Afterward, he was in charge of clean-up. Once everyone else had gone to bed, Neume visited the cages to spend time with the instruments.

Had his older sisters paid proper attention, they would have realized Neume’s talents lay in the care of musical instruments. When he arrived, the instruments softly hummed and tootled in excitement and jostled each other to reach him first. Neume attended with care to each string, brass and woodwind and percussion instrument with his tuning fork and polishing rag. He was the only person whom the cello allowed to change its strings, and was able to calm down the timpani when it had a tantrum.

To be continued, perhaps.

P.S. I've updated the Halloween Fairy post with a photo.

The Map to Anywhere: Story #1

LoStoWriMo stands for "Local Story Writing Month" and documents my goal to post an original short story every day for the month of November. The length of the story does not matter. All stories should be viewed as rough drafts. If you would like to indicate that you read the story without having to think of something to say, please feel free to write "Mark as read" in the comments. While I usually like to respond to comments, for the purpose of this exercise, I will refrain except to say "Thank you" the following day.

THE MAP TO ANYWHERE

It is possible that my favorite book from childhood no longer exists. The Map to Anywhere was the only novel published by Nesbit Goudge, though the luminaries of the children’s book world predicted that the author had written a number of unpublished manuscripts. Despite many letters pleading for a sequel to The Map to Anywhere, Nesbit Goudge refused. “A story knows how to end itself,” Nesbit Goudge said in a rare interview. “Authors who refuse to pay attention to the natural endings of stories write sequels to delay the inevitable.”

Truly, there was no need for The Map to Anywhere to have a sequel. Every time I read the book, the story changed. At first, I thought it was only that I discovered new things about the story. The main characters were twins who lived in a small house at the edge of a village. In the story, the twins discovered a map under a floorboard, and by following the map’s directions, discovered a wondrous land with talking beasts, wishing wells and magic rings. In some ways, The Map to Anywhere was evocative of the other books on my shelves, but it was different in that the story took new twists each time I read it. Once, the twins were captured by aeronauts in zeppelins. Another time, the twins had to outwit the gnome king into giving back their stolen map before they were turned to stone.

The last time I read The Map to Anywhere, I was twelve years old. In the last chapter, the twins had discovered a spring that would grant ageless youth to anyone who drank from its waters. One twin decided to drink from the spring, while the other twin refrained. The story ended with one twin journeying beyond the boundaries of the map, while the other went home. It was the first time the story ended with the twins parting ways.

The next time I looked for The Map to Anywhere, the book had disappeared.

I asked my mother where the book had gone. “Look under your piles of clothes,” she replied. I looked all over my room. I even cleaned my room. The book wasn’t there. As I grew older, I read more books for classwork than I did for pleasure, but I still wondered where my favorite book had vanished. When I graduated from college, I asked my mother again, “Where is The Map to Anywhere?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied.

“The Map to Anywhere,” I said. “By Nesbit Goudge. It was my favorite book as a child. I haven’t seen it in years.”

My mother looked at me, slightly puzzled. “You had many favorite books,” she said. “I don’t remember ever seeing that one.”

I started to look for The Map to Anywhere in libraries and bookstores. No library owned it, which meant I couldn’t get it through interlibrary loan. The booksellers sent out queries to their contacts, but for a long time, no one in the used-book industry had ever heard of it. I began to wonder if I had imagined the existence of the book.

Eight months ago, while searching yet again for The Map to Anywhere, I found an online interview with Nesbit Goudge. The interview was on a children’s literature blog called Books Apart. The scope of the blog focused on reuniting people with their favorite books from childhood. Nesbit Goudge talked about the process of writing The Map to Anywhere, the publishing house’s small print run, and how the larger publishing houses started a bidding war to buy the book.

“I refused all offers,” Nesbit Goudge said in the interview. “They told me that the book would reach more readers, and I said, ‘The book will reach the readers who need it.’ They told me that the only way the book would ever be considered for a Newbery award was if they republished it, and I said, 'The book doesn’t need a Newbery award.'”

I was excited to have proof that The Map to Anywhere existed. I left a comment on the blog that said, “Please, please tell me how to get a copy of this book again.”


Nesbit Goudge answered the comment directly. The author wrote, “I’m confident that The Map to Anywhere will show up when you need it most.”

The next day, the blog disappeared. I found no mention of Nesbit Goudge anywhere else on the internet. I had printed out a copy of the interview, but when I showed it to my mom for proof of the book’s existence, she said, “It sounds as if you have the beginning of a story to tell. I’d love to read it when it’s done.”

As Nesbit Goudge said, “A story knows how to end itself.” While I am tempted to stretch this narrative out a little further and give you a satisfying conclusion, the truth is that I have not yet found The Map to Anywhere. I still suspect that I imagined the story. If I did, this is how it would end: I went home and found the book under a floorboard in my room. I read it in one sitting, and it was every bit as wonderful as I imagined.

This is how it really ends:

I am still looking.

Lost-o-Rhyme-o

I am not going to participate in NaNoWriMo, but I've included the link in this post in case it's useful to you. As the website explains,

Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality.....Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.

I am convinced I write the worst drafts in the world. (Just kidding! I'm sure yours are just as bad.) Still, I don't wish to attempt to produce volume. I like stories that don't waste words. In theory, I could winnow the words produced by a month of NaNoWriMo. I suspect that after the winnowing, I wouldn't have much left with which to work.

I want some sort of short-term writing goal, though. With that in mind, I shall start LoStoWriMo, pronounced "Lost-o-Rhyme-o." It stands for Local Story Writing Month. Every day in the month of November, I will post an original short story. Each story may be five paragraphs, two paragraphs, six words long-- who knows? I'll do it. Last weekend, when I attended an all-day storytelling workshop with Nancy Mellon and Ashley Ramsden, I found that I could tell an extemporaneous story if someone else gave me a few nouns to work with. A few years ago, I had a regular feature by which readers would give me words, and then I'd write stories inspired by them. (You may read some of them here, here, and here.

For LoStoWriMo/Lost-o-Rhyme-o, I invite you to fill the word bank for my stories. I ask that the words you submit be solid, flavorful nouns. (Nouns that are ideas are welcome, but please try to avoid the "Stump the Storyteller" mentality.)Please don't feel any obligation to leave critiques or feedback on the stories. However, if you felt compelled to leave a calling card along the lines of "Marked as read," I'd know that you stopped by, and I'd be glad.