The brief was to rewrite a fairy tale using only 2K words. I chose Rumplestiltskin because the tale had always bothered me. Why would the miller’s daughter want to marry such a nasty king? And what did Rumplestiltskin want with a baby in the first place?

The Miller’s Daughter

Once upon a time in the Kingdom of Alkia, the beautiful miller’s daughter followed a velvet-clad servant through the Great Hall of the King’s palace.

Atop a large dais, the handsome King sat on a golden throne. At his side, on a simple wooden chair, sat the Queen. There had been rumors of the green-eyed Rominortian Princess’s beauty, but they did not do the raven-haired woman justice. She was the most beautiful woman the miller’s daughter had ever seen.

Remembering her manners, the miller’s daughter dropped into a curtsy, as the King’s intense stare ranged over her.

“Your father was not exaggerating. You’re quite the Alkian beauty.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” the miller’s daughter murmured self-consciously.

“We shall see if he also spoke the truth about your ability to turn straw into gold.”

“Your Majesty, I can’t-”

The King’s sharp voice cut off her protest. “For if your father did lie to the King’s own messenger, it would be the same as if he’d lied to the King. That kind of thing must not be tolerated, and he’d have to be executed.”

Fear gripped her heart. “Of course, your Majesty.”

“Excellent.” A cold smile spread across the King’s lips. “You will be taken to the dungeon. If all the straw is not turned to gold by sunrise, your life will be forfeit.”

The Queen quickly smothered a small gasp. As two guards took the miller’s daughter’s arms and led her away, she kept her gaze on the Queen’s sympathetic face.

The guards thrust the miller’s daughter into a prison cell deep beneath the castle. Her heart sank as she looked about the damp room. Piles of golden straw sat in drifts against the walls, and in the center of the room stood a spinning wheel and small stool.

The miller’s daughter sat down. Try as she might, the straw stubbornly remained straw, refusing to be spun, let alone, turned to gold. When her fingers were red and raw, the miller’s daughter gave up and sobbed. The echoes of her cries reverberated against the stark stones of her prison.

“Why is a beautiful lass like yourself crying?”

Nearly falling off her stool in fright, the miller’s daughter looked up to find an odd little man. He was as short as a child but had the face of a wizened old apple. Wearing layers of brown and green, he would have blended in perfectly with a forest floor but stood in stark contrast against the straw-filled cell.

“If I don’t spin this straw into gold by sunrise, the King will have me killed.”

“Now, why would our good King go and set such an impossible task?”

The miller’s daughter sighed. “My father bragged to the King’s messenger that I could turn straw into gold. It doesn’t matter that my papa meant I was clever with money. I’m afraid no amount of being clever will save me now.”

“No, poppet, but being lucky might,” the little man said with a twinkle in his eye.

“What do you mean?”

“I just so happen to know how to spin straw into gold. It’s my specialty.”

“Oh, please will you help me?” she begged.

“That depends. What will you give me in return?”

The miller’s daughter held up her mother’s silver bracelet.

“This will do,” he said, tucking the simple silver circle into one of the folds of his clothes. Shooing her off the stool, he situated himself next to the spinning wheel. With one foot on the treadle, the little man set the wheel to spinning and picked up a handful of straw.

Amazed, the miller’s daughter watched as he fed straw into the palm of his hand and gold thread exited his fingers to wrap around the bobbin.

“Why don’t you lay down, poppet? You’ve had quite the day,” the little man suggested.

Stifling a yawn, the miller’s daughter curled up on a pile of prickly straw and fell fast asleep.

The next morning, she awoke stiff and cold on the stone floor. The little man had vanished along with every piece of straw, and in their place was a basket filled with fat bobbins of gold thread.

The miller’s daughter picked one up, examining the beautiful thread. Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor. Hastily, she put the bobbin back and tried to straighten her rumpled dress.

Surprise and wonder flicked across the King’s face as he threw open the door and surveyed the room.

”I see your father was not lying after all. Excellent. More straw will be brought in. Spin the new straw into gold, and I will make you my wife. Fail, and I will have you tortured and killed,” the King commented matter-of-factly.

The miller’s daughter’s blood ran cold. “What of the Queen, your Majesty?”

The King bent down and stroked a gold bobbin. “One more basket such as this, and I will have enough gold to raise an army and reclaim Rominorta from those barbaric northerners. My father was a fool to ever sign the peace treaty.” The King crossed to the miller’s daughter, running a finger along her jaw, much in the same manner as he had the gold bobbin. “The Queen will be dealt with. It is only right to have an Alkian beauty by my side when I fulfill my destiny.”

The King swept out of the room not waiting for her reply.

Efficient servants took away the gold and replaced it with fresh mounds of straw. A guard brought her a steaming plate of stew, a hunk of bread, and a thick woolen blanket. Gifts from the Queen to fight off the damp chill of the dungeon.

Alone once more, the miller’s daughter wept, thinking of the kind acts of the beautiful Queen, and the simple fact that she did not want to die.

Night fell, and the little man appeared once more.

“I see we have another night of all this,” he commented, surveying the new piles of straw.

The miller’s daughter nodded glumly.

“Buck up now. With my help, you’ll get through this.” The funny little man clapped his hands. “Now, what will you give me tonight?”

“The King said he’d marry me if I spin this straw into gold, but I have nothing left to trade you,” the miller’s daughter whispered.

“You may have nothing now, but you could trade me something later.”

“What?”

“Your first born child.”

The miller’s daughter gasped. “Is there no other way?”

“That’s the way of things, poppet. There’s always a price,” he said, not unkindly.

With tears in her eyes, she agreed to the terms. Not waiting for the first wooden clack of the spinning wheel, the miller’s daughter turned away, wrapping herself in the blanket; a gift from the Queen she had condemned. The miller’s daughter cried herself to sleep.

#

Nine months later, the miller’s daughter swayed around the Royal bedchambers, a babe nestled in her arms. A silver crown caught the light from the roaring fireplace.

The little man appeared in the middle of the room, sweeping a low bow. “Your majesty.”

“Oh, it’s you. I was wondering when you would appear.”

Puzzled slightly, the little man pressed on, “I’ve come to collect my payment.”

“I’m afraid you’ve come in vain,” was the reply.

“Now, your Majesty, we had a deal,” the little man chided. “I turned straw into gold, and you promised your first born child in return.”

Smiling down at the babe, the miller’s daughter said, “That was the deal, yes, but the Princess is not mine to give.”

“What do you mean she’s not yours to give?” he demanded skeptically.

“She’s mine,” the Queen called, entering the chambers.

“My love, you need to rest,” the miller’s daughter fussed, cradling the baby with one arm while helping the exhausted Queen to a pillowed bench.

“How?” the little man sputtered.

“After you left, I realized that if the King went to war, thousands would die for his greed, and I simply could not trade their lives, or the Queen’s, for my own. Getting the guard’s attention, I begged him to let me speak to the Queen, and I told her of the King’s evil plans.”

“Knowing my late husband, I wasn’t surprised,” the Queen added. “Early that morning, the King tragically passed away. Heart attack, the Royal Physician declared.

“To thank our miller’s daughter for her help, I appointed her as my handmaiden. Over the next months, my stomach grew with King’s last parting gift, and we grew close. It turns out she has quite the head for politics and stratagems. I realized I loved her, as I had never loved the King. When I learned she loved me in return, we were married.”

“So, you see, the Princess is not my first born,” the miller’s daughter concluded, lacing her fingers with the Queen’s. “As it is, I may never be able to repay my debt to you.”

The little man cried out and began stomping about wildly.

The Queen threw a protective arm around her wife and child. “Call the guards!”

The miller’s daughter watched the little man. “I do not think he means to hurt us, my love. He’s anguished, not angry.”

After observing the little man’s tantrum more closely, the Queen reluctantly agreed.

“Little man, may I ask you something?” the miller’s daughter called.

The little man halted his wild stomping, glaring at the two women.

“Why do you want a baby so badly?”

“Because I love them! The way they smell, their sweet smiles, their tiny toes,” the little man exclaimed, heaving a sigh. “Years ago, I found a babe wailing in the forest. I planned to take him to the village to find someone to care for him. Only, I couldn’t give him up. He was such a happy wee thing, even though life had treated him so poorly. So, I raised him.

“Eventually, he grew old enough to want to make something of himself, and I struck a bargain with a blacksmith to take him on as an apprentice. He says my son will be a master of his craft,” the little man stated, pride swelling his chest.

“Last winter, my son married himself a sweet gal, and soon they will start their own family. My home, once so full of laughter, is empty again. Since I doubt I’ll stumble upon another babe in the woods, I thought I would trade my skill for one,” he finished miserably.

Moved by his tale, the Queen quietly asked, “Would you like to hold her?”

The little man answered in a voice strained by hope, “More than anything, your Majesty.”

The miller’s daughter fixed him with a stare. “You must promise not to harm her or steal her away.”

“I promise on my name. No, on my magic, I will not harm the wee Princess.”

The little man accepted the wrapped babe gently, a large smile stretching across his misshapen face.

Waking up, the Princess began to fuss. Rocking her slowly, the little man wiggled his large ears, and soon she had cooed herself back asleep.

After exchanging soft words with her wife, the Queen said, “There are those among the nobility who are less than pleased to have two Queens on the throne. And one of them Rominortian, no less. They would seek to harm not just us, but the Princess, as well. She is a true Alkian heir and needs someone we can trust to watch her. Would you take the job of being her nurse and protector?”

The little man stood quietly before inquiring, “Would I be able to visit my son?”

“Of course.”

The little man smiled down at the Princess. “Then, it would be my honor.”

The Queen smiled, resting her head on her wife’s shoulder.

Pressing a kiss to the Queen’s brow, the miller’s daughter asked, “What is your name? We can’t very well keep calling you ‘little man.’”

“Rumpelstiltskin, your Majesties. My name is Rumpelstiltskin.”

Ello!

March 16th starts the fourth round of Author Mentor Match (AMM), which matches aspiring YA and MG authors with agented and published authors for mentorship.

OF BLOOD AND STONE

YA – Historical Fantasy

It’s the roaring 20’s, and sheltered Sophie Baker wants nothing more than to be a true-blue flapper. After dancing the night away with the handsome Nathaniel, Sophie believes she’s finally found her place in the world among the Vampire elite of London.

That belief crumbles when she accidentally turns into a Vampire herself and is left on the rooftop to die. Having escaped the sun’s deadly rays, Sophie now has to hide from the Vampire Council which will kill her for her unsanctioned turning. Alone in the city, Sophie takes to the rooftops of London with her newfound strength and speed.

There she meets a family of Gargoyles, an ancient race living in hiding, both from  Vampires and humans. Reluctantly, Gabriel, the family’s fierce patriarch, agrees to take Sophie under their wing. When she learns that Nathaniel is still killing his human feeders, Sophie has to make a choice. Sometimes the person worth fighting for is yourself.

As a Mentee

Last year I entered PitchWars with OF BLOOD AND STONE, and while I was not selected, I met some fantastic writers and gained invaluable CPs. Through their feedback and help, I’ve completely rewritten OfBandS from Adult to YA and sharpened the story a great deal.

Constructive criticism is about the best gift you can give a writer. It shows that you care about the story and know that the author has it in them to make it better. If you don’t know what is not working, you can’t improve. I’m willing to work hard and learn everything I possibly can.

Full disclosure: I know that the market is fairly oversaturated with Vampire stories, but that is not going to stop me from trying to make this particular one as strong as I can possibly make it.

Also, my grammar is terrible, but I’m working hard on it.

About Myself

My name is V, and I’ve been in love with stories and books for most of my life. Growing up outside of New Orleans helped fuel my love of Gothic and Dark Fantasy (as well as tasty seafood).

Currently, I live in Seattle, and, consequently, am perpetually Vitamin D deficient. Despite the gloom, I’ve fallen completely in love with this beautiful, nerdy city.

Favorite books

• The Night Circus – Erin Morgenstern
• Saga – Brian K. Vaughn
• The Dark Jewels Trilogy – Anne Bishop
• Kindred – Octavia Butler
• Matilda – Roald Dahl
• Cinder – Marissa Meyer
• Interview with a Vampire – Anne Rice
• Sunshine – Robin McKinley
• The Girl with all the Gifts – Mike Carey

 

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That Time of the Month

A Short Story

A notification popped up on the screen of my phone accompanied by a bright trill. Groaning, I read the calendar reminder before dismissing the message with an irritated swipe of my finger.

It was that time of the month. Again.

Steeling myself, I poked the icon for the tracker app on my phone (oh the wonders of modern technology). A bright pink calendar appeared, and just as I suspected, the next day had a big moon-faced smile sitting squarely in the box.

Just peachy.

How did it always seem to sneak up on me? Every month, I promised myself I’d be more prepared for the next one, and every time I seemed to be caught off guard. Oh, well, it wasn’t like I didn’t have another shot next month. And the month after that. And the month after that.

Though, really, I only had myself to blame. If I looked back over the previous days, all the signs were there. I had been achy and tired, and I had snapped at my boss yesterday over making me rewrite the McMaster Presentation for the fourth time. Normally, I would have just called Keith a prick in my head and complained to my coworker, Dina, behind his back. As it was, I’d had to apologize and told him I was suffering from a headache, which was not untrue.

Turning off the episode of Gilmore Girls I had hoped to watch, I hauled myself off the couch and into the kitchen. Cold air spilled out of the fridge making bare toes with their sparkly purple nail polish curl against the tile. It turned out that cold air and condiments were about the only thing it contained. The medicine cabinet in my bathroom proved equally empty. I was going to need supplies.

Kicking myself for not remembering to restock earlier, I shuffled into a pair of flip-flops, grabbed my purse and keys, and headed to the twenty-four-hour grocery store.

One of the trolley’s wheels squeaked against the black and white tiles as I made my way up and down the aisles. The small eek eek of a frightened mouse. It was annoying, but not enough to go all the back to the front of the store to get a new cart. A muzak version of Dying in your Arms Tonight played over the tinny speakers setting my teeth on edge. I needed to get what I came for and get out.

I grabbed a couple of protein bars from the cereal aisle and tossed them into the bottom of the cart. Two cans of baked beans followed with a rattle as they struck the metal mesh and rolled about. Squeaking to the back of the store, I surveyed the rows of shrink-wrapped cuts of meat. A thick cut New York strip joined the other items in the bottom of the cart. What the hell? I was going to need the protein, and it was on sale.

Resolutely, I passed the candy aisle with its siren song of sugar and brightly wrapped sweets, only to stop ten feet later. With a sigh, I swung my cart around in a prolonged squeal of defeat, or victory. After selecting two bars of Theo’s 70% dark chocolate (I had read anything below 70% and you lose the benefits of the cocoa beans, plus milk chocolate is far too sweet for my tastes), I nestled them next to my purse in the child’s seat of the cart. Nothing worse than broken chocolate bars. All that was left was to swing by the Health and Beauty section.

Juggling the brown paper bag of purchases, I unlocked the front door of my apartment with a jiggle of keys. At some point, I really was going to have to reorganize that thing. I’m pretty sure it still had the key to my first childhood home on it.

After hip checking the door closed, I threw the lock. It was as old as my ancient apartment building and just as sturdy. It engaged with a satisfying clunk. For good measure, I slid the chain lock into its slot as well. A girl couldn’t be too careful.

While the fridge didn’t look exactly happy, it didn’t seem quite so sad with the dark red steak surrounded by half-empty ketchup and bbq sauces. The rest of the items were strewn on my dining room table for easy access, should I need them.

Good enough for tonight, I figured, before hopping in the shower for a quick rinse. Trailing water droplets, I headed over to the dresser. After rummaging around in the top drawer, I pulled out my oldest pair of panties. They used to be pink, but now were more grey than anything. The butt sagged to the point that it barely touched my cheeks, and the band did not snap so much as gently bounce against my hips and stomach like an astronaut walking on the lunar surface. After throwing on a pair of sweats and an old college jersey, Go Gamecocks, I crawled into bed.

The next morning I woke up with a stomach that felt like a ball of angry snakes all knotted together and a spectacular case of bed head. Rolling over, I tucked my knees up to my chest to ease the cramping, as I swatted the bedside table searching for my phone. The bright screen blinded me, and I squinted out of one eye as I hit Keith’s speed dial. Every ring throbbed in my ear. A near physical blow that ricocheted around my skull.

“Yes,” Keith finally answered after the fifth ring.

“It’s Bri. I’m not going to make it into work today,” I mumbled, my tongue dry and thick as an overcooked dinner roll in my mouth.

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. My eyeballs backflipped in their sockets in response.

“Weren’t you just out last month?”

“Yes, it’s kind of a monthly thing, Keith. As in, it happens every month.”

“I know, I know, but what about the McMaster presentation?” Keith whined, a note of panic creeping into the edge of his useless voice. “There’s still a lot of work to be done, and we are meeting with them on Tuesday.”

“I’ll be back in the office on Monday. It’ll get done, even if I have to stay late.”

“See that you do” was the only reply before the line went dead.

It took every ounce of willpower not to throw the phone across the room.

“Little prick,” I growled, throwing the covers off. “Why don’t you stop by so I can bite that little pea-brain head of yours clean off?”

The mental image of my boss’s headless body running around flailing its arms as great Tarantino fountains of blood gushed from his neck put a smile on my lips. At least it did, till I stood up too quickly and my stomach protested. Bending over, I rubbed one hand in gentle circles over my cramping abdomen. The first day was always the worst.

Padding into the kitchen, I was careful not to move too quickly. Praise all that is good and holy; I had remembered to fill the coffee pot the night before. After punching the start button, I tore into the packaging of the new Advil bottle. Why did they always make getting into these things so difficult? Bits of cardboard and silver foil from the seal littered the countertop, but I was finally successful.

After swallowing three of the round pills and draining the glass of water I used to take them, I stood bracing myself on the counter, nails clicking impatiently on the formica as the coffee machine bubbled away. Soon the aroma of warm coffee wafted around the kitchen, and I could feel the painkillers slowly starting to work. After pouring myself a generous cup and stirring in enough sugar to put a baby elephant into diabetic shock, I grabbed one of the protein bars and shuffled into the living room.

Wrapped in my old flannel blanket, I curled up on my sagging couch. Not bothering with the wrapper (really it’s just fiber, and it’s not like the bar itself tastes any better), I ate the whole thing in three bites washing it down with big slurps of coffee. Picking up the remote, I used one claw to carefully press the power button for the TV, before reaching over the side of the sofa and snagging the heating pad from its permanent home under the end table. Positioning the heating pad against my lower stomach, I turned it up to full power.

Between the Advil, the coffee, and the soothing waves of warmth from the heating pad, my stomach slowly unwound itself. Letting out a sigh, I sank back against the couch cushions, before shooting upright with a yelp of pain. Digging behind me, I pulled my tail out of the blanket so it wouldn’t get pinched and leaned back.

Some girls had it so easy. Every month they’d transform with no problems or issues, just beautiful silky pelts and more than enough energy to take on the world. No, I had to be one of the unlucky ones plagued with headaches, mood swings, and cramps so horrendous, I had to miss work for the first day of the full moon.

Still, it could be worse. I had a beautiful steak to look forward to for dinner, and reruns of the Great British Bakeoff were on the TV. Though, I couldn’t help but think of my boss’s head being baked into one of those flaky, buttery pastries the contestants were making.

“Simply scrummy” as Miss Mary Barry would say.

Hello There!

My name is V and this is my first year participating in Pitch Wars . After reading some of the other amazing hopeful-mentee blogs, I decided to hop on the blog hop dance train.

Now, let’s get down to business … to defeat the Huns. No, no, sorry. PitchWars. No Huns.

About OF BLOOD AND STONE

Adult – Dark Fantasy

December 1922, Sophie Baker wakes up naked and alone in the shed of a London rooftop garden. Through her own stubborn actions, she’s been accidentally turned into a Vampire and left to die by her lover. Having escaped the sun’s rays, she now has to hide from the Vampire Council that will kill her for her unsanctioned turning. Alone in the city, her only friend is a lady doctor who helps her get the blood that she needs to survive and occasionally argues about jazz musicians.

In order to combat boredom and loneliness, Sophie takes to the rooftops of London with her newfound Vampire strength. There she meets a family of Gargoyles including the grumpy and powerful, Gabriel. This ancient race also lives in hiding, both from the Vampires and humans, and reluctantly takes Sophie under their wing(s). That is until Sophie learns that her old lover is still killing his feeders. Sophie has to make the choice to learn to fight and risk herself to keep others from suffers the same fate she narrowly escaped or protect the fragile existence she’s built hiding on London’s rooftops.

As a Mentee

I grew up outside of New Orleans, which helped fuel my love of Gothic and Dark Fantasy, as well as my love of tasty seafood. I’ve been in love with stories and books for most of my life. While Of Blood and Stone is my first completed novel, it will not be my last. I’m hooked and want to do everything that I can to improve my writing and storytelling.

Consequently, I think PitchWars is an amazing opportunity to work with an experienced mentor and learn as much as possible. While I do work very hard, I believe in being silly, enjoying humor (both light and dark), and puns. So many bad puns.

Full disclosure: I know that the market is fairly oversaturated with Vampire stories, but that is not going to stop me from trying to make this particular one as strong and entertaining as I can possible make it.

Also, my grammar is terrible, but I’m working hard on it.

About Myself

I live and work in Seattle, Washington and, consequently, am an avid eater of citrus Vitamin D gummies. Despite the gloom, I’ve fallen completely in love with Seattle. It’s a beautifully nerdy city.

Interesting Tidbits

• Able to do a Skeksis voice from The Dark Crystal.
• Fenced in high school and desperately miss it.
• Spray painted gold and silver dinosaurs as party favors for my wedding.
• My miniature Schnauzer is named Millennium Falcon, but goes by Millie or the hellhound depending on her mood.
• Once wrote a poem dedicated to the spider in my car.
• Know probably more of The Princess Bride than is really good for me.

Favorite books

Picking my favorite book would be like asking to pick my favorite child. I don’t have children, but, still.

• The Night Circus – Erin Morgenstern
• Saga – Brian K. Vaughn
• The Dark Jewels Trilogy – Anne Bishop
• Kindred – Octavia Butler
• Matilda – Roald Dahl
• Cinder – Marissa Meyer
• Interview with a Vampire – Anne Rice
• Sunshine – Robin McKinley
• The Girl with all the Gifts – Mike Carey

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“So Matilda’s strong young mind continued to grow, nurtured by the voices of all those authors who had sent their books out into the world like ships on the sea. These books gave Matilda a hopeful and comforting message: You are not alone.” ― Roald Dahl, Matilda

Growing up, my parents surrounded us with stories. They would read to us, tell us fantastic tales on long car trips where my sister and I were the heroines, and take us to the library over the summers to participate in summer reading programs. I fell in love with stories. I fell in love with being transported to other worlds, going on adventures, and meeting new and exciting people.

One of my favorite books (and movies, for that matter) was, and still is, Matilda by Roald Dahl. While I have been blessed with a wonderful family, being a shy child myself, I still identified strongly with Matilda and her love of reading. Books are some of the easiest friends you will ever make. It took me until high school to really find my own nerdy quirky tribe, and until I did, I sustained myself with books.

Looking back at Roald Dahl’s work and Matilda, in particular, one of the things that drew me was that he never spoke down to his audience. Even though he was dealing with tough subjects like child neglect and abuse, he did it in a way that is understandable without being overwhelming. He challenged us to seek help both through adults like Miss Honey, and through our inner strength.

At the start of this post is one of my favorite quotes from the book, but another one that I love is “She sat there in a blaze of silence.” To me this evokes so much emotion with such a simple line. You can picture Matilda almost glowing in perfect contentment, and all from so few words.

My love of Matilda is one of the reasons I want to write my own stories. They may never “nurture young minds” but they may entertain, and if I’m very lucky, maybe they will grow someone else’s love for books and tales.