For those of you who wandered down this path in hopes to find something that would brighten your day, something interesting at all, you may feel free to leave. There’s nothing to see here. Well, there used to be, but this storyline had some minor issues, and while the scene is in repair, the characters have gone off to the Margin. A book can’t go without characters. Well, anyhow, you should go to other stories if you seek action. If you are really bored, though—the type of boredom that eats at you and reminds you constantly of every wasted, ticking second—you could do me a small favor, couldn’t you? I need help finding whatever messed up the scenes.
Scene one is—or was— a forest. The type that only exists within happy fairytales (maybe this is a fairytale plotline), with golden sunlight spilling through the branches and perfect little red berries on perfect little brambles. The type that had perfectly green grass, dotted with small wild flowers instead of muddy footprints like it would’ve been in reality (but then again, this isn’t reality after all). That made the thick trail of dirt-yellow dust, old pieces of battered wood, and dried up weed seem extremely out of place. It announced its enormous presence to this calm opening violently, tearing up trees and throwing them on the ground, scarring the sunlit grass—and the tower. It had come into view, made of stone and brick, looming in the approaching distance. The structure was old, but not old enough to have pieces of stone falling off, or crumble at the base, like the horrible state it was in right now. Only something huge could’ve done it. The always-present patch of clearing beneath any fairytale tower is littered with uprooted trees, dust, and broken stone bricks. (Frankly, I’m surprised that the Tower hasn’t fallen yet.)
Scene two takes place inside of the tower, and by now I’m pretty much sure we were in “Rapunzel.” A crown lay discarded in the corner of the small chamber, forgotten. A thick, long coil of golden rope, presumably the princess’s “hair,” hung outside the window—the remnants of the window, anyway. Whatever-it-was had apparently disagreed with the room’s lighting arrangement, and tore away an entire wall, along with half the roof. Something grey and stormy and fairly huge caught my eye. From the height of the tower, I saw, for the first time, what has been wreaking havoc in this fairytale, at the near-end of the plotline. I beckon for my companion to hurry, as it ruthlessly pulls the castle—there was always a castle in a marriage scene in these types of stories, of course—into its clutches, tearing it apart.
When we were almost at the fifth-to-last scene, a very panicky Dorothy Gale scurried from “The Wizard of Oz,” panting. She nearly trips from her hastiness.
“Sorry to interrupt, but have you, by chance, seen a loose tornado nearby?” She asks hurriedly. “I’m afraid our tornado did not return to scene three after sending us to Oz.” As I had thought, the tornado from “The Wizard of Oz” was somehow in “Rapunzel.’ Gesturing towards the final scene, the three hurry toward the grey, writhing snake in the distance.
Dear Reader, I will spare the gruesome details on how we managed to transfer the roaring monster of a breeze back to its original storyline. Let it be known that there was a lot of flying-off-the-ground, nausea, writing, and editing involved. As the finishing edits were completed, early readers started making their way down the plotline of both stories. If something was different, nobody acknowledged it.
Scene one is—or was— a forest. The type that only exists within happy fairytales (maybe this is a fairytale plotline), with golden sunlight spilling through the branches and perfect little red berries on perfect little brambles. The type that had perfectly green grass, dotted with small wild flowers instead of muddy footprints like it would’ve been in reality (but then again, this isn’t reality after all). That made the thick trail of dirt-yellow dust, old pieces of battered wood, and dried up weed seem extremely out of place. It announced its enormous presence to this calm opening violently, tearing up trees and throwing them on the ground, scarring the sunlit grass—and the tower. It had come into view, made of stone and brick, looming in the approaching distance. The structure was old, but not old enough to have pieces of stone falling off, or crumble at the base, like the horrible state it was in right now. Only something huge could’ve done it. The always-present patch of clearing beneath any fairytale tower is littered with uprooted trees, dust, and broken stone bricks. (Frankly, I’m surprised that the Tower hasn’t fallen yet.)
Scene two takes place inside of the tower, and by now I’m pretty much sure we were in “Rapunzel.” A crown lay discarded in the corner of the small chamber, forgotten. A thick, long coil of golden rope, presumably the princess’s “hair,” hung outside the window—the remnants of the window, anyway. Whatever-it-was had apparently disagreed with the room’s lighting arrangement, and tore away an entire wall, along with half the roof. Something grey and stormy and fairly huge caught my eye. From the height of the tower, I saw, for the first time, what has been wreaking havoc in this fairytale, at the near-end of the plotline. I beckon for my companion to hurry, as it ruthlessly pulls the castle—there was always a castle in a marriage scene in these types of stories, of course—into its clutches, tearing it apart.
When we were almost at the fifth-to-last scene, a very panicky Dorothy Gale scurried from “The Wizard of Oz,” panting. She nearly trips from her hastiness.
“Sorry to interrupt, but have you, by chance, seen a loose tornado nearby?” She asks hurriedly. “I’m afraid our tornado did not return to scene three after sending us to Oz.” As I had thought, the tornado from “The Wizard of Oz” was somehow in “Rapunzel.’ Gesturing towards the final scene, the three hurry toward the grey, writhing snake in the distance.
Dear Reader, I will spare the gruesome details on how we managed to transfer the roaring monster of a breeze back to its original storyline. Let it be known that there was a lot of flying-off-the-ground, nausea, writing, and editing involved. As the finishing edits were completed, early readers started making their way down the plotline of both stories. If something was different, nobody acknowledged it.
