Re: The Wretched Rite - Round One - The Rose Ring
11-20-2011, 04:27 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by engineclock.
Stupid stupid stupid, Adelaide thought. Look what you’ve done now.
It should have been simple, because it was. Once they were in her arms it was the easiest thing in the world to lay them down and feel the butterfly pulse of their hearts against her tongue, tasting the warmth she no longer had and taking it away beat by beat. The perfume of their blood was stronger than the hunger and worse than the fear. She caught drifts of it on the few nights she slept, stirring in her dreams until she couldn’t stand it any longer and woke half mad and starving. It was the easiest thing in the world.
But Alice’s skin was unbroken and her heart was beating like a frightened bird in that alien rhythm, pounding from their escape from the tower. Adelaide’s teeth were on her throat- shouldn’t it have been then?- and her wrists and her lips- or then- and her stomach and her heart and everywhere else the rusalka could reach but it never seemed to happen. When they were in the water, that was her chance. A hand around a wrist and patience were all that was needed, but she’d led the girl to the surface without so much as a pause. And here they were.
Adelaide glanced over at the waiting Tsote, her strange face still flushed. It was just a mistake. She wasn’t hungry, that’s all. She was funny in the head from being out of the river so long. The fire had poisoned her with its heat.
The rusalka leaned into the strange girl, resting a ragged nail against the hollow of her neck and feeling her muscles stiffen. “’Coming’, girlie? Now, why on this earth would I be doing that?” She narrowed her eyes at Alice, letting a grin spread across her face. With a twist of her nail she brought a bead of silvery blood to the surface of the alien’s skin and watched it trail down her chest. “I alr’dy got what I wanted from you.”
She shoved Alice away with both hands as the Tstote sputtered in anger and embarrassment. Adelaide laughed, her voice falling flat. “What? Oh, were you expectin’ me to stick around fr’ pillow talk there, dearie? Made plans for breakfast, did you?”
“You bitch!” Alice spat. “You fucking bitch!”
The rusalka only laughed, forcing into it as much spite as she could manage. She laid a hand on her freckled hip and bared her teeth at the fuming Tsote. “Stupid chit. What’d you expect, then? Look at yourself. Look at me.”
Fuck.
No, not literally, shit. We did that already.
She sat back and wondered what she’d done with her shirt. The narrator, that is. Not her. The real one. That one. This one.
So let’s say you have a story with no author, or too many of them. Do you? De gustibus non est disputandum. I would never presume to go that far, never mind what they say. Let’s say your narrator is a character and let’s say your characters are narrators, and let’s pretend we’re pretending there’s an order to this. Now say we’re reading the story. Here’s our impasse. Where do we go from here?
Say she leaves her, because she would. That’s who she is. We could all pretend we don’t see it coming, couldn’t we? Suspending your disbelief is an art. But we’ve seen this before. Not here, because this isn’t your story, is it? Is it, now. We all know what’s going to happen to her, but let’s pretend we don’t. Let’s pretend that we’re surprised when Adelaide leaves, and poor lonely Alice goes into the library. The Library. Let’s talk about the Library.
You read the Ring, of course you did, like the good little writer you are. We know what’s there, you and I. We know what’s going to happen. One of us, one of you, leaves the set and we all forget to mention it, as if we were all trauma victims and were trying to repress the shit out of anything that didn’t strictly involve us. Or them. I’ve heard it both ways.
Now that narrator, not her, her, that one, she’s a tricky one. We know she’s a she because we know who she is. I suppose it was a joke at first. It might have been his. There’s not really a lot left here for us to do, is there? She could outline it for you. This is the rising action that leads to the climax that leads to the fall. But we change things, don’t we? When the fall is the climax, where’s the denouement? Where’s the justice? Even tragedies get resolved. These are the sacrifices we make. C’est la vie.
The Narrator. Let’s say she’s writing, because, in theory, she is, in the Ring at least. Is she writing the Ring? We could speculate. Let’s not. She’s writing this down, not this, but this. Our story, you and I. We know that we’ve been branded by the Rose because we were, and this was said, or the other way around. The pen is mightier than everything. She can’t be pleased, our narrator’s Narrator, and she isn’t, because I say so. QED.
She’s writing. I think we can move on.
In comes Alice, because she’s the first of presumably eight. I don’t know where Adelaide is going. Let’s say nowhere, because when you reject your lesbian hookup out of emotional turmoil you can be a little unreasonable. Figuratively nowhere. The rusalka’s in the water, where’ll she be until she isn’t. Alice is in the Library. She’s crying. Why not.
I’m not particularly in the mood to describe it, as I assume you can guess. If you couldn’t I’m not. It doesn’t need explaining. The place that comes to mind when I say “ancient and deteriorating shelves, coated in dust three inches thick” is where she is. Dammit, look, I got started there, this wasn’t my intention at all. Oak shelves, arching ceilings. I don’t rather remember what it was like in the Ring. This isn’t my laptop. I can’t be bothered to check. It’s old. In the middle of it all is the Narrator, writing away. You know which one.
Wouldn’t it be interesting if it was the other one? It could be anyone if you worded it right. How many narrators can there be? There is a desk with a seated figure, shrouded in shadows that shouldn’t exist, and in their hand is a pen. It moves across the page with a sound like mice claws, if you’ve ever heard it. If you haven’t, it sounds like a pen on paper. You’re throwing me off my stride here, kiddo, calm your tits. Pen on paper.
Fuck, I forgot about the dragon. There’s a dragon. Vera’s fighting it. Think of Alice with more confidence and probably a bigger cup size, there’s your Vera. The dragon is a stereotype, and also black, which is either hilarious or unfortunate or both. It wasn’t on purpose. They’re fighting. Clothing is probably torn by now, unless Vera’s too competent for that. I expect the dragon is losing. Let’s say he’s lost an eye and one of his wings is torn. I was always fond of dragons as a lass. He’s probably going to live. Spoilers.
But the Rose is in play, we can’t forget that. Let’s say she chases him off and sees the Library in the distance. They all do. All eight. The dragon does as well but we’ll handwave him out. He’ll go back to the tower and our eight in all their disguises will head for the books. Should we take any Not of Particular Concerns? I think not. We’ve had enough trouble getting where we are, I’d hate to overstep my bounds. You should laugh.
Shall we move this along? It’s been a while.
Alice confronts the narrator who does the usual I’ve been waiting speech, or maybe she doesn’t. I don’t really care. Make it up, sunshine. And let’s say the others are running up the hill, and of course the Narrator knows, because it’s her job to, you see. If I don’t see it then no one does, until the next one comes and proves me wrong. The King is dead.
What’s a girl to do when all her plans go wrong? She could summon up figures from all the tales she never got to finish. Here’s the Wicked Queen, here’s the Transformed Prince, here’s the Drunken Dragon, there’s Bluebeard and his wives. As many as you could ever want, in between the Eight and the Library. Maybe it’s got potential. Maybe she sees it as a chance to write her own story for once, or maybe she’s just pissed. I wouldn’t presume to know.
And while we’re at it, let’s say the Narrator has had enough of these intruders, and stabs Alice through the heart with her long black pen. Take that as you will. Blood is mostly water, by the way. It might attract attention.
I concede it all to you. Long live the King.
Stupid stupid stupid, Adelaide thought. Look what you’ve done now.
It should have been simple, because it was. Once they were in her arms it was the easiest thing in the world to lay them down and feel the butterfly pulse of their hearts against her tongue, tasting the warmth she no longer had and taking it away beat by beat. The perfume of their blood was stronger than the hunger and worse than the fear. She caught drifts of it on the few nights she slept, stirring in her dreams until she couldn’t stand it any longer and woke half mad and starving. It was the easiest thing in the world.
But Alice’s skin was unbroken and her heart was beating like a frightened bird in that alien rhythm, pounding from their escape from the tower. Adelaide’s teeth were on her throat- shouldn’t it have been then?- and her wrists and her lips- or then- and her stomach and her heart and everywhere else the rusalka could reach but it never seemed to happen. When they were in the water, that was her chance. A hand around a wrist and patience were all that was needed, but she’d led the girl to the surface without so much as a pause. And here they were.
Adelaide glanced over at the waiting Tsote, her strange face still flushed. It was just a mistake. She wasn’t hungry, that’s all. She was funny in the head from being out of the river so long. The fire had poisoned her with its heat.
The rusalka leaned into the strange girl, resting a ragged nail against the hollow of her neck and feeling her muscles stiffen. “’Coming’, girlie? Now, why on this earth would I be doing that?” She narrowed her eyes at Alice, letting a grin spread across her face. With a twist of her nail she brought a bead of silvery blood to the surface of the alien’s skin and watched it trail down her chest. “I alr’dy got what I wanted from you.”
She shoved Alice away with both hands as the Tstote sputtered in anger and embarrassment. Adelaide laughed, her voice falling flat. “What? Oh, were you expectin’ me to stick around fr’ pillow talk there, dearie? Made plans for breakfast, did you?”
“You bitch!” Alice spat. “You fucking bitch!”
The rusalka only laughed, forcing into it as much spite as she could manage. She laid a hand on her freckled hip and bared her teeth at the fuming Tsote. “Stupid chit. What’d you expect, then? Look at yourself. Look at me.”
Fuck.
No, not literally, shit. We did that already.
She sat back and wondered what she’d done with her shirt. The narrator, that is. Not her. The real one. That one. This one.
So let’s say you have a story with no author, or too many of them. Do you? De gustibus non est disputandum. I would never presume to go that far, never mind what they say. Let’s say your narrator is a character and let’s say your characters are narrators, and let’s pretend we’re pretending there’s an order to this. Now say we’re reading the story. Here’s our impasse. Where do we go from here?
Say she leaves her, because she would. That’s who she is. We could all pretend we don’t see it coming, couldn’t we? Suspending your disbelief is an art. But we’ve seen this before. Not here, because this isn’t your story, is it? Is it, now. We all know what’s going to happen to her, but let’s pretend we don’t. Let’s pretend that we’re surprised when Adelaide leaves, and poor lonely Alice goes into the library. The Library. Let’s talk about the Library.
You read the Ring, of course you did, like the good little writer you are. We know what’s there, you and I. We know what’s going to happen. One of us, one of you, leaves the set and we all forget to mention it, as if we were all trauma victims and were trying to repress the shit out of anything that didn’t strictly involve us. Or them. I’ve heard it both ways.
Now that narrator, not her, her, that one, she’s a tricky one. We know she’s a she because we know who she is. I suppose it was a joke at first. It might have been his. There’s not really a lot left here for us to do, is there? She could outline it for you. This is the rising action that leads to the climax that leads to the fall. But we change things, don’t we? When the fall is the climax, where’s the denouement? Where’s the justice? Even tragedies get resolved. These are the sacrifices we make. C’est la vie.
The Narrator. Let’s say she’s writing, because, in theory, she is, in the Ring at least. Is she writing the Ring? We could speculate. Let’s not. She’s writing this down, not this, but this. Our story, you and I. We know that we’ve been branded by the Rose because we were, and this was said, or the other way around. The pen is mightier than everything. She can’t be pleased, our narrator’s Narrator, and she isn’t, because I say so. QED.
She’s writing. I think we can move on.
In comes Alice, because she’s the first of presumably eight. I don’t know where Adelaide is going. Let’s say nowhere, because when you reject your lesbian hookup out of emotional turmoil you can be a little unreasonable. Figuratively nowhere. The rusalka’s in the water, where’ll she be until she isn’t. Alice is in the Library. She’s crying. Why not.
I’m not particularly in the mood to describe it, as I assume you can guess. If you couldn’t I’m not. It doesn’t need explaining. The place that comes to mind when I say “ancient and deteriorating shelves, coated in dust three inches thick” is where she is. Dammit, look, I got started there, this wasn’t my intention at all. Oak shelves, arching ceilings. I don’t rather remember what it was like in the Ring. This isn’t my laptop. I can’t be bothered to check. It’s old. In the middle of it all is the Narrator, writing away. You know which one.
Wouldn’t it be interesting if it was the other one? It could be anyone if you worded it right. How many narrators can there be? There is a desk with a seated figure, shrouded in shadows that shouldn’t exist, and in their hand is a pen. It moves across the page with a sound like mice claws, if you’ve ever heard it. If you haven’t, it sounds like a pen on paper. You’re throwing me off my stride here, kiddo, calm your tits. Pen on paper.
Fuck, I forgot about the dragon. There’s a dragon. Vera’s fighting it. Think of Alice with more confidence and probably a bigger cup size, there’s your Vera. The dragon is a stereotype, and also black, which is either hilarious or unfortunate or both. It wasn’t on purpose. They’re fighting. Clothing is probably torn by now, unless Vera’s too competent for that. I expect the dragon is losing. Let’s say he’s lost an eye and one of his wings is torn. I was always fond of dragons as a lass. He’s probably going to live. Spoilers.
But the Rose is in play, we can’t forget that. Let’s say she chases him off and sees the Library in the distance. They all do. All eight. The dragon does as well but we’ll handwave him out. He’ll go back to the tower and our eight in all their disguises will head for the books. Should we take any Not of Particular Concerns? I think not. We’ve had enough trouble getting where we are, I’d hate to overstep my bounds. You should laugh.
Shall we move this along? It’s been a while.
Alice confronts the narrator who does the usual I’ve been waiting speech, or maybe she doesn’t. I don’t really care. Make it up, sunshine. And let’s say the others are running up the hill, and of course the Narrator knows, because it’s her job to, you see. If I don’t see it then no one does, until the next one comes and proves me wrong. The King is dead.
What’s a girl to do when all her plans go wrong? She could summon up figures from all the tales she never got to finish. Here’s the Wicked Queen, here’s the Transformed Prince, here’s the Drunken Dragon, there’s Bluebeard and his wives. As many as you could ever want, in between the Eight and the Library. Maybe it’s got potential. Maybe she sees it as a chance to write her own story for once, or maybe she’s just pissed. I wouldn’t presume to know.
And while we’re at it, let’s say the Narrator has had enough of these intruders, and stabs Alice through the heart with her long black pen. Take that as you will. Blood is mostly water, by the way. It might attract attention.
I concede it all to you. Long live the King.