Issue 131 August 2024

Editor: Rebecca Halsey

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Editorial: Breaking Character

By Rebecca Halsey

August 1, 2024

In the 2022 novel, Fairy Tale, Stephen King builds a fantasy world using familiar fairy tale motifs such as “Jack and the Beanstalk.” As the hero Charlie Reade encounters and interacts with fantastical creatures and events, his internal dialogue includes meta-analysis of the role of fairy tales in his home world, even specifically calling out previous titles such as Frank L. Baum’s The Wizard of Oz and Michael Ende’s The Neverending Story which tackle the same subject.

The fairy tale characters in King’s book are both recognizable and changed. Like the Shrek movies, this novel isn’t a strict retelling of any given tale but an amalgamation of many. In one case, different versions of the same character appear. To demonstrate how the fairy tale world is mirrored by the “real” world, King includes two different Rumpelstiltskin characters – a small-time crook named Christopher Polley in the real world, and the mischievous dwarf Peterkin in the fantasy world. The narration specifically compares the two on a number of occasions, as Charlie grapples with his archetypal role in the unfolding tale.

What King proposes is that the characters Christopher Polley and Peterkin are separated mostly by setting. Their motivation and goals are nearly identical, thus they are similar enough to be considered variations on Rumpelstiltskin. That said, they’re also physically similar characters; both are described as small with creepy, leprechaun-like voices.

This has me wondering how many clues do we need in order to identify an archetypal character? Let’s consider another example…

I think we all know a Batman when we see one. Gothic or campy, animated or LEGO, we know what makes up a Batman. The mask, the gadgets, the cave. But it can’t just be the paraphernalia, can it? If you have a double life and a butler, does that make you Batman? With just this criteria, you could also be degenerate and lazy Sterling Archer.

Maybe some of that backstory is important.

The beauty of so many Batman movies is the reminder that without his usual trappings Batman is just Bruce Wayne, a rich man with unprocessed trauma. He could be a Brontë antihero. But despite essays written about how Batman is a Byronic hero, no one mistakes Bruce Wayne for Heathcliff.

So we probably still need the mask.

But not the mask worn by the Phantom of the Opera or Darth Vader, which conceal a deformity. We need one that emboldens the character and changes his identity. Like the Loki mask worn by Stanley Ipkiss in The Mask. Or the one worn by Westley in The Princess Bride to become the Dread Pirate Roberts. But not exactly those either…

And thus, we could continue, changing details until a character disintegrates and is reformed into something entirely new.

For our August 2024 issue, we have a dragon, a Dr. Frankenstein, a giant, an oracle, and Lady Godiva. But also, not quite these characters exactly. The authors have all made changes to costumes, settings, and/or goals.

First up is returning FFO author Carol Scheina’s dragon tale, “Give a Smile at Ye Old Photograpphie Shoppe.”

Then, Faith Allington’s “This Rapturous Blooming” takes us to a futuristic lab in the remnants of an old shopping mall.

Maya Dworsky-Rocha completely reimagines the story of Lady Godiva for the social media age in “Godiva of the Broken Shell.”

Sarah Jackson’s “In the Path of the Giantess” is our own re-imagined “Beanstalk” story, and describes the moment when the hero’s world view is completely changed.

Closing out this issue is “The Sibyl” by Anna Dallara in which an oracle’s returning customer reveals what he’s learned about her prophecies.

If you are an author, what characters have you tried to rewrite?

As always, it’s an honor and privilege to be platforming these authors and bringing you these stories. If you like what we do, please consider becoming a Patreon supporter. You can also support us by following FFO on Facebook, Threads, Instagram, or Bluesky.

* * *

Rebecca Halsey

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Give a Smile at Ye Old Photographie Shoppe

By Carol Scheina

August 2, 2024

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This Rapturous Blooming

By Faith Allington

August 9, 2024

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  1. Kim Svensson says:
    I enjoyed it! 🙂

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Godiva of the Broken Shell

By Maya Dworsky-Rocha

August 16, 2024

Tommy noticed the flickering shell immediately. Everyone did.

It sputtered and drew the eye like mirror glass among river stones, like an open flame amid fluorescents, like a perfectly normal person about to be horribly humiliated on a public train platform. Shells did this sometimes, when an update didn’t download correctly or the hardware needed upgrading, but it rarely lasted more than a few milliseconds. Tommy still occasionally had that common adolescent nightmare: his shell malfunctioning in a public place, leaving his identity, unfiltered personal appearance, smell, voice, his everything exposed for all to perceive.

A nightmare that was about to become someone else’s reality.

Tommy wasn’t the only one watching—everyone on the platform was transfixed in horror, though no one chose to display it. The crowd was a colorful, gleaming field of smooth, well-functioning shells, curated information sliding across in pleasing patterns, reflected off the tiled station walls. There were a few blanks, which Tommy’s eyes glossed over naturally—if their respective algorithms blocked each other, it was likely for the best— but the broken shell was like a beacon of impending calamity.

It was always a possibility; the subject of racy jokes, resistance art, and ever-more-complex legislation—age-out standards for family plans, federal grants for low-income shells, special dispensations for “ideologically unshelled” wealthy weirdos—but it wasn’t supposed to happen to normal people in real life. Waiting for the 4. On a Wednesday.

But it didn’t stop. The flickering got worse, more frequent, to the point where you could almost make out the person inside—just under six feet, pudgy silhouette, a crown of frizzy curls—and unconsciously everyone around them shied away, like healthy creatures repelled by a diseased soon-to-be-pariah. Except for Tommy, who just as unconsciously moved forward. He couldn’t tell what the shell was supposed to display, not a remnant of this person’s chosen self-expression remained, not even an indication whether it would have blanked him.

And then the unthinkable happened. The shell stopped flickering.

It stopped, period.

The crowd moved like a ripple, like a shockwave, away from the sudden manifestation of collective nightmare—a person out of their shell, exposed, unedited, inflicting their private self on everyone. Tommy was struck by terrified brown eyes, a horrified grimace, acne patches, soft brown arms moving to cover a rounded body dressed in nondescript teeshirt and sweatpants. The smell of soap and shea butter, the faint tang of anxiety and citrus.

The rumble of the oncoming train filled the station, and Tommy’s heart was in his throat, his body moving forward without direction from his brain. There was no time to think — the police were likely already on their way to arrest this poor soul for indecent exposure—

Still halfway down the platform Tommy opened his shell. Two unthinkables in one day. It was just a sliver, but enough to gesture at the unshelled stranger and call out to them in his unfiltered, naked voice. “Over here!”

They looked at him with those dark, long-lashed eyes, wine-red mouth falling open, and with an electric shiver Tommy realized they could see him, too. They jerked like a thing come loose and crashed into him as the train screeched into the station.

Tommy wrapped his arms around plump shoulders, closing his shell over them both. Curls tickled his chin, warm smells mingled with his own suddenly very apparent woodsy aroma. He wished he’d shaved. Worn a cleaner shirt. “We should go,” his whisper was throaty and broken in a few places. He started gently guiding the stranger off the platform, “before the cops get here.”

This close, their smile was all glinting black eyes and auburn cheekbones. “Thank you, my place is only two stops away,” their voice was deeper than he expected, and it made his arms tingle.

Two people in a single shell moved awkwardly, but they made it on just before the doors closed, leaving behind a platform of shocked displays.

Tommy and the stranger slumped in relief as the train rattled out of the station, leaning on each other, skin touching, breath fragrant and warm. They could see each other. Smell each other. Feel their hearts still pounding. All around them commuters went about their day, completely unaware of two strangers pressed up close, perceiving one another raw; performing the day’s third unthinkable and intimately sharing a shell.

Safe inside a nightmare.

* * *

Author’s Note: Lady Godiva was naked in public for the sake of the public good. She was a real person, with a real jerk for a husband; the Earl of Mercia in the 11th century was really into exploiting the people of Coventry, and his wife Godiva agreed to ride through the streets naked in exchange for tax reform. The people were so grateful they all turned away for the sake of her modesty. All except this one guy named Tom, who peeped. In some versions of the legend Tom was struck blind, in others he straight up died. In mine, Godiva and Tom connect over the inherent intimacy of being perceived.

Maya Dworsky-Rocha

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In The Path of The Giantess

By Sarah Jackson

August 23, 2024

We heard her long before we saw her. Crashing trees and shuddering earth, sometimes a muffled crack as a chunk of mountain split and slid down the side of the valley. A goatherd left his charges squalling on the hillside and ran through the night to warn us. I pressed a flask into his hand as he babbled, how he had seen the shape of her, soft black against the stars and moving towards us.

I wouldn’t have believed him if I hadn’t heard the rumbling myself. It was many lifetimes since the giants walked; we thought them long dead, if they’d existed at all. Whatever we’d once known about their kind we’d forgotten. 

For the sake of my quick feet, I was chosen to travel upriver and face her, to discover any way that she might be halted, turned around, warded off. Meanwhile, the rest of the village packed our lives into carry sacks and carts.

I trampled my fear under my heels as I ran. As dawn lit the edges of the sky, I shinned up the tallest pine I could find, shielded on all sides by the thick blue needles. When I heaved myself above the canopy, I nearly lost my hold.

The first shock was her size. I don’t know how to tell it. There is the landscape around us—the mountains, the river, the forest, the fields—and there is us, the creatures who live in it and upon it. When I saw her, I felt the foolishness of that distinction. She was the earth, and she was alive. It was as if a section of the sky suddenly unfolded its wings and flew away. A living being, vaster than our whole valley, larger than the little world I knew so well. In that moment, breaking out of the dark leaves into the pale morning light, I felt the world dilate like the pupil of an eye. The world was larger than I ever could’ve imagined. It was endless.

The second shock was that she was beautiful. Not like our village girls, but like the moon, like a waterfall, like harvest. Through a haze of cloud I could see her round milky face, surrounded by golden hair which waved like wheat in the field and mingled with the sunrise. She wore a pale cloak over a rust red dress, patterned with strange designs. Her feet were bare, crushing young birches like daisies beneath them.

I knew then that I couldn’t stop her. Even with an ingenious trap, or felled trees, or ropes, or any of the plans I’d been weaving as I scampered up the pass. Scrambling down the pine, I realized what I had to do.

I ran towards a rocky outcrop where a dead tree stood tall and alone; somewhere she might see me. By the time I reached it, my muscles burned and my breath raked at my throat. The ground was shaking under me as I climbed, as high as I could, and perched facing down the valley.

She stood in the new sunlight, wreathed in clouds from the chest up, magnificent and impossible. 

I wrenched one of the dead branches free and fumbled to pull my flint from its pouch. The spark caught and I held the flaming branch up over my head, waving it desperately and trying to draw her gaze. I shouted; a greeting, a warning, a wordless cry. But she kept moving, shins like sheer cliff faces swinging towards me. Her cloak—made of what? by whom?—swept through the air. Her face was shadowed by the sun, but I thought I saw it slowly turn.

I shouted until my throat was raw. As the flames nipped my fingers, I dropped the branch, and watched it disappear among the boulders tumbling down the hillside below me, shaken loose by the shivering earth.

Was she slowing? Had she heard? What were we to her? I thought of my people.

The branch I was sitting on broke with a sharp crack, and I fell into the roaring nothingness below, until I landed with a soft thud in the centre of the giantess’s open palm.

She lifted me up, into the clouds, until we were face to face. She filled my vision, ringed by a horizon of gold. I was far too close to read her face. Her eyes were dark, dark green, like the pine needles, and they shone like the lake under moonlight. The air was cool, and mist enfolded us suddenly. For a moment it was just she and I, wrapped in a cloud. Then the sky opened again like a curtain drawn back. My hair and clothes were damp. I laughed, and her cheeks rounded in a smile.

She lowered her hand below the clouds. Our valley stretched before me until it reached a fringe of trees and the yellow plains beyond. I saw other villages, towns, and in the far distance, gleaming white in the sun’s rays, a castle. She moved, and I felt the sway of her shoulders and her hips, the crash of her footsteps. Under her skin I felt the vibration of her blood, a pulse like rolling waves.

Soon the village was below us. She stopped, and I felt a rush in my ears as the hand I was standing on descended and came to rest on the ground. I climbed down onto the grass. Her hand disappeared into the sky above me, and after a moment first one of her feet then the other, each the size of a wheat field, lifted and fell.

On hands and knees on the thundering earth, I watched her walk down the valley and onto the plains, until she was small enough to be lost behind the trees and the ridge of the mountainside. I stood up on trembling legs and saw the crushed earth on either side of our village, which lay before me, empty, and safe.

* * *

Sarah Jackson

Comments

  1. Liza Lang says:
    I really like this story.

    I became one with it and it gave me the feeling of being part of something big and beautiful—life on earth.

  2. Lovely. I felt the size of her and the beauty.
  3. Robin Carstensen says:
    Mother Earth! Ohhh, wonderful, inventive story here. Makes me want to pay more attention to our earth–gorgeous descriptions.
  4. Ollie says:
    Such a beautiful, imaginative story.
  5. Jo Ann says:
    Wow, you kept my interest. Very good!

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The Sibyl

By Anna Dallara

August 30, 2024

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