Don’t judge me, but for the month of March I’m going to re-post any blogs from this page relating to Irish stories. This way I can have more time to build up my alcohol tolerance before St. Patrick’s Day. Okay. Now judge me.
Eros & Psyche Part 3 Psyche
The gods are both my salvation and my curse . . . pretty much like any in-laws, I suppose.
My father was an abusive ass so it only stood to reason that he would want me married off to someone in the same category. Even though I escaped that life and married someone who bought me, but waited for me to truly love him and be ready before coming to my bed, it only stands to luck that my mother-in-law would be just as manipulative. Although, I suppose the gods can’t help it. Manipulation is all they’ve known, which makes me wonder where Eros learned his patience.
Of course, I didn’t know he was a god when I married him. In fact, I hated him for marrying me. I never wanted to marry, but I suppose I lucked out that when I did I ended up loving my husband. I resented him, at first, this man I never saw except by dim firelight who came to my room for nothing more then a talk each night. Years went by before the talks turned into a marriage. But my logical brain could still never trust him. A man who would not give me his name or show me his face, yet he expected my loyalty still. I confess to breaking his only rule for me - I shined an oil lamp over his sleeping form to see his face. Can you blame any woman for the same?
For my doubt, he was taken from me and the story goes on like the poets say. I traveled the known world. I begged and bargained from gods and monsters. I faced the Underworld and retrieved a prize promised to my mother-in-law in exchange for the return of Eros. It’s there that the poets break from reality. They could never allow a woman to fault from her heroism for anything less than vanity. If you read the story now, it says I opened the gift for Aphrodite in order to keep a little of the beauty promised. The truth was much less about the “frailty of woman” and more my own logic getting the better of me.
Doubt is a nasty thing. If it’s crept into a mind once, it can do it again. The box was so light and made no noise when I shifted it I thought there was nothing within. I only peeked, opening the lid a crack to make certain about not about to had the goddess of Love an empty gift. Then the world of dark within the box engulfed me.
When woke up, Eros was arguing. I stood beside Hades who was presenting me to Zeus, the king of the gods, and a tribunal of his family. I couldn’t speak or move as if I were strapped to the ruler of the Underworld. Only my eyes followed the actions before me.
“She went through everything to rescue me. To get back to me!” Eros insisted.
“And for that you want her to be made a god?” Dionysus, the god of wine, scoffed.
“Why not?” Dionysus’s wife, Ariadne, loudly declared. “I was human and you made me a god. And I haven’t done half of the amazing things this girl has done. And you make gods of heroes often enough.”
Ares shook his spear in my direction. “She is no hero!”
Hephaestus, who I recognized from his club foot and leather apron, slammed his hammer to the floor. “She has accomplished more heroism than most of your mortal champions.”
Hera haughtily stormed away, grumbling, “Do what you like, but stop waving all of your weapons around.”
Many of the goddesses were on my side, save for Aphrodite. She watched everything proceed with a sweet smile. When Zeus declared I would be made a goddess, she moved to me, attempting to embrace me as her new daughter. As my arms and legs grew warm as Hades released me. Instead of the shapely arms of the most stunning of all goddesses, Eros stepped between us. He glared once at his mother before escorting me to a small circle of minor gods. Hephaestus clapped a muscled arm roughly around my shoulders. “You poor girl. You’re stuck with this husband for eternity.”
I didn’t mind that. I don’t mind being a goddess of soul. I don’t mind that every Valentine’s Day greeting cards display my husband as a diapered baby. What I do mind is my image used as a warning against Christian sin and womanly weakness. Love doesn’t always mean being vain and illogical. But most love stories are told by men.
Eros & Psyche Part 2 Aphrodite
My son, Eros, has always been the sun at the center of my universe. He was a gorgeous and sweet baby. A true testament to my power. When he was grown, he had his pick of young nymphs, gods, and goddess to bestow his love upon. But what does he choose as his wife? A human. Thin. Manipulative yet somehow naive at the same time. Her young face still holding onto baby fat and other deformations of mortality.
And Eros chose her. He tried to hide her from me, his loving mother. He made a deal with her father while hiding in the shadows of MY TEMPLE, offering riches in-exchange for this girl’s chastity. As I understand, he saved her from a marriage to an angry land owner, a man whose first two wives died young. Why did he have to keep her? Why did he whisk her away to a secret home and visit her at night. And from what I understand, he married her in the darkness so she could never see his face.
What did they do on their clandestine nightly meetings? They talked. For the love of Cronus, they freaking talked! Mortals are not for talking to! They are messengers, heroes, and tools to be used as we gods desire. Not to form a deep personal connection to! It was literally years before they consummated their marriage. And it was some time after that when whispers at last reached me - my beloved son had a wife who even the immortals claimed was more beautiful than me. Something had to be done.
Eros & Psyche Part 1 Eros
I was named for a Titan and given the role of a love god. Both of these facts are more of a joke than a fact. By my father, the god of war, I was too small and “pretty” to be powerful. My mother, the official goddess of love, coddled me when convenient, but had little use for me until I was old enough to praise her beauty. And Hera despised my birth, the symbol of Aphrodite unfaithfulness to her own son, Hephaestus. The other gods were ordered to ignore me. I must have been a very cute baby because Diana taught me to shoot a bow, Apollo taught me to play music, and Hestia taught me to create a home for myself. All behind Hera’s back.
Still, Hephaestus was the hero of my child’s heart. Starting from my toddler years, he would take me to his blacksmith’s shop and let me watch his work. He was the man who should have truly hated my existence. One day, when I was old enough to reach for his hammer and was reminded not to touch, I ask him why he liked me.
“I don’t like you. I just hate my mother more. Now keep working on those arrowheads.”
Besides the assurance that I was never wanted at the forge, I was trained to make my own arrows and sword. More importantly, I was trained to be clever. Under Hephaesuts’s instruction, I once tricked Hera into rubbing her face with a plant that turned her skin a bright blue. Thousands of years later, she still believes this was the fault Demeter. If you ever met Demeter, you would know that the punishment Hera doled out was totally justified.
When I reached an age that could be the equivalent of a teenage, my role on Mount Olympus went from secret pet to errand boy for my mother. She wished a fabulous weapon to be delivered to her latest human champion, designed by her distant husband. Naturally, Hephaestus created what she asked with an extra surprise. Every time this muscular man would wield his new spear, he would be both unbeatable and Aphrodite would see him as a giant goat wearing a gold diaper.
After I delivered this gift, I hid in my mother’s temple awaiting her champion to meet with her and anticipating hilarity. Instead, she entered. The most beautiful creature mankind had ever produced crouched alone. I listened as she prayed. Her father was going to sell her into marriage. She prayed for an escape. But her prayers were not average. They were logical and clever, practically bargaining with the gods. And it was then I knew I loved her.
February: A Time for Love, Loss, & the Wraith of Ancient Gods!
In the month of February, in honor of that one holiday with all the red where people dress up- You know the one! The what’s-it-called? St. Valentine’s Day Massacre! Anyway, because that’s a thing, each week this month will feature a re-telling of the great Greek love story Eros and Psyche. Each part will be from a different character’s point of view and (disclaimer) there will be adult language and situations. It’s a Greek myth, after all. How can the Greek Gods do their thing without dirty language and a bit of PG bow-chicka-wow-wow. Enjoy!
Writing Exercise #3
In the comments below, write a story or story concept for the following:
Writing Exercise #2
In the comments below, write a story or story concept for the following:
The Wolves Descending from the Alps by William Hamilton
Source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:William_Hamilton_painter_-_The_Wolves_Descending_from_the_Alps.jpg
Writing Exercise #1
In the comments below, write a story or story concept for the following:
It Took Four of Us to Keep 'Em Apart by William James Gackens
Source: https://collection.barnesfoundation.org/objects/7259/It-Took-Four-of-Us-to-Keep-'Em-Apart/
Writers! Here's how we exercise!
Okay fellow authors and fiction writers - let’s resolve to exercise! No, I don’t mean the gym or (gasp) going outside! I mean stretching out skill muscles. I confess that I stole this one from a creative writing teacher in high school.
Throughout the remainder of January, a public domain illustration or painting will be posted in this blog. Writers, make up your story or even just a concept for a story based upon the image. Write them in the comments below! Let’s share, review, and help each other to work out those gray matter wrinkles!
Resvolve to Read about Resolutions
New Years Resolutions - who really keeps them? For example, here’s a resolution poem:
When I come to be old. 1699. Jonathan Swift
Not to marry a young Woman.
Not to keep young Company unless they reely desire it.
Not to be peevish or morose, or suspicious.
Not to scorn present Ways, or Wits, or Fashions, or Men, or War, &c.
Not to be fond of Children, or let them come near me hardly.
Not to tell the same story over and over to the same People.
Not to be covetous.
Not to neglect decency, or cleenlyness, for fear of falling into Nastyness.
Not to be over severe with young People, but give Allowances for their youthfull follyes and weaknesses.
Not to be influenced by, or give ear to knavish tatling servants, or others.
Not to be too free of advise, nor trouble any but those that desire it.
To desire some good Friends to inform me wch of these Resolutions I break, or neglect, and wherein; and reform accordingly.
Not to talk much, nor of my self.
Not to boast of my former beauty, or strength, or favor with Ladyes, &c.
Not to hearken to Flatteryes, nor conceive I can be beloved by a young woman, et eos qui hereditatem captant, odisse ac vitare.
Not to be positive or opiniative.
Not to sett up for observing all these Rules; for fear I should observe none.
I’m pretty sure that Swift didn’t keep any of that crap except not having kids. I prefer to think of resolutions as the great authors of the 19th Century looked upon them:
Oscar Wilde said, “Good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account.”
or Mark Twain who stated, “New Year's Day: Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual.”
But not Henry Ward Beecher who had this to say, “Every man should be born again on the first day of January. Start with a fresh page. Take up one hole more in the buckle if necessary, or let down one, according to circumstances; but on the first of January let every man gird himself once more, with his face to the front, and take no interest in the things that were and are past.” He should have worked on not having so many mistresses and learned to gird himself in other ways.
My point is that if you’re going to take part in an archaic tradition that doesn’t really mean much besides dieting for two weeks then giving up, I say we return to the ancient ways of New Year’s Resolutions. When midnight comes on December 31 and moves us into January 1, step outside. Tilt your head to the sky. Take a deep breath. And shout your promises to ancient Babylonian gods who will smite you if you break them. You want to keep those resolutions - just keep telling yourself that if you break them the deity Marduk will have you slowly devoured by his pet dragon.
Fable Preview 3
The final part of the preview has gone missing in a void of editing hell… Whoops.
Consider this picture a visual reference of a book in the midst of the editing process.
In Defense of Gremlins as a Christmas movie
Brief History: The year - 1984. The place - that same Universal backlot where they filmed Back to the Future and Gilmore Girls. The thing - a heartwarming tale of a young man and his cuddly pet during the holiday season. The result - the Mandalorian (no seriously, think about it). I’m not going to give away this beloved cult classic, but know that both horror and hilarity ensue in this adventure film from the time when kids movies were fantastically dark. And yes, it’s a Christmas movie.
Analysis: Yes, Virginia. It is a Christmas movie. It is about the magic of giving (which includes feeding creatures after midnight) and the joy of helping others. And Snow White. Disney and Christmas can check off a lot of the same boxes. It even has a message for those alone in a bar on Christmas Day and how they can drive away the loneliness with puppets. There is a lesson about understanding of what is best for those you love . . . and what is not so great for your small town’s electrical appliances. And of course, the eternal message - don’t buy your kids pets unless they are ready. A Mogwai is forever not just for Christmas
Blame it on the 80s: Okay, so I only have one blame - what was up with Phoebe Cates’s Santa Claus story. But. . . still Christmasy so . . . at least it backs up my argument. Man. 80s kids movies were intense. I miss them.
Final Thoughts: Gizmo - Mogwai - BRIGHT LIGHTS - Neat! Also, if you mention Gremlins 2 in my presence, you will coal shoved up your . . . stocking.
Images are property of Warner Bros (please don’t sue me)
Fable Preview 2
Please share your comments!
As this is an early draft, please excuse typos.
“Once upon a time” - When the Maya Creators made the world and the animals, they quickly became disheartened because there was no one around to admire their work. Therefore, they decided to make Man. The first prototypes were crude mud people that were too stupid to talk or take care of themselves. The Creators decided they wanted Man to be able to verbally praise them, so they tried again, this time creating Man out of sticks. They were slightly smarter, but cruel. The animals rebelled against the stick men, drowning them in sap until they melded into a new animal - monkeys.
At last, a mountain cat, a coyote, a crow, and a parrot went to the Creators and suggested that they try making Man from maize in order to give them brains. The Creators mashed up enough corn meal to make four men and four women who were exactly what they always wanted in human beings. The First Fathers and First Mothers were grateful, intelligent, and too perfect. The Creators then worried that Man would grow more powerful than them. They used a mist to make certain Man could not see as clearly, but still believe they were intelligent.
And that was the start of human’s always thinking they were smart, but really being dumb.
Peoria, Arizona
December 20, 2012
The ending credits rolled and the Saturday crowd filed from the screening room. I stayed, waiting for the names and various jobs to finish dancing from the camera lens behind me. I muttered the information under my breath, wanting to see which names held power.
“Jerry Banner, human. Kasey Swartz, human. Oh, Joe Wentz.” I felt a little dip in my stomach and said the name a second time to double check. “Joe Wentz.” My stomach bottomed out once again and I nodded with reassurance. “What is your job, Joe?” I caught his occupation before his name disappeared to the top of the screen. “Best boy? You can’t be very powerful or you’d have a better job.”
A disembodied woman’s voice replied in a hushed tone, “Joe Wentz is an elemental. Earth.”
As the last of the credits rolled and the pop song faded, I rose out of my seat. My feet stuck to the floor as I walked from the row. “And he’s working on an apocalyptic picture? Lame.”
“You’re the one watching it,” the woman’s voice scoffed.
The voice went silent as I passed a pair of teenagers waiting at the bottom of the stairs with a trash bin and brooms. “Have a good day,” one with severe acne said to me with the sarcastic cheerfulness typical of a thankless job. He was new and obviously not too keen on his duties.
“See you on Tuesday,” the second teenager told me. I recognized him as one of the higher-ups on the food chain, probably in charge of training the new recruit.
I grunted at him and kept walking. As I was almost out the door, I heard the trainer whisper to the pizza face newbie, “That’s the one I was telling you about. She’s in here about three days a week. Sometimes she comes and sees three or four movies in a row. She’s always alone.”
“She’s kinda hot. Does she go to our school?” Pizza Face asked hopefully. I shuddered at the thought before escaping out to the lobby.
An elderly couple stood near the concession stand and I felt the pit in my stomach once again. They were watching me. They were Latino, probably someplace in South America. She was petite and round, not fat, just carried a plumpness in her face and calves, giving her the friendly appearance of a grandma. I almost wanted to ask her for a piece of hard candy. Long silver hair was half pinned in a bun atop her head with a few locks free to rest against her loose fitting yellow dress.
The man with her noticed me watching, offering a sharp look. The age showing in his wrinkled face did not affect his imposing posture. He wore brown slacks and a white shirt. A beaded necklace sat close to his throat. Setting his arm across the woman’s shoulders, they turned away from me.
“Xmucane and Xpiyacoc,” the woman’s voice explained from my pocket, sensing the old couple’s presence.
“Yeah, I know.” I wondered what the pair of Mayan creation gods were doing at a movie theatre in Arizona, but kept my curiosity to myself.
“You going to go talk to them?” the voice asked as her subtle way of saying, “You should go talk to them.”
“Nope. None of my business. And they were nice enough to leave me alone. I think I’ll respect that decision.” Pivoting around toward the exit, I could sense the annoyance of the voice and added a quick, “Whatever you have to say, keep it to yourself. I just want to get Phil and go home. There’s an ‘Alf’ marathon on tonight on that retro TV channel.”
“Oh yes, because the cat eating alien puppet is so much more important than finding out why Meso-American gods are hanging out in the same city you live in,” the voice pestered.
“Hey, hey, cat eating alien puppet with his own talk show. You’re always saying I should take more stock in contemporary culture.”
“Alf is not contemporary.”
Repost of A Short Holiday Scene (featuring Krampus)
Background: The character of Fable Skelly is part of series that will be released by Five Smiling Fish in the coming years. The series revolves around an immortal trapped in the form of a sixteen year old girl. She was the former minion of an ancient, obsolete goddess who manipulates her life at every turn. The task of keeping Fable from falling back under the control of her old boss has been given to Riley Carter, an idealistic seventeen year old. Riley Carter considers forcing the anti-social Fable to interact with other people as a part of his responsibility. This scene is from a holiday story in-which Riley and his best friend, Todd, have convinced Fable to come along to a large family gathering at a house in the Coconino National Forest near Flagstaff, Arizona. Enjoy and happy Kram— I mean St. Nicholas Day!
Tossing my coat at me, Riley called into the kitchen, “Mom, we’re going for a walk.”
“Stay warm,” the woman yelled back, “and be back before lunch.”
Todd started to bundle himself, circling his neck with a thick scarf and struggling to pull on gloves.
As I buttoned my own coat, I eyed him critically. “Seriously? It’s not that cold outside.”
He pulled another jacket over the one he was already wearing, making the movement of his arms difficult. “Maybe not for you. You’ve lived all over the world. But I was born and raised in Phoenix and that out there is the white stuff of my nightmares. Plus, if we’re going to be eaten by a monster, I’m dying while warm.”
“Good. Because you aren’t going to be able to run very far dressed like.” Riley slapped his buddy on the shoulder, nearly toppling him over.
After another two minutes of Todd reassembling his outfit into something with more mobility, we trekked outside. Pine and dirt tickled my nose. Philos ran out ahead of us, rolling his furry body in the white powder. Standing back on all fours, he shook the wet from his back and grinned at me.
“At least someone is having fun,” Todd mournfully stated. He watched miserably as his own breath clouds dispersed around him.
We walked a little further and Phil skipped ahead of us with glee. By the time we had caught up, the large dog had frozen in his tracks. His fur bristled as a tall, broad shouldered man stepped out from behind a tree. He wore an expensive, well-tailored suit with a bright red tie under a wool trench coat. His cheeks glowed a cheery pink over the top of his white beard.
“Nicholas,” I groaned. “What are you doing here?”
Riley took his place at my side, tense and ready for a conflict. “Nicholas?”
“Yes. Saint Nicholas.” As I said the name, my dog stopped his attack stance and sat in the snow at attention.
Nick held out his hand for Riley to shake. “Riley Carter. It is very good to meet you my boy.”
Riley’s eyes grew wide. Of all the mythical creatures he’d learned of, this was the first time I saw a twinkle within his iris. “You too, Mr. Claus.”
The snow crunched. From behind the same tree emerged a monster, matted fur covered most of his body. He walked on a pair of goat legs and carried a birch switch and a chain in his human-like hands. Two impressive horns protruded from the top of his brown head as he turned his squinted eyes upon me. A long, forked tongue pointed at me and he chuckled.
Todd gawked at the bow legs of the creature. “What is that?”
“Krampus,” I explained. “From Europe. It used to be his job to punish the naughty children while Nick rewarded the good, but he got dropped from tradition for a while.”
“What is he doing here?” Riley nervously wondered, glancing back at the house full of young cousins.
“Renewed interests in the Krampus has permitted him to begin accompanying me once again,” Nick added. “It cuts down on my work load in certain parts of the world.”
The furry creature stooped a little, the basket upon his back tilting when he moved. He licked his long tongue around the outer part of his lips. His wide eyes ogled Riley and Todd with excitement. He started to burble in his awful grunts, spit flying from his mouth.
Nick translated. “He says the boys have lustful thoughts and he would like to beat them with his birch switch.”
Both of the guys shifted uncomfortably and took a step back. I set my hands upon my hips and stared down the Krampus. “No. You may not beat them.”
The monster began to blurt another series of babbles which ended in a raspberry.
“Of course they have lustful thoughts! They're teenage boys!” I explained.
“They're both pretty good kids. Either way, that isn't the reason why we are here.” Nicholas motioned for me to come nearer to him.
“Why are you here?” I repeated. “Your saint day was weeks ago.”
“There are a lot of frightened children in that house and I have power from my saint day to the twelfth night. That was the deal, remember.”
“Okay, fine. Then why is he here?” I pointed at the Krampus who circled Todd and Riley again with his switch menacingly slapping his palm.
Nick gave me a withered expression. “We were on our way to a holiday party. I’m his d.d.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“You want a drunk Krampus wandering around, then you keep criticizing me, young woman.” He straightened his coat as if it would retain his dignity.
“Don’t you ‘young lady’ me. I’m older than you. And I’m handling this. Whatever is going on in that house isn’t something sugar plums will solve.”
The saint stiffened a little and adjusted his leather gloves. “Very well. We’ll be off.” He whistled and Krampus stopped short. He had been hovering behind the pair of young men, his tongue inching closer to a wincing Todd’s ear.
With a disappointed grunt, he trudged through the snow towards Nicholas. He only paused briefly to give me an awkward kiss on top of my hair.
With a roll of my eyes, I watched him rejoin Nick. “I missed you too, I guess,” I told him with a smirk.
The two Christmas characters started to move back out of sight, and then paused. Nicholas tossed a pear at me. The firm peel felt cool and dry against my palms as I caught the fruit.
Touching a finger to his nose, he gave me a grin. “If you do need us, let me know. Happy Christmas.”
This time, I did let myself smile. None of us spoke until Nick and Krampus had vanished. Then I heard a yip and saw Todd jump a little. “Holy crap! That was Santa Claus! I knew he was real!”
I tilted my head at him. “Why did you believe in Santa Claus? You’re Jewish.”
“Just let him have this,” Riley softly chided, a warm smile refusing to fall from his face.
Fable Preview 1
Please excuse editing errors. This preview is from a first edit, not a final product.
Please comment below.
To you reading this:
Chances are you have been rummaging through your grandparent’s closet or shopping at a swap meet when you found this book. That, or you are a rotten thief and I hope you get your comeuppance in whatever afterlife you believe in, you bastard.
That having been said, allow me to explain a few things. First, that the book you are currently reading and the volumes which follow chronicle what will be my last years on earth. That’s right. You’re reading a book by a now dead person. Get over it.
Second, because these are the last memories of my time alive and since I used the energy to write some of this stuff down, I’d appreciate it if you’d at least try to read it before tossing this book back into whatever shoebox you found it in. I don’t know if in the future reading books has been deemed un-cool, but I’m sure if you’re spending your afternoon cracking the covers on old journals, you probably don’t have much of a social life anyway.
Third, what you are about to read is true, with a little artistic license thrown in here and there for drama’s sake. I am storyteller, after all. I know you probably don’t believe in immortals, magic, or fairy tales. That’s fine. Not all of those things need your belief in order to exist. Not everything is about you, you know. That having been said, one of the reasons why I am writing this down is because sometimes you need people to question their reality just a bit. Not a whole hearted belief, but just question.
The final reason I am writing this is because of Riley Carter. Understand that I hate him, but years from now there will be a moment when he tries to convince his annoying brats of his adventures (because I guarantee he will have kids when he grows up). And they won’t believe him, because what modern kid wouldn’t think they’re parent wasn’t just pulling their leg. So, here it is, future mini-Carters. A book to back-up your dad’s crazy stories. And if he did something stupid like name one of you after me, I deeply apologize.
Opinions Wanted
The mixed among blogs over the next few weeks will be pieces of the opening of the next FSF publication. We want comments and critical responses. Thanks!
The book: Fable of the Immortals
A teenage boy is assigned to protect an ancient girl who looks only sixteen from her former mistress, a dethroned god.
I will also be posting a few previews from the book throughout this month. Please feel free to leave comments.
Repost of In Defense of Eros and Psyche
Brief History: Originally written down in the 2nd Century CE (Common Era) by a Roman philosopher, this myth is the tale of how Aphrodite’s jealousy caused her to gain a daughter-in-law. The Goddess of Love ordered her son Eros (also known as Cupid, before he was drawn as a Cherub with a diaper) to make certain a young beauty named Psyche married the most hideous man Eros could find. Instead, Eros was careless (meaning he did it on purpose) and scratched himself with an arrow, resulting in his own love and marriage of Psyche. However, being a stuck-up god, Eros believed that a marriage between himself and a mortal could never work with 100% honesty. So, he only met with Psyche in the dark, informing her that if she ever looked upon him in the light he would leave. As always happens in this story, she is manipulated into holding a candle over Eros. Seeing that her husband was hella hot, Psyche got careless and dripped wax on him. Eros left her and in order to win him back she had to perform a series of tasks. The last task, a trap set by Aphrodite, resulted in Psyche’s death. Eros, having seen how sorry, brave, and determined his wife had been, appealed to Zeus to grant her immortality. And so Psyche was reborn as a goddess.
Analysis: So Eros is the embodiment of love (real love, not the mind games his mom played on men) and Psyche is the embodiment of the soul. The story is literally the marriage of heart and soul. It’s not just a jazz song the middle school kids learn at piano lessons.
Blame It on the Victorians: Victorians loves literature where women are punished for being curious or independent. Have I mentioned this before? I feel like I’ve mentioned this before. Although really it was the poets of the 19th century who felt the need to retell the story over and over again. Instead of the Victorians, it’s actually medieval monks who got their (I’m sure) grubby hands on this story and tried to turn it into a tale about punishment for (gasp) physical love. Psyche being seduced by her husband is the loss of soul in women instead of redemption of the original myth.
Last thoughts: This might have been a bit of a ploy to advertise an upcoming FSF project… just saying.
Writer's Critique Last Lines
“The play is over. Go home.”
This is the final line of the film Anastasia (1956) in which the actress playing the titular missing duchess’s grandmother summarizes to everyone more than simply that the movie has ended. This line is also playing on the fraud and questioning of reality played out throughout the film. As a kid, I liked this line because it was humorous and went along with the theme.
The final words of a book can be more difficult than a movie. You can’t simply show the audience how it is all over. You must spell it out for them. For my own list of great last lines, I’m choosing from books that I’ve personally read and that the final line of the book sums up the story well. I’m not going to explain any of these quotes becuase I don’t want to create spoilers. This list is also in no particular order.
1. Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern
"You are no longer quite certain which side of the fence is the dream.”
2. Winter’s Tale by Mark Helprin
“At least there are new lakes in the clouds that open upon living cities as yet unknown, and perhaps forever, that is a question which you must answer within your own heart.”
3. Princess Bride by William Goldman
"I mean, I really do think that love is the best thing in the world, except for cough drops. But I also have to say, for the umpty-umpth time, that life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all.”
4. The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins
“In writing those last words, I have written all. The pen falters in my hand. The long, happy labour of many months is over. Marian was the good angel of our lives—let Marian end our Story.”
5. At the Back of the North Wind by Georg MacDonald
“I knew that he had gone to the back of the north wind.”
6. Lost Horizon by James Hilton
“Do you think he will ever find it?”
7. Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn
“I don’t have anything else to add. I just wanted to make sure I had the last word. I think I’ve earned that.”
8. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
"A LAST NOTE FROM YOUR NARRATOR. I am haunted by humans."
In Defense of the Tale of the Hotel San Carlos
Brief History: The San Carlos was the luxury hotel to the stars in downtown Phoenix, including Clark Gable and Marylin Monroe. Built on the former sight of the city’s first schoolhouse (which had closed some time after a Spanish Flu epidemic), employees say they hear a little girl crying. Besides children, the hotel has experienced several deaths as recent as 2004. The most famous of their spooks is that of Leone Jensen. In 1928, the 22 year old Jensen leapt from the roof and was found dead near the corner below. The legend is that she was heartbroken over (or possibly even murdered by) a boyfriend who worked at the rival hotel The Westward Ho. She left a cryptic, messy suicide note and some of her despair behind. Evidence of her has been seen in the room she’d occupied and the stairway leading to the roof.
Analysis: The stories behind the hotel are true, however embellished by local legend. There was indeed a schoolhouse on the sight and the school’s well is still in the basement, covered and locked up. The man who jumped from the pool deck to his death in 2004 really did happen, although his story can only be speculated since he wasn’t a guest at the hotel. I’m not saying it’s easy to just walk upstairs at the San Carlos but it is an old building without a ton of security. And the popular bar on the first floor (recently renamed the Ghost Bar) must make it hard to the staff to know who is a guest or not. As for Leone Jensen, she did exist. However, according to the hotel, her story is not quite the romantic tragedy local kids spread around. Tuberculous patients were told to come to Arizona for decades, thinking the dry air could slow the deterioration of their lungs. Ms. Jensen was sick and living at the hotel. Yes, there are still rumors that she dated someone while in Phoenix, but chances are that was not the reason for her suicide. The reason why her note was illegible was not the pain of love gone wrong, but most likely the disease finally claiming her. She would have been in pain at the end and losing strength. Many historians think she jumped to make her death quicker.
Blame it on the Flappers: The 1920s was a time of liberation, rebellion, and a sort of “free love” for young women. The story of a young woman on her own in a hotel made for a better cautionary tale than her simply dying of consumption. Remember ladies. If you rouse your knees and stay out all night at a speakeasy, your boyfriend will eventually cause (whether directly or not) your death.
Final Thoughts: Below are photos from the San Carlos Ghost Tour held in Phoenix each year.
In Defense of the Ghost of the Birdcage Theatre
Brief History: This is one of the last truly historic building in Tombstone, Arizona a.k.a. “The Town Too Tough to Die”. This was once a saloon, brothel (where a lady was chosen from a theater box aka cage), and (once a week) legitimate theater where all from sideshow attractions to the great Sarah Bernhardt performed. Doc Holiday supposedly partook in a historically long game of poker within the Establishment’s walls. Photos of Wyatt Earp’s common-law wife Josephine grace the walls (although I don’t think she really has much of a connection to the place). Bullet holes decorate the walls and an old hearse is kept in the backstage area of this now museum. Naturally, with a bawdy and violent history comes ghosts. It’s hard to say one specific spook haunts the place, but many have claimed for decades that music plays, unseen figures laugh, and sometimes objects move on their own. The most unsettling are the ghostly touches and the full apparitions. Could the beautiful glimpse of a woman be Margarita, the prostitute allegedly murdered by her rival, Gold Dollar, at a theatre table? Is the man in black who paces on the stage one of the regular patrons? Of the over 20 people reported tp have died there, who never left?
Analysis: Ghost Hunters did an episode at the Bird Cage and allegedly filmed some interesting phenomenon such as a cord being lifted up from a wall fixture and dropping it on the floor. I say allegedly because I am highly skeptical of such shows which mostly involve “experienced” paranormal investigators send interns into cold spots or shout angry words of the dead. Still I confess I watched it (and if it drums up tourism for the small town then I vindicate Ghosthunters fully). Parts of the building do have an eerie atmosphere, even when full of tourists.
Blame It on Hollywood: The two groups of men, one in black hats and one in white, meet on the streets of Tombstone. One of the men in black hats fires first and the quartet of white hats fire back in defense. The shootout goes on as the men duck behind barrels and roll under wagons. After nearly ten minutes, the dust clears and the white hats are victorious! That’s what movies like you to believe. In truth, the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral occurred in an alley, lasted less than a minute, and I agree with historians that say Doc Holiday (usually a “good guy” in films) probably shot first (like Han - that’s right! I said it!). Hollywood movies dressed up this one event in tombstone and such a way that the town became a tourist attraction long after the miners and saloon girls had departed. So the town was built up once again attracting people from all over the world to see the place where Wyatt Earp reigned as lawman. The Birdcage was filled with treasures from the past for the viewing. Maybe it’s only natural that a few ghosts settled there as well.
Final Thoughts: Visit Tombstone! The people are nice (despite having to deal with customers and tourists)! The history is gruesome, violent, and amazing! and the Tombstone movie from the 90s is usually playing 24/7 in any shop or restaurant. I’m your Huckleberry.
check out the tombstone website for information about ghost tours and their special nightly events.
