Tale Weavers Fairytale Prompt: Enchanted Apples #taleweaver #amwriting #fiction 


Thanks to Mind Love’s Misery’s Menagerie for hosting Tale Weavers Fairytale prompt. This months prompt is: a tale with fruit.

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Mara Eastern
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Jared was the kind of man who made any woman who saw him stop and stare. He was classically handsome, with blond hair and blue eyes; he was told he resembled a thirty-five-year-old Brad Pitt. 

Jared was blessed, but he didn’t realize how much. He owned his dream company, made tens of millions of dollars early in his career, had mansions all over the world, cars of various makes and models from classics to brand new, as well as, any toy he desired — skidoos, motorcycles, dirt bikes, (etc). 

Yet, Jared was alone in life. He had no emotional relationship with any woman he dated. He felt many women and men were worthless beings, wasting their life focusing on helping others and building relationships which, ultimately, ended. 

Jared believed he was “better” than other people due to his wealth, prestige, and attractiveness. He knew he needed a partner, a woman who had similar qualities to him. He also knew it wouldn’t be a love match for he had no love in his heart. 

One night at a charity reception, a hideous girl named Ali approached Jared. She carried with her a basket of the most delicious looking apples. 

People were drawn to their ruby shine and many people begged Ali to have one of her apples. Yet, they cringed at her repulsive faces and body, ravaged by burns and disease.

Ali’s form was bent and crippled and she dragged behind her a club foot. Her eyes were beady and when she opened her mouth, she revealed rotten teeth with many missing. Her basket of apples, in fact, was the only attractive quality about Ali with exception of her beautiful golden hair. It was thick, lustrous, and reached her waist.

Jared was appalled when Ali approached him but he noticed her mouth watering basket of apples. As with everyone, he was drawn to them. But Jared didn’t understand why Ali carried the apples around, not willing to give them to anyone, despite offers of large sums of money and contacts for proceeders to alter her appearance. 

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“What do you want?” Jared asked Ali, gazing down on her in her repulsive ugliness. 

Ali laughed. Her voice deceivingly youthful, “I can give you anything you desire with these apples. What you want the most will be yours with only one bite.”

“Yeah right,” said Jared. “Why would you give me a bite of one of your apples? And for free? You’d be stupid to do that.”

Ali giggled,”I didn’t say I’d give you a bite for free. Nothing’s free in this world as you well know.”

Jared peered again at the apples which called to him, a sirens song from forbidden fruit,”What’s your price hag?” 

Ali smiled and her rotten teeth and foul breath made Jared take a step-back. He knew what the ugly woman would request, but for some reason, he let her ask for what she wanted.

“I want a kiss. A real one,” Ali said.”For a kiss I will give you one apple. Perhaps, then, you will find the woman who will truly be your other half.”

Jared gasped, afraid the horrid woman could read his mind. He nodded to her and said: “I accept your bargain.” 

“My names Ali,” she said and drew closer to Jared. She stopped for a moment,”This will only work if you truly desire a partner to love, with a pure-heart.”

Jared brushed Ali’s words aside, “My intentions are honourable enough.” He tried not to gag as Ali’s mouth drew closer. But he stared at her gorgeous red apples and imagined an apple in his mouth; it was how he managed kissing Ali.

Her lips were dry as they rasped against his. Ali’s tongue dove in his mouth and when she groaned, he felt as if he might throw-up. She bit his lip and she laughed when he cringed. 

When Ali stopped kissing Jared, she stepped back, her mouth in a mischievous smile. She drew a beautiful ruby apple from her basket and presented it to Jared with gnarled fingers. 

Jared grabbed the apple, greedy for its taste. He gorged on it as if he was Eve and the apple, the forbidden fruit in Eden. 

Suddenly, both Jared and Ali began to glow with white light. While Jared withered, developing scars and burns all over his skin, Ali became stunningly beautiful. She became a curvaceous and breath-taking woman in her prime. She attracted the crowd in the room to her presence.

Jared’s hair had fallen out and his expensive clothes hung on him as his muscle tone disappeared. In minutes, no one recognized Jared; he was as ugly and as repulsive as Ali had been. His only remaining attractive feature were his bright blue-eyes. 

A beautiful golden haired goddess stood before Jared. She sighed, grasping his scarred hand. 

“I told you Jared. You had to want what you desired with a pure-heart. You had to be ready to love the perfect woman for you; but you love no one but yourself. I was the perfect woman for you, but you loath me. You called me a hag.”

Jared laughed, “You were disgusting and now you made me disgusting too.”

Ali let go of Jared’s hand, offering the basket of apples to him: 

“Only, give an apple to the most loathsome and disgusting person you can find on the earth. Remember appearances are not everything and under the most beautiful and sometimes successful people, hides a monster,” Ali warned.

“You’re a monster Jared, but you have been given a chance to redeem yourself. To learn to love and be human, until you find the most terrible woman and find the smallest glimmer of hope inside her. She will either become your truelove and save both you and her, or become as you have, taking your place. You will return to your former privileged life and body, but with a changed heart. You will know when you find the right person and will wander the earth until then.”

Ali dropped Jared’s hand and disappeared into the crowd. No one noticed him for once. They only noticed Ali who had become his philanthropic sister. She became owner of all his wealth, company, mansions, and life, when he disappeared. 

Jared wandered the earth an evil gnarled old man for years and years. Some say, he still wanders today. No one knows if he’s changed. 

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©Mandibelle16.(2016) All Rights Reserved. 

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Poem: Cinquins (2,4,6,8,2) – ” A Place To Breathe” #wordhighjuly #amwriting



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http://www.galmeetsglam.com

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There are,

Places we find, 

The world scars our being.

Sanctuary is needed, 

What’s yours? 

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In our, 

Minds overwhelmed, 

By everything we need–

To do, but relief comes with breathing,

In, out.

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Perhaps, 

It’s a place with, 

Grassy knolls and sun beams bright, 

Where yoga mats lay, and you pose and,

Stretch-out.

—–

Release, 

Everything pent —

Up inside your heart box, 

From the years, shoving secrets deep, 

Relax.

—–

Tell who, 

You must and let, 

Your friend know, these hard times, 

You’re letting them all go, melting,

Away.

—–

Perhaps, 

It’s a place with, 

A lake and fishing poles, 

And a serenity found in quiet, 

Have peace.

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Maybe, 

You read books and, 

Spend the whole day absorbed, 

Letting time pass, body revives,

Mind rests.

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Maybe,

You run because, 

Endorphins flow and you —

Feel alive on pavement jogging.

Freeing.

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Perhaps, 

You spend the day, 

With an old friend, or your spouse.

Maybe you pretend you are both young.

Dreaming.

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Or you, 

Could travel far, 

See art, culture breathe new —

Experiences and let wanderlust, 

Take you.

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Wherever, 

You go, you need

Find your kalinai, 

Serenity, deep in your soul.

Peace be.

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©Mandibelle16.(2016) All Rights Reserved.

Poem: Free Verse – ” Silver and Gold “


http://www.studio.e-picasa.com

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You can say it in as many ways, 

As it comes to your mind, 

You can try to convince me otherwise,

But I have drawn a line.

Cross the line, I’ll tell you how it goes,

My answer, you’ll probably hate.

But scars run deep, criss-crossing,

Battle wounds which don’t completely heal.

You only see a slight raised line,

White and long —

 But I feel the pain of the wound.

I remember how the scar came to be,

I know how I screamed inside,

Trying to be brave, 

As the cut ran red with blood,

Gore and trauma, degradation.

A scar such as this doesn’t merely heal,

It can reappear and open-up,

A wound that flares with blood-red drops.

Underneath the skin is pink marble,

And  you can see how deep it went,

Layers pealed back as I cried with pain.

It’s my scar on my body;

Apart of me for life.

A mark that lives on my skin and —

I have curves, I will not lie.

But my curves aren’t perfect creamy white,

 Scars and nicks lie here and everywhere.

Disfigurement remaining there, 

I’m imperfect and I’m flawed.

Don’t you know strength was born from such scars?

Curves are real and they reflect,

A body blessed with shape and allure.

But what I want you to notice,

When my skin is bare,

The scars angry red, left there.

For those scars are what will always be,

They are me, and I am them.

If you can accept them,

You can love me too, 

For on my body they are silver and gold,

Worth what I’ve been through.

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Thanks to The Daily Post for the word prompts Scar and Curve.

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.


NaPoWriMo: Poem – Prose – “Poker Face”


Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on things you remember. Try to focus on specific details, and don’t worry about whether the memories are of important events, or are connected to each other. You could start by adopting Brainard’s uniform habit of starting every line with “I remember,” and then you could either cut out all the instances of “I remember,” or leave them all in, or leave just a few in. At any rate, hopefully you’ll wind up with a poem that is heavy on concrete detail, and which uses that detail as its connective tissue. Happy writing!

Please see NaPoWriMo for more information.

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There are memories and memories inbetween memories, things you shouldn’t know. But I write and I say, what naturally comes to flow. Spending a day building raw story into characters who have flaws and appeal. Characters who are relatable and show affection, lust, a special connection with each other.

 I am building story from the ground level, thanks to a friend, who tore my story down line by line so I am able to build. I’m grateful for everything he sees that I do not. How the story doesn’t flow and how the characters actually appear.

What’s believable in real life? I think an interesting situation because the story involves magic and in real life we don’t believe in curses and the power of magic. We write of it extensively wishing for such power, such talents, such super-human abilities. Probably because we’re human, and sometimes being human makes a person feel mighty small. 

Today’s memories are about editing and refinement. Answering questions I wouldn’t know how to ask. I’m learning. Digging deeper, past the simple, into the complex. I don’t want a one-dimensional story. Though it has magic I want the characters to be real people and I want their flaws and likes/dislikes to show. I want what they’re good at, their occupations, their speech and actions, the people they have around them, to demonstrate their characters.

The minds of people are endlessly fascinating, especially the minds of those who say everything or say nothing. My Grandpa said little, his mind was complicated. He was a Pastor whose smoking habit ended his life at seventy-three -years-old. He would ask questions which made one think and consider alternate routes as he taught me the games of cribbage, chess, and when we attempted cryptograms and crossword puzzles. Grandpa’s questions always hinted at digging deeper, searching for another method, and missed details.

But my Godfather, he says everything. And what he says is thought-provoking. He is always thinking of other people, how to help. He is the bestfriend to his friends and he has many. He can listen but mostly he talks and he’s wise with his words.

I miss him and the second place I call home, his and my Godmothers charming house. His wisdom and continual thinking, his belief in God solving all problems, and finding answers from an omniscient God are well expressed; he gives me such peace after we’ve had a conversation or I’ve listened to him talk.

 And I’m thinking about a paint night I’m doing with friends at the bar Sunday night. Painting, did you know I love it? I will need a couple drinks to merely do as the instructor says, but I know what my hands and mind will do.

 I will mix the paint, either ruin or add to the design. I desire creativity. I’ve said it before, creativity cannot be boxed in its true form. But with a drink or two and two good friends, the evening will pass and I’ll come home, painting in hand.

 Also, finding a good guy — one whom you enjoy being with and talking with is difficult. You need to be attracted to their looks and their intelligence. You hope they such as you, have plans to do ‘something’ with their life. Finding a guy with all these parameters, is it asking too much? I’m not sure. I’m not extensively experienced here.

But time after time I’m disappointed when a date becomes, “come over to my place,” usually at night but sometimes in the day. There is no dating involved. There is no understanding of, ” I’m not interested.” And certain men keep messaging or calling. 

I’m not adverse to sleeping with the right guy. I haven’t found a right guy lately. I don’t know if I’m such as Alice’s friend at tea I’m, ‘mad as a hatter’ to believe there are good guys out there who want to have fun out of bed and when a woman trusts them, in bed too. Laying that foundation of trust is vital.

 I don’t think this thought of mine is right accordingto God but I’m trying to find a happy middle. Maybe my happy middle won’t make me happy? 

I’m tired of guys who only want a night here and there. That was university, I’m going to be thirty-one in July. I’m not twenty-one and even twenty-one year old me would have smacked a guy who kept after her after she repeatedly told him to back off.

Guys don’t get it, they scar women. This is stuff I cannot believe I’m writing but eighteen-year-old me was extremely naive at the bar. Her friend ditched her for some guy. She was all alone and trying to get away from this guy who followed her around the bar. She didn’t have the confidence a girl three or so years older had at the bar, batting away and shooting down idiots before they became stalkers for the night. 

She was so stupid. It’s effected her sense of trust ever since. He didn’t stop for a long time; it only felt like eternity. The repeated “No” in his ears, he was deaf to it until she cried wet tears. There were different guys after that, few who she didn’t mind getting close to.

But always, I have this disgust for men who treat women as if a woman’s existence is for their pleasure, because she wants or needs sex too. Should she have to sleep with a man after she has deliberated and said, “no?” No she shouldn’t, it’s always a woman’s choice, it’s her body after all.

Guy’s scar with their repeated advances boardering on harassment. They scar bruising you badly where they should be gentle. You look to see how purple your bruises are. Not understanding how he didnt comprehend, “don’t be rough.” 

Enough. To much info. But this poem is prose; it is memories past and to come — some awful and some exciting. Building memories writing and living in a world that can be cruel at times. 

But I think if you’re building if you’re working towards a goal you can be proud you’re using your talents despite the cards life and your stupid self may have dealt you playing poker.

Cheesy analogy but ever since I learned to play poker — Texas Holdem — in the basement of my Pastor’s house with friends I’d grown up or met in church at that time, I always think back to poker seeing such a carry over for life. 

Each day, place your bets and see what the ‘river’ holds, and how the cards in your hand can be played. Ask for another card if you dare, trading one in . . . 

We’d drink beer and play poker. We’d watch NFL football and play video games. I never entirely got why some days my poker playing was terrific, while other days I could fold most hands and end up broke. We paid twenty dollars in a pot at the beginning of each game. At times my one brother and I would play with the other players until 3:00 am or 4:00 am in the morning.

I didn’t play much poker after those years ended. But I feel sometimes as if I’m placing my bet, and trying desperately to hold onto my poker face. Tomorrow, more building. It keeps me going.

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“Poker Face” – Lady Gaga

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Quotes To Consider this Week


1. “What we remember is probably fiction anyways.” – Beryl Bainbridge

2. “It was not the feeling of completeness I so needed, but the feeling of not being empty.” – Jonathen Safran Foer

3. ” Sure you have a couple of scars, and a couple of bad memories, but then again, all great heros do.”- Ltn

4. ” Never be ashamed of a scar. It simply means you were stronger then whatever tried to hurt you.” – Unknown

5. “Everyone has a chapter, they don’t read outloud.” – WordPorn

6. “Don’t judge someone just because they sin differently then you.” – Unknown

7. ” Some doors are meant to be closed, and when you try to re-open them, you remember why they were closed in the first place.” – Life Quotes

8. “I’m a writer. If I’m staring at you, I’m not being rude. I’m trying to decide if you need to go into a book. If you’re a snot, I maybe deciding on how to kill you.” – Someecards

9. ” What Christian’s call answered prayer, skeptics call coincidence. Whatever it’s called, the more Christian’s pray, the more it happens.” – Ranal Currie

10. ” The only things you can take with you when you leave this world, are the things you’ve packed inside your heart.” – Susan Gale

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