Category Archives: legends

legends

What Dreams Are Made On

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Had an interesting dream not too long ago. I mean, not like last night, where I dreamed I was delivering a load of tank barrels to a WWII armored division who’d gone off without theirs.  And by “interesting” I mean it was to me, so I’m going to talk about it here.

 I had one of those cliché dreams where you’re going back to school. Though apparently I was going to a private college with communal dorms, and your dorm group bought food as a group and took turns cooking. A little odd and outside my experience, but ok.Then in the middle of the school term I went to Hell. Literally. Not sure why. Don’t remember the death experience in the dream, but I was in Hell, not having a good time. The Devil was being about what you’d expect him to be, punishing people, and once fighting off a challenge from a rival god (not that God. A god).

Then I was back in school, but I wasn’t out of Hell. More like a furlough. See, being in Hell was no excuse for missing your turn cooking, so there I was, fresh out of Hell and trying to make pancakes. Problem was, being in Hell had screwed up my sense of temperature, so I kept burning them. Then back to Hell. Where I found out it was someone ELSE’s turn to be the Devil.

Apparently, we were all taking turns there, too.

Story Time Update

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It’s story time again. The new one, “Another Kind of Glamor,” originally appeared in Aeon #6, published by Bridget and Marty McKenna. Another good magazine that, alas, is no longer with us. You’ll recognize the cast, if not necessarily my take on them. The story’s original title was “A Midsummer Night’s Scream.”  I’ll leave it to you to decide which was more appropriate.

Reflections on “The Tongue-Cut Sparrow”

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chaAs with most folklore there are variations on this story, but this is the basic tale–a poor but kindly old couple more or less adopt a sparrow because they like to hear it singing. A bad-tempered neighbor doesn’t like the sparrow at all, because it wakes her up in the morning. So she decides to catch it and split its tongue so it can’t sing anymore. This she does, and the maimed bird flies away. In sorrow, the old couple go looking for the bird, but when they follow in the direction it flew, what they find is a magnificent mansion where they are warmly greeted by a man who identifies himself as the sparrow. This is not so strange in context since, in Japanese folklore, almost all animals were thought to be shapeshifters. Regardless, the old couple are treated to great hospitality. When they are ready to leave, the sparrow offers the couple their choice of two baskets as gifts. One is  small and light, the other rather large and heavy. Still in sorrow for what happened to their friend and not wishing to impose on his generosity, they pick the small basket. Once they return home, they discover that the basket is magic, and will produce whatever they wish: rice, cloth, even gold. The poor old couple are no longer poor. The bad-tempered neighbor, seeing their good fortune, asks how they came by the basket and they tell her. At this point the neighbor resolves to visit the sparrow herself. Continue reading →

Writing Exercise #5

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I think writing exercise #5 was meant to be a bit surreal–write a story from the viewpoint of a freshly scrubbed floor, 15 minute time limit. Heh. You’re not going to throw an old animist with that one.

“Planks”

I’ve heard of something called “planking,” but I don’t think that’s what it meant when my tree went to the sawmill. It meant planks. Literally. They turned my graceful, beautiful old alder into planks, and since I was of the tree and in the tree, I went along. It’s not as if I had much choice.

I’m not sure what I was being punished for. I bet it was Zeus. “King of the Gods” and all, sure, but he never handled rejection well. I mean, I could have said yes, it’s not that I would have minded so much, but then there was Hera to contend with. Believe me, being sawn into lumber isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a person.

So I thought, fine, I’m a spirit that inhabits a stack of planks now. No more wind rustling my leaves. No more dodging the satyrs in the sacred grove…well, now that I think about it, the situation wasn’t all bad. And most of my planks stayed in the same bundle, which kept my spirit more or less intact and not very much changed. I was hoping to be made into a nice boat, perhaps. I hadn’t seen much of the world, there in the forest, but the nymphs talked about it all the time, and sometimes the nereids visited. I thought I should like to sail on the ocean, if I couldn’t live quietly in my grove, but no. Apparently, Zeus held a grudge.

Now my tree is a floor, and in a sense, so am I. In something called an “apartment.” A man’s apartment. it’s a lively place, I’ll grant you. He has friends, and I like the parties, even though people drop things and he’s not much for cleaning. I could overlook that. After all, he’s kind of cute, for a mortal. It’s taken some adjustment, but I’m learning to work my spirit free again so I can roam as in the old days, but I can’t meet him like this. Not yet, anyway. I’m filthy…

His mother is coming. There’s a sense of urgency, but I’m not complaining. He’s straightening the place up, and wonder of wonders–he’s actually mopping. Not a professional job, but not too bad. I’ve got a bit of a shine. Much better. I can do this.

Maybe he’ll think I’m a ghost. I sort of am, in a way, but I am also his floor. And I am, yes, very much real, and alive, and perhaps I will show him. Once his mother leaves, of course.

The Heavenly Fox, Reviewed

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Charles de Lint, writing in the November/December F&SF really liked The Heavenly Fox. 

Quote:

“I’m not sure how much of this book is based on actual Chinese fox mythology. I just know it’s a delight from start to finish: fresh, with a charming cast of characters, and the kind of prose that is both immediate and timeless.

In other words, Parks has delivered another winner that I can shelve in the keepers section of my library—right alongside my Thomas Burnett Swann books like The Goat without Horns and Moondust.”

It’s not every day I’m compared to Thomas Burnett Swann, who I confess was an early influence. You can read the full review here at Books to Look For.