Hansel and Gretel Inspired Flash Fiction: Blueberry Eyes
Her long auburn hair kept slipping from its desired position of behind her to in her face and into her cooking pot. When she finally had enough of pushing the strands back, she left her concoction to go pull it up.
She frowned at the vague remembrance of herself as a little girl in ginger-red pigtails as she stared in the mirror. But soon she couldn’t recall what she had been thinking about and went back to her kitchen.
Bubbles and smoke billowed from the large black pot as the robust spiced aroma filled the air. She scurried to the brew and stirred it with her enormous wooden spoon. She gave a snorting giggle as she thought about how delicious the result of her recipe would be.
She checked off the ingredients to make sure she had included everything, from eye-of-newt to cinnamon sticks. Confused as to how she had come about the recipe, she picked up the wrinkled piece of notebook paper. She found it difficult to examine the paper with her long black nails, which for a moment distracted her as well.
The spewing noise of the pot boiling over made her snap out of her trance. She turned down the fire and continued stirring. Then began the task of dipping candy and fruit into what would become a delectable coating. When she was nearly finished, a knock came at the door.
Half put off by having to stop her duties and half hoping she had already drawn a child to her playhouse, she wiped her hands on her dress and went to answer the door.
In her doorway, stood an average-sized man in his late twenties. He seemed familiar in an odd sort of way. It was his smile at first; thin yet reassuring. And then, disturbingly, his blueberry eyes were precise mirrors of the eyes she had gazed into moments earlier.
“Hey sis,” he said. “How you doing?”
She shook her head. Of course, he was her brother. Why couldn’t she remember his name? “What are you doing here?”
“In the neighborhood. Can I come in?”
“I’m in the middle of something. Maybe next week.”
“This can’t wait,” he said, giving a fierce I’m-not-going-anywhere stare.
“Fine,” she said.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” he said as he stepped inside. “Planning on starting a daycare?” He walked slowly to the couch and sat down amongst the teddy bears. “Look,” he said, suddenly serious. “I’m worried about you. Your apartment with all the toys and food. Does it remind you of something? Look at you.”
She then smoothed her black dress. There were a lot of cupcakes and candy on the coffee table. Why was she cooking more sweets?
“Your friends—”
“I don’t have any friends,” she corrected.
“Well then, your former friends are concerned about you. That, and your landlord has called me countless times to tell me that you haven’t answered any of his calls about the carnival smells and noises coming from your apartment at all hours of the night.”
“If that is all, I have things to do.”
“No, that’s not all. We need to go for a drive.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’ll never bother you again, if that is what you want, but you must come with me—right this second.”
***
She stared out the window as they drove out of the city and into the countryside. She had no idea where he could be taking her. However, the further they drove, the more recognizable he became, but not enough for her to want to strike up a conversation.
Finally, they slowed and pulled over to the side of the road.
“We’re here,” he said flatly.
“Where?” she asked, looking at the dense woods that surrounded them. Her mind was trying to predict the outcome of her getting out of the car when he said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Like you could,” she said and stepped out of the car.
She followed him into the forest, pulling her long dress from sticky bushes and climbing over thick vines and fallen limbs, until finally they stood in a clearing.
“Do you remember any of this?”
“The forest?” She was becoming increasingly annoyed but glanced around anyway. The marshmallow clouds glided away from the sun, letting it filter through the trees. A chill of nauseating recollection embraced her. For there, iced in the sunlight, white stone stairs led down the side of an embankment. She could just make out the wooden bridge at the end of them that was almost hidden in the shadows of the trees.
She said, “Take me home.”
“I didn’t want to bring you back here. I was hoping you would get better on your own or that you would talk to me … or to someone. But now I see it’s different than what I’m going through. It’s more. You need to remember so we must go down the stairs. I’ll hold your hand.”
She wasn’t about to let him hold her hand, so she hurried on ahead, down the stairs.
When she made it to the last step, she stopped. Images of childhood began to emerge.
She was running … being chased by him, her brother.
Her father’s smiling face.
But Mother said … kill them.
The house, the witch, the fire.
She closed her eyes as her body began to tremble.
“You remember,” he whispered.
She did: They had held hands as they walked down the stairs, leaving breadcrumbs behind. She felt the tears of the memories run down her cheeks.
“Do you want to go further?” he asked.
There was no way she was going to be able to cross the bridge to that house. That house made of sweets … made of horror.
“I had to bring you here, Gretel. You’re turning into her. She must have cast a spell.”
It was true, she was preparing to poison and then eat the boys, but the girls … they were to become like her. Witches.
Gretel knew the incantation.
She looked at Hansel, who she now remembered from beginning to end. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll end the cycle.” She took a couple of steps onto the bridge. Knowing very well she would forget who she was as soon as they left—she jumped.
The End
Blueberry Eyes was inspired by Hansel and Gretel from Children’s and Household Tales. Brothers Grimm, Germany: 1812. Which in turn, inspired my serialized story, Potion, now available on Amazon’s Kindle Vella.
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“Mrs.” Poem inspired by Jack and the Beanstalk
Hero or actually the villain? Have you ever wondered what the giant’s wife thought after helping Jack and then Jack killed her husband? The following is my poem inspired by Jack and the Beanstalk. (Mrs. is one of the poems from my collection: Supernatural Fairy Tales.)
Mrs. by Dorlana Vann
Poverty breeds greed in a weak soul.
I should have stomped the lad like a pest.
Does hunger justify wickedness?
He was just a boy, not a foul troll.
But now sorrow arrived and grief grows.
No one to cook for or to caress.
Poverty breeds greed in a weak soul.
I should have stomped the lad like a pest.
Husband was cruel, a tyrant, and bold.
But we lived far away from the rest.
In the clouds we made our tranquil nest.
Defending his goods, his only goal.
Poverty breeds greed in a weak soul.
MRS. was inspired by Jack and the Beanstalk by Andrew Lang, The Red Fairy Book. London:1895
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Bashful – Poem inspired by Snow White
Bashful was inspired by Walt Disney’s film version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. (1937)
When I saw her stretched across the tidy beds,
love’s potent sword struck my heart before I knew
who this lovely stranger was or one word said.
But I remained silent, as I always do.
With one bite, she fell ill on that dreadful day.
In a glass coffin, it hurt to see her lay.
I longed to kiss her ruby lips but froze.
Joy but regret: the prince woke her and betrothed.
Bashful was inspired by Walt Disney’s film version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. (1937)
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Episodes of “Potion” coming to Kindle Vella
Amazon will be launching Kindle Vella in July 2021. Readers will be able to read and pay for episodes as they go. (First 3 episodes of each story are FREE). I have already uploaded a few episodes of my young adult fairy tale inspired urban fantasy, POTION. I am excited (and a little scared lol) about this new adventure! Stay tuned for updates.
Potion by Dorlana Vann
Hansel and Gretel survived their not-so-fairy-tale childhood and are now trying to live a normal life. But the teens’ dark past is summoned after three new girls arrive at their high school with a wicked agenda. Soon the siblings are lured back into the world of magic where evil witches can distort reality. They must uncover the deception before all the ingredients for a deadly potion are gathered. Or this time, there may be no escape.
Love, Laughter, and Fairy Tales,
Dorlana
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Midsummer Nights Dream + Witches = Dream Spell Poem
Dream Spell was inspired by A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare. England: 1595/96
And since it has a play inside the play – I wrote a poem inside a poem.
Dream Spell by Dorlana Vann
She never knew where she’d go when she closed her eyes.
Her deep dreams bewitched, and her sleeping soul stolen.
Always to follow her love through tomorrow’s skies.
Cursed by her own craft, ties deliberately woven.
“I place this herb where I have cried
Hopes of waking beside a new lover.
For now and eternity we’ll be tied
His true love for me he’ll soon discover.
Neither time nor distance will love divide.
His heart will never beat for another.
Now sleep please find me before the new dawn
From which a charmed passion will truly spawn.”
The enchantment’s promise laced in bitter-sweet lies.
He loved her before they met and days gone golden.
Now they’re in yesterday’s forest, sweetly embraced.
But when he wakes, memory of love is erased.
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The Frog Prince + Merlin the Magician = Weeping Lake (a fairy tale inspired short story)
Weeping Lake
by Dorlana Vann
Vivian stood beside of the lake. Her bright hair waved like the water as the wind graciously blew in from the south. She inhaled and then looked down at her newly acquired engagement ring. She had said yes, but she knew that wasn’t what she meant. Everyone had been there, watching them, watching her with anticipated excitement.
And since she did love and respect Scott, she didn’t want to humiliate him by saying no.
But it was just too soon. She didn’t want to marry the first guy she loved. She wanted to experience life and to be free to travel. She hated—for him—that she wasn’t ready to settle down.
She stared at the ring, the massive diamond sparkling in the sunlight. A diamond that must have put Scott back a couple month’s salary. A diamond that said, “You belong to me.” She only wanted to belong to herself. “I wish …”
Vivian sighed wearily before everything seemed to happen at once: a gust of wind, her name softly spoken, and her ring vanished from her finger.
“Oh no!” she cried and dropped to the ground frantically searching. She pulled at the grass, ripping it from the dirt, turning in circles, tears wetting her face and plopping on her hands and knees. She didn’t stop until she had examined every piece of earth the ring could have possibly landed on.
She crawled toward the lake. If her engagement ring had dropped in there, it would be gone forever. How could she tell Scott she wasn’t going to marry him and that she had lost the ring? She placed her filthy hands on her face and cried for herself. Soon her wails could be heard for miles, and her tears had washed her hands clean.
“I can get your ring back,” said a masculine voice.
Vivian gasped and scrambled to her feet, heavy breaths flew from her mouth. But no one was there; nothing but a weeping willow swaying in the wind by the lake, green and lush with early summer. She wanted to run; her thoughtful time by the lake had turned strange. But she couldn’t leave without the ring.
“All I ask in return is but one small favor.”
“I’ve lost my mind,” she whispered as she desperately turned this way and that way, looking again for the speaker.
“I am but a lonesome tree, weeping in the mist of time.”
“Who’s behind there?” She ran around the tree, ducking inside its leaves, searching in the shade and up into the branches. When she made it back to where she had started, she said, “This isn’t funny.” She thought maybe she should go and get Scott; they could come back to look for the ring together. Maybe marriage wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.
“All I ask is seven days of your time whenever I request.” At this, one of the trees branches stretched toward her and would have touched her shoulder had she not jumped back.
She stared up at the tree: breathtakingly beautiful, alive, and sad.
“Just say the word, and your ring will be returned to your finger.”
Vivian was positive that her distraught over losing the ring had caused her to hallucinate. Therefore, it wouldn’t hurt to say okay? And if some extraordinary supernatural event was happening to her—maybe she wasn’t aware that trees could talk because they never had anything to say to her before—what would be the harm in saying yes? It was a tree for goodness sakes, and trees were rooted in the ground.
Her confusion and desperation collected as she cried new tears. “If you get my ring back, I’ll do whatever you want.” When she felt a slight tingle, Vivian immediately looked to her hand, and there her ring sat as if it had never been lost. Without another thought about the tree or her promise, she ran home.
***
A few months later, Vivian sat at a coffee shop sipping her espresso and writing an e-mail to her mother who lived faraway.
Scott hadn’t taken the breakup very well. He had cried and told her he forgave her but would never forget her, nor would he stop pursuing her. He swore that she would eventually be ready to get married.
She felt a presence and glanced over her laptop and across the table.
“Is this seat taken?” the guy asked. His eyes blazed amazing green, and his facial features were symmetrically perfect.
Vivian could only shake her head, trying not to smile too widely.
“You are not an easy one to find, my dear Vivian.”
“Do I know you?” She closed her laptop.
“You no longer wear the ring.”
“No, it didn’t work out. Are you a friend of Scott’s?”
“I am friends with you.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I would know if you were my friend.”
“We met months ago by the lake. You said you would spend seven days with me if I retrieved the ring.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” But she had told no one about what had happened because she really didn’t believe it herself.
“No joke. You made a promise.”
“I made you that promise?” She put her hand on her face and gently scratched her cheek.
“I am the tree, cursed by the lake many centuries ago.”
“Really? If you’re a tree how is that you sit across from me now?”
“Since you promised to spend time with me, I am temporarily released from the curse of loneliness.”
“So you’re saying that being a tree isn’t the curse.”
“If you go back on your word my roots will go back into the ground, and I will have to endure another century alone. And I doubt if I waited twenty centuries, I would ever find a creature as lovely as you on land, sea, or soaring in the air.”
From that day on, they were inseparable. She spent her mornings listening to him tell of times before her own and spent the evenings wrapped in his arms. She grew to love him from her fingertips to her toes, from the depths of her soul, from there until eternity.
And she also believed him.
On the seventh day, her heart was filled with sadness. Would sitting under his branches be enough for her.
The ceremony was small, just the two of them, and at the place where they had met. As soon as he placed a ring of twine and twigs on her finger, his curse of loneliness vanished.
Two blissful willows swayed in the wind by the lake, green and lush with early summer.
The End
Weeping Lake is one of the short stories from my collection Supernatural Fairy Tales: Fairy tale inspired paranormal short stories. It was inspired by Brothers Grimm’s The Frog Prince from Children’s and Household Tales. Germany: 1812, and the legend of Merlin the Magician.
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En garde WIP – Bring every Weapon in your Writing Arsenal to the Battlefield
I’m in the middle of a fight. My Work-in-Progress is my opponent, and right now I feel like I’m losing. I’m frustrated. However, I have to remember that this is how I feel every time I write a rough draft or edit. And this is not the time to give up; this is the time to dig in, think, and analyze. But in order to push past the negative thoughts, I’ll have to bring every weapon in my writing arsenal to the battlefield.
Weapon #1 – Frustration
Frustration? The very thing that is making me feel anxious is the very thing I need to write/finish this book. Writing characters into corners creates fabulous, productive frustration. It’s the magic portal past that top layer of fluffy clichés and memories of already written stories to raw imagination. Without frustration, I have no chance of winning.
Weapon #2 – Character Goals
It seems so simple but sometimes when I’m in the middle of a story, I forget this basic tactic. All I have to do is ask myself “What is the character’s goal at that moment?” If they don’t have a goal, then I have a big problem – but at least I know why my story is not moving forward.
Weapon #3 – Emotion, Thought, Decision (I have these words handwritten and tacked to my bulletin board.)
These three little words will move my story to the next goal – Let’s say I’ve just ended a scene and I’m like “What do I do now?” I ask myself “What is my character feeling (emotion) after things didn’t go the way they planned?” Then my character has to think (thought) about what they are going to do next – which will lead me to their next decision – which is their next goal.
Weapon #4 – Mix it up
I have the same habits every time I write. But when my draft starts trying to push me around (you know, writer’s block), something has to change. So instead of starting where I left off, I might go to the end and work on the very last scene, or I can go to the beginning to reintroduce myself to the inciting incident. If I really want to go crazy, instead my normal ritual of Morning, Coffee, and Quiet, I can change it to Night, Wine and Lots of Noise.
Weapon #5 – A Pen (After all, it is mightier than the sword – yeah … I went there.)
Good old fashioned pen and paper brainstorming can get me through tough jams. I jot down every idea that comes to mind. I write down the questions I need answers to, problem solve if I’ve written a character into a corner, and/or make a difficult decision on which direction I want to go.
Weapon #6 – Trust Myself
I had a dream the other night that an artist was frantically rearranging her pictures on display at an art show. She couldn’t get them perfect. I told her she knew colors and she knew balance and at some point she had to trust herself.
Trusting myself is important when I have to backtrack and cut sentences, paragraphs, and sometimes entire scenes. Deleting words can painful, but sometimes it is necessary roughness – But what makes it a little bit easier is that I don’t actually annihilate them, I just put them in word-jail (another file folder) for “just in case.”
So now that I’ve reminded myself that I have the tools to get this rough draft finished, I’m ready to get up and fight. Because this battle is worth fighting.
What is your secret weapon that leads you to a writing victory?
Love and Laughter,
Dorlana
Dorlana Vann - Author 