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ianbrooks

ianbrooks:

Muppet Fairy Tales by David Petersen

The mind and pen behind Mouse Guard, David also dabbles in occasional Muppet re-imaginings of classic fairy tales and Arthurian legends. Muppets lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government.

Artist: blogspot / twitter (via: buzzfeed)

(via ktempest)

cizgilimasallar.blogspot.com
hamburgerjack:

fairytalemood:

“The Little Mermaid” by Gabriel Pacheco

The legends told the tales the best, the stories of the Sea Witches.
They’d appear, comely and calling, sunning and singing on far off rocks, beckoning to easily lured young men.
They’d swim out, expectant. And meet their doom.
At first, many believed they just drowned the young men…
But that was before bones began washing ashore.
“Lock up your sons.”
It was a temporary measure, for under the full moon, when a Hag’s power was the strongest, her song could reach far inland, far beyond the beach, past castle walls and into closets and cradles and where ever else a mother or father might hide their son or boy-child.
You couldn’t stop them.
They’d walk, they’d run, they’d crawl, and clamor…
To meet the sea…
To meet the Hags.
Still far off, they were smart not to get so close to shore, for men were not without their means and nor were the women among them.
So they took to ship.
At first, the voyages were doomed.
Out on the water, the territory of these Hags, there was nothing to protect the crews from their songs. Now, not just singing of seduction, they summoned gales and water spouts, threw their voices to sound like men overboard and when a man would look, would trap them in nets of seaweed and kale, pulling them down.
The last thing a man saw, they said, was a mouth of razor sharp teeth and gleaming, fish eyes on a “woman’s face”.
There wasn’t a solution. Men disappeared. The young and then the younger and then the old men, out for revenge. Those, they just drowned, the bodies, bloated and some still bleeding, washing upon the shore.
There wasn’t a solution.
**
**
“Erika?”
She bound her chest as tightly as she could. “Yes, Mother?”
“Are you sure?” the woman asked, her voice hoarse from weeping. “Are you SURE?”
She put on her clothes -her brother’s clothes and then went to the vanity, picking up the scissors.
“I’m sure.”
“But they’ll know. They’ll eat you -they’ll kill you! The Hags -.”
“Even if they do, I’ll kill as many as I can.” as she looked at herself in the mirror, grabbing a handful of hair and began to cut.
Her mother wept again, leaving the room.
**
**
No one had made it to Hag’s rock proper. It was a small island to itself, far off the beach.
Sometimes, when the Hag’s wanted to taunt them, they’d sit up on the rock, backed by the waves and toss their “hair”.
Once, in a spy glass, she’d seen them up close.
It wasn’t hair at all, but tentacles. Some like squids, some like jelly fish. All sorts of limbs and tentacle hanging down, hiding eyes and mouths that were so… inhuman.
She’d wanted to sob and empty her stomach, walking the island. There were sun bleached bones and tattered clothing everywhere, trinkets and things from the pockets of deadmen…
Mementos from wives and daughters.
“You’re not Man-Flesh.” a voice rasped.
“No.” Ericka said, unsheathing a long dagger. She turned to look and there one was.
A Sea Hag.
Pale skinned, pasty skinned, with long, jointed webbed hands that splayed on the rock. She couldn’t see the thing’s mouth, its face covered over with a mass of wriggling red tentacles.
She heard a sucking sound, watching its chest expand and gills flutter.
How long could a Hag stay above water?
It tilted its head.
“A Female…” the tentacles lifted randomly, playfully, as if in amusement.
And then the sucking sound again.
“We do not have songs… for females.” the tentacles parted and Ericka saw what she deemed to be an eye, the pupil horizontal and liquid looking. “But I am hungry…”
The sucking sound again and a wet smack as it began to pull itself, hand by hand -flipper even, onto the rock
“Come Female…” it raised a flipper upwards, pulling aside some tentacles to reveal a beak.
“LISTEN.”
The sound was horrible and Ericka put her hands over her ears, screaming. She turned away, wanting to flee, but then she remembered her brother and what they found of him, washing up on shore. And she turned back, gripping her knife.
“JUST DIE! ALL OF YOU DIE!” she screamed.
She rushed the monster, slashing wildly. The song stopped, the sounds coming from the Hag now the sounds of its own screaming.
Tentacles flopped and writhed, dismembered from the Hag’s face, and there was a mix of something black mixed with the blood. She slashed at where she thought the thing’s throat was, terrified when more Hags began to appear on the rock, began to drag themselves out of the water, to the defense of the dying one.
Some sang, they sang in that horrible voice. Some attacked her, monstrosities with spiked faces and open wound mouths shooting spines at her, others flaring out their fins and hissing, some spitting ink and acid.
She stabbed her knife into the thing’s throat, fleeing back for her boat, fleeing for the safety of the shore, but it wasn’t to be.
A black tentacled thing, its body obese and gelatinous took hold of her boat, got into her boat, its eyes glowing.
“Poor, unfortunate female…”
Ericka screamed, her cries cut off as she was wrapped up, head, throat and body, by the thing.
**
**
There was no solution, there was nothing they could do.
There were no songs now, no warnings. They did not taunt from the safety of the rocks now, the Sea Hags.
But now they walked the shores.
You would see her, a thing you thought was a “her” anyway, stumbling along the shores in need of aid. Red haired, pale skin, with elegant limbs -surely, a high born lady. It would fall and you would run to her, turning her over. And what you would see first was the wound on her neck and then the criss cross of deep gouges on her face. And then you would see this was no lady, but a Thing.
A beast thing from the sea.
They would find the bodies with their faces eaten off, the pucker marks of tentacles all across the exposed neck and arms. They went after fool-hardy men and naive women, feeding on seagulls and crabs when they couldn’t get their regular prey.

[Unfinished]

hamburgerjack:

fairytalemood:

“The Little Mermaid” by Gabriel Pacheco

The legends told the tales the best, the stories of the Sea Witches.

They’d appear, comely and calling, sunning and singing on far off rocks, beckoning to easily lured young men.

They’d swim out, expectant. And meet their doom.

At first, many believed they just drowned the young men…

But that was before bones began washing ashore.

“Lock up your sons.”

It was a temporary measure, for under the full moon, when a Hag’s power was the strongest, her song could reach far inland, far beyond the beach, past castle walls and into closets and cradles and where ever else a mother or father might hide their son or boy-child.

You couldn’t stop them.

They’d walk, they’d run, they’d crawl, and clamor…

To meet the sea…

To meet the Hags.

Still far off, they were smart not to get so close to shore, for men were not without their means and nor were the women among them.

So they took to ship.

At first, the voyages were doomed.

Out on the water, the territory of these Hags, there was nothing to protect the crews from their songs. Now, not just singing of seduction, they summoned gales and water spouts, threw their voices to sound like men overboard and when a man would look, would trap them in nets of seaweed and kale, pulling them down.

The last thing a man saw, they said, was a mouth of razor sharp teeth and gleaming, fish eyes on a “woman’s face”.

There wasn’t a solution. Men disappeared. The young and then the younger and then the old men, out for revenge. Those, they just drowned, the bodies, bloated and some still bleeding, washing upon the shore.

There wasn’t a solution.

**

**

“Erika?”

She bound her chest as tightly as she could. “Yes, Mother?”

“Are you sure?” the woman asked, her voice hoarse from weeping. “Are you SURE?”

She put on her clothes -her brother’s clothes and then went to the vanity, picking up the scissors.

“I’m sure.”

“But they’ll know. They’ll eat you -they’ll kill you! The Hags -.”

“Even if they do, I’ll kill as many as I can.” as she looked at herself in the mirror, grabbing a handful of hair and began to cut.

Her mother wept again, leaving the room.

**

**

No one had made it to Hag’s rock proper. It was a small island to itself, far off the beach.

Sometimes, when the Hag’s wanted to taunt them, they’d sit up on the rock, backed by the waves and toss their “hair”.

Once, in a spy glass, she’d seen them up close.

It wasn’t hair at all, but tentacles. Some like squids, some like jelly fish. All sorts of limbs and tentacle hanging down, hiding eyes and mouths that were so… inhuman.

She’d wanted to sob and empty her stomach, walking the island. There were sun bleached bones and tattered clothing everywhere, trinkets and things from the pockets of deadmen…

Mementos from wives and daughters.

“You’re not Man-Flesh.” a voice rasped.

“No.” Ericka said, unsheathing a long dagger. She turned to look and there one was.

A Sea Hag.

Pale skinned, pasty skinned, with long, jointed webbed hands that splayed on the rock. She couldn’t see the thing’s mouth, its face covered over with a mass of wriggling red tentacles.

She heard a sucking sound, watching its chest expand and gills flutter.

How long could a Hag stay above water?

It tilted its head.

“A Female…” the tentacles lifted randomly, playfully, as if in amusement.

And then the sucking sound again.

“We do not have songs… for females.” the tentacles parted and Ericka saw what she deemed to be an eye, the pupil horizontal and liquid looking. “But I am hungry…”

The sucking sound again and a wet smack as it began to pull itself, hand by hand -flipper even, onto the rock

“Come Female…” it raised a flipper upwards, pulling aside some tentacles to reveal a beak.

“LISTEN.

The sound was horrible and Ericka put her hands over her ears, screaming. She turned away, wanting to flee, but then she remembered her brother and what they found of him, washing up on shore. And she turned back, gripping her knife.

“JUST DIE! ALL OF YOU DIE!” she screamed.

She rushed the monster, slashing wildly. The song stopped, the sounds coming from the Hag now the sounds of its own screaming.

Tentacles flopped and writhed, dismembered from the Hag’s face, and there was a mix of something black mixed with the blood. She slashed at where she thought the thing’s throat was, terrified when more Hags began to appear on the rock, began to drag themselves out of the water, to the defense of the dying one.

Some sang, they sang in that horrible voice. Some attacked her, monstrosities with spiked faces and open wound mouths shooting spines at her, others flaring out their fins and hissing, some spitting ink and acid.

She stabbed her knife into the thing’s throat, fleeing back for her boat, fleeing for the safety of the shore, but it wasn’t to be.

A black tentacled thing, its body obese and gelatinous took hold of her boat, got into her boat, its eyes glowing.

“Poor, unfortunate female…”

Ericka screamed, her cries cut off as she was wrapped up, head, throat and body, by the thing.

**

**

There was no solution, there was nothing they could do.

There were no songs now, no warnings. They did not taunt from the safety of the rocks now, the Sea Hags.

But now they walked the shores.

You would see her, a thing you thought was a “her” anyway, stumbling along the shores in need of aid. Red haired, pale skin, with elegant limbs -surely, a high born lady. It would fall and you would run to her, turning her over. And what you would see first was the wound on her neck and then the criss cross of deep gouges on her face. And then you would see this was no lady, but a Thing.

A beast thing from the sea.

They would find the bodies with their faces eaten off, the pucker marks of tentacles all across the exposed neck and arms. They went after fool-hardy men and naive women, feeding on seagulls and crabs when they couldn’t get their regular prey.

[Unfinished]

(via hamburgerjack-deactivated201404)

matthewhoworth.deviantart.com
fairytalemood:

“Disney Villains” by Matthew Howorth

fairytalemood:

“Disney Villains” by Matthew Howorth

(via hamburgerjack-deactivated201404)

fairytalemood
hamburgerjack:

fairytalemood:

“Beauty and the Beast” by Anne and Janet Grahame Johnstone

“You must go. For tribute.”
“Yes.”
“I just… please understand. Everyone who has a daughter must give tribute. If you were a Son…”
She’d simply said “Yes” over and over, “understanding”. She knew how it would be.
If she’d been a son, she’d would still have had to go… except to her most certain death.
First sons and bachelors were went to the forest to “slay” the beast. They never returned.
But neither did the daughters.
It was a myth they knew, to soothe nerves, that he used the daughters as maids to keep his home. But it was a myth.
They could hear the howls from the forest. Too loud to be wolves, too maddening to be human.
A thing like that didn’t want maids.
A thin like that only wanted a maiden’s blood.
She wondered how it would be? Would she be torn limb from limb? Knocked out? Would she faint from terror and fright? Would it matter once she was dead?
There was no ceremony, no carriage. Once she stepped beyond the village into the forest, all of her things would be destroyed. Burned or given away… but who wants the mementos of a sacrifice?
In a town full of the too old and the too young, who wanted to remember that death was there for everyone? Coming in one form or another?
*
She walked deep into the forest and was not comforted by the quiet. She wasn’t soothed by the sight of nature or the distant song of birds. It got darker and darker the further she went and from the darkness came a stench.
She knew not what it was, but the bark of the trees was slick. And as she stepped, she realized it was not mud that her feet sank into. It was not the white, sharp jutting on stones she saw, nor the green of moss…
But bones and mold and rot and blood.
A bile rose in her throat, but there was nothing her stomach might give.
She came to an open space, a natural opening, littered with bones and the tatters of dresses.
She knew the colors, muted and the fabrics, mutilated. She covered her mouth with her trembling hands and that’s when she noticed the instrument.
Clean.
It was clean. Free of the horror of the scene, simply sitting there against a tree.
It was so out of place, she was drawn to it automatically.
They’d all learned to play once. A long time ago…
She reached for it and that’s when she saw the eyes.
In the distance, beyond the clearance, in the darkness…
Two glowing eyes.
Her breath stopped and all she could hear was her heart thumping.
This was it.
There it was.
“Play.”
She hesitated and the voice boomed,
“PLAY!”
So she snatched up the instrument, her trembling fingers trying to find a melody.
It was a monster like she’d never seen nor imagined coming out of the darkness, coming out of the brush. A lion and a wolf and a horned thing, dressed in the tatters of man’s clothing.
She shut her eyes, trying to play something, trying to play anything, knowing, this was what happened! They’d all died this way!
Any moment! Any moment now…
She opened her eyes, her tears beginning to fall. This was how she would die, entertaining this beast.
But he just sat there, at the edge of the clearing, watching her. Listening to the tune.
She sniffled, her fingers faltering, but fast enough to fix the song and keep going.
He watched her and then nodded.
.
She played for as long as she could, until her fingers bled. She played until the beast began to nod off.
When he was asleep, she put the instrument down. She tried to leave then, backing up and he lifted his head.
“You cannot leave!” he snarled. “You must stay!”
She froze in terror.
“Stay… and play…”
She picked up the instrument again, strumming out a simple melody.
The beast grew tired again and shut his eyes.
*
She played for days. Every day and sometimes every night.
She could not leave. But he did.
He bought her food. He brought her clothes. He brought her jewels.
Water to wash her bleeding fingers, bandages to wrap them…
And in return she played.
Day after day he sat and listened, falling asleep or leaving to come back with some reward.
She wondered how long it could go on?
****
****
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“We all have to… contribute.”
“I’ll be a Maid or something right? I’ve heard the stories.”
“…Yes.”
“I’ll miss you all.”
“Just do your duty, as the girls before you have.”
.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
The whole time she’d walked, she’d heard music. She wasn’t sure where it came from, but the further she walked, the darker it became.
She stepped in things she didn’t want to know about and when she touched the trees to steady her steps, her hands came away wet and sticky and red.
The stains were smeared all over her dress and she began to realize, the hanging things weren’t vines, but entrails. The rotting things, the stinking things, the slices of sunlight all revealed them to be… bodies. Bodies of things.
She could see the tatters of clothing in the bushes and trees.
There wasn’t a castle and she wasn’t to be a maid. She’d been so naive.
She cried, going forward, hoping to find the source of the music.
“Hello?”
She came to a clearing, her eyes red from crying, her jaw clenched against the screams of hysteria.
“Hello?” she asked.
She heard a simple melody, the sound of a lute and looked. 
Across the dark clearing, bathed in a single spotlight of sun, was a young woman playing.
“Oh! Thank god!” the girl said, rushing forward, but then she stopped.
The young woman’s dress was stained with blood, her feet bare and dirty. She played now, louder and faster, looking up at the girl.
She was smiling, crooked and gleeful and the girl backed away, shaking her head.
“Sing.” came a voice from the forest beyond.
The girl shook her head again, screaming.
And the playing faltered.
“We’ll have to find someone to sing for us Beloved.” she said softly, looking over her shoulder.
A magnificent beast sprang from dark forest, a thing that was lion and wolf and horned and quite hungry, and leapt upon the girl who screamed and hollered all of her horror as she was torn limb from limb.
When the screaming stopped, the playing began again, the beast dragging an arm over to the young woman.
“I will find us someone to sing, my Beauty.”
She smiled, nodding and playing.
They would find someone to sing, but for now…
She would play.

hamburgerjack:

fairytalemood:

“Beauty and the Beast” by Anne and Janet Grahame Johnstone

“You must go. For tribute.”

“Yes.”

“I just… please understand. Everyone who has a daughter must give tribute. If you were a Son…”

She’d simply said “Yes” over and over, “understanding”. She knew how it would be.

If she’d been a son, she’d would still have had to go… except to her most certain death.

First sons and bachelors were went to the forest to “slay” the beast. They never returned.

But neither did the daughters.

It was a myth they knew, to soothe nerves, that he used the daughters as maids to keep his home. But it was a myth.

They could hear the howls from the forest. Too loud to be wolves, too maddening to be human.

A thing like that didn’t want maids.

A thin like that only wanted a maiden’s blood.

She wondered how it would be? Would she be torn limb from limb? Knocked out? Would she faint from terror and fright? Would it matter once she was dead?

There was no ceremony, no carriage. Once she stepped beyond the village into the forest, all of her things would be destroyed. Burned or given away… but who wants the mementos of a sacrifice?

In a town full of the too old and the too young, who wanted to remember that death was there for everyone? Coming in one form or another?

*

She walked deep into the forest and was not comforted by the quiet. She wasn’t soothed by the sight of nature or the distant song of birds. It got darker and darker the further she went and from the darkness came a stench.

She knew not what it was, but the bark of the trees was slick. And as she stepped, she realized it was not mud that her feet sank into. It was not the white, sharp jutting on stones she saw, nor the green of moss…

But bones and mold and rot and blood.

A bile rose in her throat, but there was nothing her stomach might give.

She came to an open space, a natural opening, littered with bones and the tatters of dresses.

She knew the colors, muted and the fabrics, mutilated. She covered her mouth with her trembling hands and that’s when she noticed the instrument.

Clean.

It was clean. Free of the horror of the scene, simply sitting there against a tree.

It was so out of place, she was drawn to it automatically.

They’d all learned to play once. A long time ago…

She reached for it and that’s when she saw the eyes.

In the distance, beyond the clearance, in the darkness…

Two glowing eyes.

Her breath stopped and all she could hear was her heart thumping.

This was it.

There it was.

Play.

She hesitated and the voice boomed,

“PLAY!

So she snatched up the instrument, her trembling fingers trying to find a melody.

It was a monster like she’d never seen nor imagined coming out of the darkness, coming out of the brush. A lion and a wolf and a horned thing, dressed in the tatters of man’s clothing.

She shut her eyes, trying to play something, trying to play anything, knowing, this was what happened! They’d all died this way!

Any moment! Any moment now…

She opened her eyes, her tears beginning to fall. This was how she would die, entertaining this beast.

But he just sat there, at the edge of the clearing, watching her. Listening to the tune.

She sniffled, her fingers faltering, but fast enough to fix the song and keep going.

He watched her and then nodded.

.

She played for as long as she could, until her fingers bled. She played until the beast began to nod off.

When he was asleep, she put the instrument down. She tried to leave then, backing up and he lifted his head.

“You cannot leave!” he snarled. “You must stay!”

She froze in terror.

“Stay… and play…”

She picked up the instrument again, strumming out a simple melody.

The beast grew tired again and shut his eyes.

*

She played for days. Every day and sometimes every night.

She could not leave. But he did.

He bought her food. He brought her clothes. He brought her jewels.

Water to wash her bleeding fingers, bandages to wrap them…

And in return she played.

Day after day he sat and listened, falling asleep or leaving to come back with some reward.

She wondered how long it could go on?

****

****

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“We all have to… contribute.”

“I’ll be a Maid or something right? I’ve heard the stories.”

“…Yes.”

“I’ll miss you all.”

“Just do your duty, as the girls before you have.”

.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

The whole time she’d walked, she’d heard music. She wasn’t sure where it came from, but the further she walked, the darker it became.

She stepped in things she didn’t want to know about and when she touched the trees to steady her steps, her hands came away wet and sticky and red.

The stains were smeared all over her dress and she began to realize, the hanging things weren’t vines, but entrails. The rotting things, the stinking things, the slices of sunlight all revealed them to be… bodies. Bodies of things.

She could see the tatters of clothing in the bushes and trees.

There wasn’t a castle and she wasn’t to be a maid. She’d been so naive.

She cried, going forward, hoping to find the source of the music.

“Hello?”

She came to a clearing, her eyes red from crying, her jaw clenched against the screams of hysteria.

“Hello?” she asked.

She heard a simple melody, the sound of a lute and looked. 

Across the dark clearing, bathed in a single spotlight of sun, was a young woman playing.

“Oh! Thank god!” the girl said, rushing forward, but then she stopped.

The young woman’s dress was stained with blood, her feet bare and dirty. She played now, louder and faster, looking up at the girl.

She was smiling, crooked and gleeful and the girl backed away, shaking her head.

Sing.” came a voice from the forest beyond.

The girl shook her head again, screaming.

And the playing faltered.

“We’ll have to find someone to sing for us Beloved.” she said softly, looking over her shoulder.

A magnificent beast sprang from dark forest, a thing that was lion and wolf and horned and quite hungry, and leapt upon the girl who screamed and hollered all of her horror as she was torn limb from limb.

When the screaming stopped, the playing began again, the beast dragging an arm over to the young woman.

“I will find us someone to sing, my Beauty.”

She smiled, nodding and playing.

They would find someone to sing, but for now…

She would play.

(via hamburgerjack-deactivated201404)

feministdisney
heyytherecupcake:

feministdisney:

cereal-murder:

noitemsfoxonlyfinaldestination:

fisticuffsandadventure:

thesavagesalad:

feministdisney:

“Are you sure this movie was created in 2010?” Said the other Stabbington brother, in disbelief.   “And they think we’re the bad guys of this movie?  Talk about underrepresentation.”
“Well if you or Gothel are interested in reading more about it, I found a really good tumblr discussion about this entire issue,” said the first Stabbington brother.
(*POC: Person or People of Color)

but seriously tho
even though Tangled had a cute story and amazing art
for a movie that was made in like what? 2010? 2011? It is incredibly unsettling knowing that there was not a single POC. 
idk- story time
Little Bangladeshi girl I used to babysit- she’s got dark brown skin and curly black hair and she owns this blond wig you know? And when ever she feels “ugly” (which is most of the time which breaks my heart) she puts on that blond wig so she can feel pretty again. She got that wig after she watched Tangled. She was so distressed by the fact that she was nothing like Rapunzel (or anyone in that whole movie) or all the other girl focused movies where the leads are always white ( with exception to Tiana, Mulan, Pocahontas and Jasmin) with long straight hair- that she got that wig so she could console herself with the fact that she isn’t “white girl pretty” as she likes to call it.
It’s the same bullshit I grew up with and internalised. There is an 18 year age gap between the two of us and I shit you not, the perceptions of beauty and what it means to be beautiful have not changed at all. Only difference is where I used to put powder all over myself to look white, she’s got a blond wig.
I know there’s gonna be people out there who say “it’s just disney! it’s just a kids movie! you’re an adult so you have no say”
Yeah, it is fucking Disney. If you knew about the history of Disney, it’s loaded with racism. The kids movie bit also turns to shit because what- aren’t our POC babies not worthy of being called kids? Aren’t they deserving of having kids shows that have folks who look like them in it? These things matter- believe me, they do.
As for the adults comment- that is actually really fucking scary that it is adults who make this. It’s adults who have a say in what kids can watch. And the adults who made this movie made it pretty darn clear that POC weren’t good enough for kids to watch in this movie. Or that POC kids aren’t deserving of a diverse viewing experience.
:/

man one of my biggest problems with people who are like ‘omg stop complaining it’s not like kids will notice’
kids DO notice
shit, i noticed
and my friends all noticed too.
why do you think i got told to be jasmine or pochahontas when we played around w/ that shit when i wanted to be snow white? because kids notice. they looked at snow white in all her lily-white fucking adorable-ass glory and looked at me and saw some frizzy-haired brown bitch and they’re like, ‘nope.’
kids can develop massive complexes over this shit. little white girls start acting like they’re better because they get the quote-unquote cool princesses and little poc girls feel like shit that they don’t look like the ‘good’ princesses.
so while it may not be the most important thing ever omg in terms of race relations, it does have an effect so can we please stop pretending it doesn’t ok yes thank you.

okay i’d take this a lot more seriously without that ugly-ass graphic

in here poc are mad because they have no one to identify with in a disney movie, 
boohoohooo how sad now shut up. Te story is based on Rapunzel by the Grimm Brothers and just so you know it takes placed in germany during the middle age. There werent that many people of colour during that time now were there?
Now stop fucking complaining, im so sick of all the THERE ARE NO BLACK PRINCESSES I AM SO SAD BOOHOO, when there are a lot of colour princesses but you decide to ignore them because she is not “truly black”. And when you DO get a black princess you get mad because she cooks
nice one there guys
fuck you

so hopefully you’ve already gotten a taste of the issues with your argument through the reblogs.   Let’s take this further.   As I’ve already pointed out, the original tale means kaput here.  If we stick to it precisely- which the movie did not at all- Flynn’s eyes would have been punctured by thorns, blinding him.   Since his eyes got to make it through okay, seems reasonable to expect that adding in even a few POC-there are none- even if they weren’t in the original tale (which also had no lanterns, no finding her lost patterns, no quest) would not have killed the movie forever.   In the original tale, there were like 3 characters.   2/3 pictured above were not in it, for example.   So if white characters not in the original tale were added to the movie version, what was preventing them from also adding in POC?   Most of the white people in this movie were also not in the original tale but you don’t seem to be upset over their existance.
Historical accuracy?  No.  As others have pointed out, not only is that not true to reality (in which POC have been a part of Europe for many centuries), but Tangled is not actually based in any real time period and stays true in detail to no time period.   The clothing, the architecture, the attitudes, Rapunzel, everything is not specific to any real time in Germany.  The movie setting is made to look “oldish” but is basically a modern story (true love!  Find your real parents!  Ignore who you think is your real parent!  Follow your dream)  set in an old time.  Which is fine, it doesn’t have to be a history piece, but that makes it not a great excuse for excluding POC.   It’s not a historical film.  
There have been some princesses of color- each with their own set of representation problems- but as pointed out before, POC are incredibly underrepresented in movies overall so it doesn’t matter that they started getting on the ball and making some POC princesses.   The attitude of “they gave you what you wanted, now we get to go back to an all white cast and if you complain you’re being picky” is incredibly rude and speaks to your true feelings on POC: that they don’t deserve representation… you believe they should only get it if they beg for it, and then be satisfied with whatever they get, because their issues don’t really matter to you- you just want them to be quiet.

there are a lot of colour princesses but you decide to ignore them because she is not “truly black”. 

this is ridiculous.   So a young, black girl should feel compelled to see herself as a chinese character (there are looaads of stories about how often that happened with little girls before PATF came out) because in your opinion Mulan was “close enough” to being black??  Chinese and native american are different from being black and from being each other just like being white is different from all these identities.  They are all different identities deserving of representation.   Do you realize how much your comment there was propelled by the (subconsciously racist) conception that “anyone not white is basically the same”??
Again, this survey (that was from 94-98, but I don’t think anyone would argue that society has completely restructured itself since then; in other words, the statistics are still valid) notes that:
Only two out of ten Latino and Asian children, and four out of ten African-American children say they see people of their race “very often” on TV, compared to seven out of ten white children. 
Four out of every five children of colour agreed it was important for kids to see their race portrayed. 
 Four out of five children of every race believe that media can teach children “that people of their race are important” (84 per cent overall), can “make children of that race feel included” (81 per cent), and can “provide role models” (78 per cent). 

 Alright so I told myself I’d keep my feminist ramblings confined to my other blog but I feel to lazy to log into that one, plus this kinda pisses me off. So…

okay i’d take this a lot more seriously without that ugly-ass graphic

Not really sure what to make of this part.  I’d like to think the valid points and anecdotes people are sharing would be enough to take it seriously.  Whateves I guess.

Te story is based on Rapunzel by the Grimm Brothers and just so you know it takes placed in germany during the middle age. There werent that many people of colour during that time now were there?

Okay, if we’re gonna use this whole based on a previous story argument, can I point out that in no version am I aware of is Rapunzel a long lost princess and her love interest is a common citizen not of royal blood.  Vice versa, it’s always a prince who comes upon a girl with a beautiful voice that causes him to fall in love.  This is true in the even in the fairy tale of Persinette by Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de La Force (which the Brothers Grimm adapted the story from) or the fairy tale of Petrosinella by  Giambattista Basile (the earliest known variant of the story).  But something that really caught my attention when I Googled the tale of Persinette was this:
“The tale goes that there was a girl of Fey/Alf decent. She was quite lovely, with onyx coloured skin and hair the color of polished gold. She was an orphan, and it’s said she was found in a Parsley patch by an older woman as an infant.” - Eifel Wiki
Onyx colored skin? 

So there’s a version of this tale (over 300 years old, BTW) out there where it sounds to me the main character is actually a POC and here in 2012 we’re having a conversation suggesting that POC characters should be more integrated into our modern versions of said tales and other people are freaking out about it?

heyytherecupcake:

feministdisney:

cereal-murder:

noitemsfoxonlyfinaldestination:

fisticuffsandadventure:

thesavagesalad:

feministdisney:

“Are you sure this movie was created in 2010?” Said the other Stabbington brother, in disbelief.   “And they think we’re the bad guys of this movie?  Talk about underrepresentation.”

“Well if you or Gothel are interested in reading more about it, I found a really good tumblr discussion about this entire issue,” said the first Stabbington brother.

(*POC: Person or People of Color)

but seriously tho

even though Tangled had a cute story and amazing art

for a movie that was made in like what? 2010? 2011? It is incredibly unsettling knowing that there was not a single POC. 

idk- story time

Little Bangladeshi girl I used to babysit- she’s got dark brown skin and curly black hair and she owns this blond wig you know? And when ever she feels “ugly” (which is most of the time which breaks my heart) she puts on that blond wig so she can feel pretty again. She got that wig after she watched Tangled. She was so distressed by the fact that she was nothing like Rapunzel (or anyone in that whole movie) or all the other girl focused movies where the leads are always white ( with exception to Tiana, Mulan, Pocahontas and Jasmin) with long straight hair- that she got that wig so she could console herself with the fact that she isn’t “white girl pretty” as she likes to call it.

It’s the same bullshit I grew up with and internalised. There is an 18 year age gap between the two of us and I shit you not, the perceptions of beauty and what it means to be beautiful have not changed at all. Only difference is where I used to put powder all over myself to look white, she’s got a blond wig.

I know there’s gonna be people out there who say “it’s just disney! it’s just a kids movie! you’re an adult so you have no say”

Yeah, it is fucking Disney. If you knew about the history of Disney, it’s loaded with racism. The kids movie bit also turns to shit because what- aren’t our POC babies not worthy of being called kids? Aren’t they deserving of having kids shows that have folks who look like them in it? These things matter- believe me, they do.

As for the adults comment- that is actually really fucking scary that it is adults who make this. It’s adults who have a say in what kids can watch. And the adults who made this movie made it pretty darn clear that POC weren’t good enough for kids to watch in this movie. Or that POC kids aren’t deserving of a diverse viewing experience.

:/

man one of my biggest problems with people who are like ‘omg stop complaining it’s not like kids will notice’

kids DO notice

shit, i noticed

and my friends all noticed too.

why do you think i got told to be jasmine or pochahontas when we played around w/ that shit when i wanted to be snow white? because kids notice. they looked at snow white in all her lily-white fucking adorable-ass glory and looked at me and saw some frizzy-haired brown bitch and they’re like, ‘nope.’

kids can develop massive complexes over this shit. little white girls start acting like they’re better because they get the quote-unquote cool princesses and little poc girls feel like shit that they don’t look like the ‘good’ princesses.

so while it may not be the most important thing ever omg in terms of race relations, it does have an effect so can we please stop pretending it doesn’t ok yes thank you.

okay i’d take this a lot more seriously without that ugly-ass graphic

in here poc are mad because they have no one to identify with in a disney movie, 

boohoohooo how sad now shut up. Te story is based on Rapunzel by the Grimm Brothers and just so you know it takes placed in germany during the middle age. There werent that many people of colour during that time now were there?

Now stop fucking complaining, im so sick of all the THERE ARE NO BLACK PRINCESSES I AM SO SAD BOOHOO, when there are a lot of colour princesses but you decide to ignore them because she is not “truly black”. And when you DO get a black princess you get mad because she cooks

nice one there guys

fuck you

so hopefully you’ve already gotten a taste of the issues with your argument through the reblogs.   Let’s take this further.   As I’ve already pointed out, the original tale means kaput here.  If we stick to it precisely- which the movie did not at all- Flynn’s eyes would have been punctured by thorns, blinding him.   Since his eyes got to make it through okay, seems reasonable to expect that adding in even a few POC-there are none- even if they weren’t in the original tale (which also had no lanterns, no finding her lost patterns, no quest) would not have killed the movie forever.   In the original tale, there were like 3 characters.   2/3 pictured above were not in it, for example.   So if white characters not in the original tale were added to the movie version, what was preventing them from also adding in POC?   Most of the white people in this movie were also not in the original tale but you don’t seem to be upset over their existance.

Historical accuracy?  No.  As others have pointed out, not only is that not true to reality (in which POC have been a part of Europe for many centuries), but Tangled is not actually based in any real time period and stays true in detail to no time period.   The clothing, the architecture, the attitudes, Rapunzel, everything is not specific to any real time in Germany.  The movie setting is made to look “oldish” but is basically a modern story (true love!  Find your real parents!  Ignore who you think is your real parent!  Follow your dream)  set in an old time.  Which is fine, it doesn’t have to be a history piece, but that makes it not a great excuse for excluding POC.   It’s not a historical film. 

There have been some princesses of color- each with their own set of representation problems- but as pointed out before, POC are incredibly underrepresented in movies overall so it doesn’t matter that they started getting on the ball and making some POC princesses.   The attitude of “they gave you what you wanted, now we get to go back to an all white cast and if you complain you’re being picky” is incredibly rude and speaks to your true feelings on POC: that they don’t deserve representation… you believe they should only get it if they beg for it, and then be satisfied with whatever they get, because their issues don’t really matter to you- you just want them to be quiet.

there are a lot of colour princesses but you decide to ignore them because she is not “truly black”.

this is ridiculous.   So a young, black girl should feel compelled to see herself as a chinese character (there are looaads of stories about how often that happened with little girls before PATF came out) because in your opinion Mulan was “close enough” to being black??  Chinese and native american are different from being black and from being each other just like being white is different from all these identities.  They are all different identities deserving of representation.   Do you realize how much your comment there was propelled by the (subconsciously racist) conception that “anyone not white is basically the same”??

Again, this survey (that was from 94-98, but I don’t think anyone would argue that society has completely restructured itself since then; in other words, the statistics are still valid) notes that:

  • Only two out of ten Latino and Asian children, and four out of ten African-American children say they see people of their race “very often” on TV, compared to seven out of ten white children.
  • Four out of every five children of colour agreed it was important for kids to see their race portrayed. 
  •  Four out of five children of every race believe that media can teach children “that people of their race are important” (84 per cent overall), can “make children of that race feel included” (81 per cent), and can “provide role models” (78 per cent).

 Alright so I told myself I’d keep my feminist ramblings confined to my other blog but I feel to lazy to log into that one, plus this kinda pisses me off. So…

okay i’d take this a lot more seriously without that ugly-ass graphic

Not really sure what to make of this part.  I’d like to think the valid points and anecdotes people are sharing would be enough to take it seriously.  Whateves I guess.

Te story is based on Rapunzel by the Grimm Brothers and just so you know it takes placed in germany during the middle age. There werent that many people of colour during that time now were there?

Okay, if we’re gonna use this whole based on a previous story argument, can I point out that in no version am I aware of is Rapunzel a long lost princess and her love interest is a common citizen not of royal blood.  Vice versa, it’s always a prince who comes upon a girl with a beautiful voice that causes him to fall in love.  This is true in the even in the fairy tale of Persinette by Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de La Force (which the Brothers Grimm adapted the story from) or the fairy tale of Petrosinella by  Giambattista Basile (the earliest known variant of the story).  But something that really caught my attention when I Googled the tale of Persinette was this:

“The tale goes that there was a girl of Fey/Alf decent. She was quite lovely, with onyx coloured skin and hair the color of polished gold. She was an orphan, and it’s said she was found in a Parsley patch by an older woman as an infant.” - Eifel Wiki

Onyx colored skin? 

So there’s a version of this tale (over 300 years old, BTW) out there where it sounds to me the main character is actually a POC and here in 2012 we’re having a conversation suggesting that POC characters should be more integrated into our modern versions of said tales and other people are freaking out about it?

(via )

racebentdisney

jafarface asked: ever heard of the HBO TV series Happily Ever After: Fairy Tales for Every Child? It was my only source for fairy tales that had characters that looked like me. One of the episodes had Beauty and the Beast set *in* Africa. There was a black Goldilocks with blonde dreads (set in Jamaica). There was a Mexican Cinderella. A Chinese Little Mermaid. Highly recommend everyone Youtubing it.

kyssthis16:

velocicrafter:

racebentdisney says: A guide to the episodes can be found here! I’ve checked, and it looks like a few episodes up on YouTube, if anyone is interested in watching!

YASSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!! I still remember the Black King Midas!!! And the Latino Hansel and Gretl. EVERYONE WATCH THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

oldbookillustrations
hamburgerjack:

oldbookillustrations:

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
Kate Greenaway, from The pied piper of Hamelin, by Robert Browning, London, New York, 1888.
(Source: archive.org)

They did not pay him, so they would pay.
Everyone paid.
Everyone.
So he changed his tune.
He blew note after note, watching the bugs twitch.
He didn’t want those.
He watched the squirrels perks up…
Certainly not.
He went higher and lower, longer and shorter and then finally, he hit it.
The perfect note.
“What’s that you’re playing Sir?”
He kept playing.
“Hey! Listen to this!” the children called.
He played and played and began to walk, the children following him, dancing and clapping and singing along.
They knew words he couldn’t have even guessed, not to this song anyway. It was a simple tune, he’d learned long ago from a worn book.
“Pierre, these tunes are for entertainment!”
“What about these!”
“No!” the man said, slamming that book closed. “You must never play these.”
“…why not?”
“Because I said No!”
Stingy man with his stingy ways.
Manuel the Music Master would put a stop to him. He was Pierre the Pied Piper. He would play what he played.
He’d learned the tunes, behind the man’s back of course. And danced him right out of the window.
A Ditty for Defenestration! One of his favorites. And the one he’d used on happy little Hamelin?
The Rally for Rats.
He played perfectly, striding and stepping along. He corralled the kids into a cave, crowding them onwards to an underground cove.
Here he would round them, here he would drown them, all with his tempting tune.
But then he hit a sour note, just as a fat flock of seabirds flew out from roost. And the children stopped.
“Where are we?”
“I want to go home!”
He had to find the tune again.
He fumbled with his flute, growing furious as he blew note after note, all ringing wrong.
The waves crashed and the sounds echoed, so he tried to play anyway. The tune would sort it self out.
He played and the children seemed calm. He continued to play and they seemed to grow cross.
They gathered and grouped around him, their faces grew pinched and some even perturbed. They began to hue and heckle and he kept trying to play. They bullied and backed him up to the mouth of the waters, to the cliffs, to the bay.
He played on and on, every note that he knew until finally a child snatched his pipe from him and knew not what to do.
He’d played the wrong tune.
“Everyone pays.” one child said.
Had they known his mind?
“Everyone PAYS!” another one said.
He looked over his shoulder, at the bones, at bodies.
“EVERYONE!” one said, rushing forward.
With a well practiced pushed the piper went over and with a toss so too when his pipe. And though his body was broken, settled among the smooth rocks, he could see up above him the many murderous children who’d marched him to his morte. And they left, one by one. Their curiosity at an end as they stopped their peculiar peeping.
They’d probably seen several times, a man dying, his soul leaving.
Everyone pays.
In the end, everyone paid.
The End.

hamburgerjack:

oldbookillustrations:

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

Kate Greenaway, from The pied piper of Hamelin, by Robert Browning, London, New York, 1888.

(Source: archive.org)

They did not pay him, so they would pay.

Everyone paid.

Everyone.

So he changed his tune.

He blew note after note, watching the bugs twitch.

He didn’t want those.

He watched the squirrels perks up…

Certainly not.

He went higher and lower, longer and shorter and then finally, he hit it.

The perfect note.

“What’s that you’re playing Sir?”

He kept playing.

“Hey! Listen to this!” the children called.

He played and played and began to walk, the children following him, dancing and clapping and singing along.

They knew words he couldn’t have even guessed, not to this song anyway. It was a simple tune, he’d learned long ago from a worn book.

“Pierre, these tunes are for entertainment!”

“What about these!”

“No!” the man said, slamming that book closed. “You must never play these.”

“…why not?”

“Because I said No!”

Stingy man with his stingy ways.

Manuel the Music Master would put a stop to him. He was Pierre the Pied Piper. He would play what he played.

He’d learned the tunes, behind the man’s back of course. And danced him right out of the window.

A Ditty for Defenestration! One of his favorites. And the one he’d used on happy little Hamelin?

The Rally for Rats.

He played perfectly, striding and stepping along. He corralled the kids into a cave, crowding them onwards to an underground cove.

Here he would round them, here he would drown them, all with his tempting tune.

But then he hit a sour note, just as a fat flock of seabirds flew out from roost. And the children stopped.

“Where are we?”

“I want to go home!”

He had to find the tune again.

He fumbled with his flute, growing furious as he blew note after note, all ringing wrong.

The waves crashed and the sounds echoed, so he tried to play anyway. The tune would sort it self out.

He played and the children seemed calm. He continued to play and they seemed to grow cross.

They gathered and grouped around him, their faces grew pinched and some even perturbed. They began to hue and heckle and he kept trying to play. They bullied and backed him up to the mouth of the waters, to the cliffs, to the bay.

He played on and on, every note that he knew until finally a child snatched his pipe from him and knew not what to do.

He’d played the wrong tune.

“Everyone pays.” one child said.

Had they known his mind?

“Everyone PAYS!” another one said.

He looked over his shoulder, at the bones, at bodies.

“EVERYONE!” one said, rushing forward.

With a well practiced pushed the piper went over and with a toss so too when his pipe. And though his body was broken, settled among the smooth rocks, he could see up above him the many murderous children who’d marched him to his morte. And they left, one by one. Their curiosity at an end as they stopped their peculiar peeping.

They’d probably seen several times, a man dying, his soul leaving.

Everyone pays.

In the end, everyone paid.

The End.

(via hamburgerjack-deactivated201404)

gg-art
hamburgerjack:

fairytalemood:

“Aschenputtel” by buttcap

She was the Cinders Girl, because they made her tend the fires. She did more than this of course.
She tended the house, she cleaned the floors, she cut the wood and she cooked the meals…
But they called her the Cinders Girl because of the black marks on her face. The black streaks, the black patches.
They looked like ash streaks, sometimes ash flakes off.
They said her hair looked strange and black, like burnt cracked wood and her eyes sometimes gleamed hot yellow, like a coal.
People avoided her when she went outside.
The Stepmother “made up” her face when she went out, but it didn’t matter.
Eventually, under the sun laboring or near the fires, growing hot…
It would melt away.
It didn’t matter the clothes they gave her, soon they would look ragged, full of burn holes and her shoes would soon disappear.
But they just didn’t understand.
She was the Cinders Girl.
*
When the Father wanted a child, he could not have one. The Mother was unable and soon died, but he still wanted a child.
He knew a bit of magic and he still wanted a child, so he prayed in front of his fire, he prayed to the flames.
He knew a bit of magic, but did not know its power and so his house burned down. But in the wreckage and the rubble, there was a child.
A little girl stood there, blackened skin, cracked and glowing red, when she moved she left foot prints of ashes. When she moved, cinders came off her body. She touched her hair and embers cast off in the wind.
The Father was aghast, he fled and raced away.
And she stayed there, waiting.
The only thing that had survived the fire was the fireplace, so she went there, sleeping there, hiding there, invisible, blackened and ashen…
She waited long enough and the house was rebuilt.
The Father had returned. He returned with the Stepmother and her real Daughters.
They did not expect her to be there still, especially not when she emerged from the first fire they built, her arms open and welcoming to the Father.
He said she was a slave. He said it was okay to work her, that she was a magical thing, a beast.
She did not understand these words, but that was fine. The Father had returned, he had returned to love her.
And in that moment, explaining and worried about what the Stepmother would think, she got near to him and hugged him. Hugged him tightly.
He burned up quick, he burned alive, and turned into a pile of ashes on the floor.
She turned to the Stepmother, arms out and expecting.
The woman doused her with a bucket of water.
“STAY BACK YOU DEMON!”
And even though she was afraid, she figured she could use the girl… as a slave at least.
She saw how much she had loved the father, so she threw the man’s ashes into the fireplace.
“Do not leave from here! Do not leave him!”
The Cinders Girl never would.
*
“It’s terrible mother… all she does is play with ashes. She’s playing with the ashes again!”
“She gets all excited and she burns off all the things we’ve given her… she turns into that thing!”
The Stepmother set her mouth in a thin line. She did not like the Cinders Girl, but she did not want to be without her slave labor. She did not like the Cinders Girl, but she did not want to let that demon loose into the world.
“I will think of something.” she told her daughters. “I will get her away from us, away from this place!”
And so the Stepmother schemed. And she plotted.
It seemed that the Princess was on a search, a search for glass slippers. She’d owned a pair, many years ago, when she’d first been betrothed to the Prince and she was looking for another pair again, hoping this item, that had caught the young man’s eyes, would win his heart again as the Prince’s heart and eyes were straying.
She knew what glass was made of and she wondered, thinking of the ashes, if she couldn’t be of some help.
She sent the Cinders Girl outside one day, to run an errand, putting her face on extra thick so she would not return early as she did when it melted off. She sent her off across town for some item she did not need and when she was gone, she collected all the ashes from the fire and left to the glass maker’s.
It took a few hours and the Stepmother worried if she might not make it home before the Girl, but when the shoes were done, she made it known to all who would hear that she had glass slippers for the Princess.
And then she returned home.
It was very late when the Cinders Girl returned, her face gone, her face cracked and red lined like a log in the fire. What was left of her dress was smoking, but she held her errand item in her hands.
It was hilariously enough a custom iron poker.
She took it to the Stepmother, looking at the shoes she had on a pillow. She stared at them and stared at them, before the woman said, “They are not yours!”
“Yes.” the Cinders Girl said, reaching for them.
“NO.” the woman said, banging her hand. She reached for a bucket of water, which she always had nearby. “BACK YOU DEMON! BACK!”
“They are mine!” she said, reaching for them.
“I said BACK!”
And then there was a knock on the door. And the sound of royal horns.
“OPEN THE DOORS CITIZEN! YOUR PRINCESS HAS ARRIVED!”
The Stepmother pointed. “Open the door!”
And the Cinders Girl went, looking over her shoulders at the shoes.
She opened the door, ignoring all the people who came in. Ignoring the talk that followed. Ignoring everything, except the shoes.
She watched the princess in the large blue gown hold the shoes and she walked towards her.
“Those are mine.” she said, her voice distressed. She cracked and popped like a healthy fire and the Princess recoiled.
“WHAT IS THIS? GUARDS!”
“No no!” The Stepmother stopped them. “This… is… a special servant. A magical servant! She can tend all the fires in a single home at once!”
The Princess looked dubious.
“This I also give you… as a gift. Take her instead of paying me for the shoes.”
The Princess curled her lip. “She will not get in my carriage.”
“She can follow behind it.” The Stepmother looked at the Cinders Girl. “She has the shoes. You go with her.”
The Cinders Girl looked at the Princess.
“They are mine!”
“Filthy thing…” she muttered, leaving the home.
She left and the Cinders Girl followed, her dress burned all the way off, her made-up face melted into thin air, her shoes non-existent.
She followed the Princess and she followed the shoes. She followed and followed, her arms out.
“They are mine.” she said, over and over.
“They are Father.” she said, over and over.
When she made it to the castle with the Princess, she was doused with water and thrown into a fire place. Bars were installed and once she was hot again, a great flame grew within the fire place, the Cinders Girl reaching out past the bars, her guards beating back her arms with royal pockers.
“They are mine!” she cried. “They are father!”
And there she remained.
The Stepmother hadn’t lied. The Cinders Girl could tend all the fires at once. Bars were installed on every fire place and the ovens were monitored. If she got out, buckets of water were handy. She was promptly doused and put back.
She appeared, skin black and smoking, lined red and orange like a fire place log, her arms out, calling and crying, “They are mine! They are Father!”
The Princess wore her glass slippers and won back her Prince.
And she lived happily ever after, her fires always warm, her bed always warm.
Her feet fashionably decorated.

hamburgerjack:

fairytalemood:

“Aschenputtel” by buttcap

She was the Cinders Girl, because they made her tend the fires. She did more than this of course.

She tended the house, she cleaned the floors, she cut the wood and she cooked the meals…

But they called her the Cinders Girl because of the black marks on her face. The black streaks, the black patches.

They looked like ash streaks, sometimes ash flakes off.

They said her hair looked strange and black, like burnt cracked wood and her eyes sometimes gleamed hot yellow, like a coal.

People avoided her when she went outside.

The Stepmother “made up” her face when she went out, but it didn’t matter.

Eventually, under the sun laboring or near the fires, growing hot…

It would melt away.

It didn’t matter the clothes they gave her, soon they would look ragged, full of burn holes and her shoes would soon disappear.

But they just didn’t understand.

She was the Cinders Girl.

*

When the Father wanted a child, he could not have one. The Mother was unable and soon died, but he still wanted a child.

He knew a bit of magic and he still wanted a child, so he prayed in front of his fire, he prayed to the flames.

He knew a bit of magic, but did not know its power and so his house burned down. But in the wreckage and the rubble, there was a child.

A little girl stood there, blackened skin, cracked and glowing red, when she moved she left foot prints of ashes. When she moved, cinders came off her body. She touched her hair and embers cast off in the wind.

The Father was aghast, he fled and raced away.

And she stayed there, waiting.

The only thing that had survived the fire was the fireplace, so she went there, sleeping there, hiding there, invisible, blackened and ashen…

She waited long enough and the house was rebuilt.

The Father had returned. He returned with the Stepmother and her real Daughters.

They did not expect her to be there still, especially not when she emerged from the first fire they built, her arms open and welcoming to the Father.

He said she was a slave. He said it was okay to work her, that she was a magical thing, a beast.

She did not understand these words, but that was fine. The Father had returned, he had returned to love her.

And in that moment, explaining and worried about what the Stepmother would think, she got near to him and hugged him. Hugged him tightly.

He burned up quick, he burned alive, and turned into a pile of ashes on the floor.

She turned to the Stepmother, arms out and expecting.

The woman doused her with a bucket of water.

“STAY BACK YOU DEMON!”

And even though she was afraid, she figured she could use the girl… as a slave at least.

She saw how much she had loved the father, so she threw the man’s ashes into the fireplace.

“Do not leave from here! Do not leave him!”

The Cinders Girl never would.

*

“It’s terrible mother… all she does is play with ashes. She’s playing with the ashes again!”

“She gets all excited and she burns off all the things we’ve given her… she turns into that thing!”

The Stepmother set her mouth in a thin line. She did not like the Cinders Girl, but she did not want to be without her slave labor. She did not like the Cinders Girl, but she did not want to let that demon loose into the world.

“I will think of something.” she told her daughters. “I will get her away from us, away from this place!”

And so the Stepmother schemed. And she plotted.

It seemed that the Princess was on a search, a search for glass slippers. She’d owned a pair, many years ago, when she’d first been betrothed to the Prince and she was looking for another pair again, hoping this item, that had caught the young man’s eyes, would win his heart again as the Prince’s heart and eyes were straying.

She knew what glass was made of and she wondered, thinking of the ashes, if she couldn’t be of some help.

She sent the Cinders Girl outside one day, to run an errand, putting her face on extra thick so she would not return early as she did when it melted off. She sent her off across town for some item she did not need and when she was gone, she collected all the ashes from the fire and left to the glass maker’s.

It took a few hours and the Stepmother worried if she might not make it home before the Girl, but when the shoes were done, she made it known to all who would hear that she had glass slippers for the Princess.

And then she returned home.

It was very late when the Cinders Girl returned, her face gone, her face cracked and red lined like a log in the fire. What was left of her dress was smoking, but she held her errand item in her hands.

It was hilariously enough a custom iron poker.

She took it to the Stepmother, looking at the shoes she had on a pillow. She stared at them and stared at them, before the woman said, “They are not yours!”

“Yes.” the Cinders Girl said, reaching for them.

“NO.” the woman said, banging her hand. She reached for a bucket of water, which she always had nearby. “BACK YOU DEMON! BACK!”

“They are mine!” she said, reaching for them.

“I said BACK!”

And then there was a knock on the door. And the sound of royal horns.

“OPEN THE DOORS CITIZEN! YOUR PRINCESS HAS ARRIVED!”

The Stepmother pointed. “Open the door!”

And the Cinders Girl went, looking over her shoulders at the shoes.

She opened the door, ignoring all the people who came in. Ignoring the talk that followed. Ignoring everything, except the shoes.

She watched the princess in the large blue gown hold the shoes and she walked towards her.

“Those are mine.” she said, her voice distressed. She cracked and popped like a healthy fire and the Princess recoiled.

“WHAT IS THIS? GUARDS!”

“No no!” The Stepmother stopped them. “This… is… a special servant. A magical servant! She can tend all the fires in a single home at once!”

The Princess looked dubious.

“This I also give you… as a gift. Take her instead of paying me for the shoes.”

The Princess curled her lip. “She will not get in my carriage.”

“She can follow behind it.” The Stepmother looked at the Cinders Girl. “She has the shoes. You go with her.”

The Cinders Girl looked at the Princess.

“They are mine!”

“Filthy thing…” she muttered, leaving the home.

She left and the Cinders Girl followed, her dress burned all the way off, her made-up face melted into thin air, her shoes non-existent.

She followed the Princess and she followed the shoes. She followed and followed, her arms out.

“They are mine.” she said, over and over.

“They are Father.” she said, over and over.

When she made it to the castle with the Princess, she was doused with water and thrown into a fire place. Bars were installed and once she was hot again, a great flame grew within the fire place, the Cinders Girl reaching out past the bars, her guards beating back her arms with royal pockers.

“They are mine!” she cried. “They are father!”

And there she remained.

The Stepmother hadn’t lied. The Cinders Girl could tend all the fires at once. Bars were installed on every fire place and the ovens were monitored. If she got out, buckets of water were handy. She was promptly doused and put back.

She appeared, skin black and smoking, lined red and orange like a fire place log, her arms out, calling and crying, “They are mine! They are Father!”

The Princess wore her glass slippers and won back her Prince.

And she lived happily ever after, her fires always warm, her bed always warm.

Her feet fashionably decorated.

(via hamburgerjack-deactivated201404)