Tag: romance

Today I am Consult

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

“Hello my paranormal pals! Welcome back to Dead Talk – I’m your host River Morgan and you’re listening to the only podcast with interviews that are truly a blast from the past. This is the first episode of season two, so if you’re just joining us, we are happy to have you and be sure to hit that Subscribe button in whichever app you’re listening through, as well as pop on back to season 1 because there are some real gems there, folks.

“I hope everyone had a great summer, I sure did. My partner Nell, you all know Nell, and I did a roadtrip across eleven states to hit some of her bucket list foodie spots! We were eating good, y’all. I had my favorites- shout out Mickie’s Truffle Emporium in Portland. Mickie, you and your truffle fries are SO fine. My other worth-it spot was when Nell made ya boy dress up all nice and we hit the bar of Swan, a swanky lounge in Chicago’s diamond district and let me tell you, it’s a real jewel itself. Cocktails that brought me back to life after all that driving and made us feel like we belonged among the famous and fabulous, ya know?

“Now my very favorite spot was Loretta’s Bayou Bar, and I know what y’all are thinking- River, get to the goods! And that’s where I’m headed, I promise. Loretta’s had fried alligator that would make you walk on water – and that’s just how we met our first interview of the season. That’s right, y’all, Nell told me to go on and pack the recording equipment for our trip so y’all wouldn’t miss a thing.

“So let me set the scene for you- we’re sitting fat and happy on Loretta’s patio watching the sun go down, finishing a couple plates of alligator, a pound of deeeelicious crawfish, and had just ordered a couple bags of pralines to go when I said to Nell that I got to walk a bit to settle my stomach and lick the grease off my fingers before we head back to the hotel, and she, being the perfect woman she is, adds two lagers to the bill and our lovely waitress brought them to us in koozies and points to a little path by the river warning us not to get too close to the water. I said- ‘River ain’t afraid of no river!’ And the waitress gave me a look and says ‘Where do you think we get the gator from?’ so I doubled the tip and we wandered on outta there.

“We get down to the river and I’m talking all romantical to my lady ’cause the stars are out and there’s a sweet breeze coming off that water when Nell just freezes. I start to ask what’s up and she shushes me and points out to the water. I’m thinking I’m about to have to be a hero and tackle a freaking gator to save my wife! But no- there’s a mist rolling over the river and it starts to move upwards, shifting into the form of a woman in what I thought was a fancy dress with frills all around her neck and wrists, but what we later learned at a local museum was probably a ‘work’ dress- similar to what upper and middle class ladies of the time wore on their day-to-day running around. So the mist keeps moving around her, defining her features a bit and we see she looks pretty young, got some long wavy hair flying free and an almost serene look on her face- and is staring right at Nell. I tell y’all I just about dropped the recorder in the water getting it out of my pack as fast as I could, and well- y’all excuse a bit of fumbling in this one- maybe shouldn’t of had that last beer but oh well, here we go-“

A loud gong rings out followed by wind chimes.

“cshhhrt csht“

“Ope- you got it? Is it on?”

“Yeah there goes the light- hello madam!”

Wind blows, a chorus of frogs begins.

“Ma’am, we don’t mean to disturb your evening. I’m River Morgan, and this is my lovely wife Nell.”

The wind blows again, then a soft distant voice can be heard, “Is he a good man?”

“Yes,” Nell’s voice is slightly louder but gentle, “yes, he’s a good man. You can trust him. I trust him.”

“Are you? Are you a good man?”

“Well I do my best, ma’am.”

“Then why bring her here, into the night?”

“We like taking walks after dinner. A little promenade, you might say, heh heh. I’m being careful to keep her toes far from the water, I promise. They told us about the gators.”

“The caimans will have their way with you, should they like.”

“They won’t have my Nell, no ma’am. I was wondering if I might interview you? I’m a host for a podca- for a newspaper of sorts and I would just love to ask you a couple questions. You’re just the kind of lady my readers would want to know- who you are and how you came to be here, if you don’t mind.”

“You do not fear my visage?”

“No ma’am, River has spoken with many people in your circumstances. We have met many who are gone but still here.”

The chorus of frogs abruptly stops.

“Gone?”

“She doesn’t mean offense, ma’am. Simply that we have spoken to several wonderful people who wander similar places. And we’d just like to know more about you.”

“…My story is a common one. A woman trusted a man and it was her downfall.”

“I’m awfully sorry to hear that, ma’am. May I ask your name?”

“I am Louisa Fontenot. And I will tell you my story. And then I will let the caimans have you.”

A loud gong rings out followed by wind chimes.

“How about that folks! We found ourselves a real lady of the lake! Or river, I suppose. We’ll have her story after these short messages!”

-Nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diarrhea, waking nightmares, adult acne, depressed eyelids, trouble walking! Prepto-Scav is something Nell and I always make sure is packed for a road trip- you never know with today’s climate whether your adventures will bring heartburn or third-degree sunburns, so be ready for anything- with Prepto-Scav!-

-Bunker bedsores got you down? Don’t go to bed with a frown! Get Remi’s Cots- made from recycled memory foam and layered with rat-proof copper inserts to keep you comfortable and rodent-free all night long!-

-Choose BetterHealth. Mental Health assistance for anywhere, anytime. I use BetterHealth when an interview has left me feeling as wispy as my guests, and my certified assigned professional helps set me back on solid ground. Now available on most JETDS communication devices.-

“Thanks folks, now let’s dive back in with Miss Louisa Fontenot.”

The loud gong rings again, with wind chimes slowly fading away.

“Well Mrs. Fontenot-“

“Miss Fontenot. My father was of the Marseille Fontenots.”

“Miss Fontenot, I apologize. Before we get to the goods and the gators, how about you fill us in on life in your world?”

“What is it you wish to know? My family is not so different from the others.”

“How about- we just had an amazing dinner up the ways a bit, how was the food during your time?”

“Terrible’. It is not ladylike to eat the pretty sweets at dinners and parties, we are to pretend we are more interested in conversation or dance. At home, it was bland stews or plain bread and cheese as Papa believed food was for nourishment, not entertainment. Only when Papa was gone for business would Mama let Hettie cook from her own recipes. Then dinner was incroyable! Hettie could make little critters taste like spiced gold…”

Silence stretches. A lone brave toad croaks.

“I have not thought about Hettie in quite some time. She was good to me. Always kind. Tried to tell me to marry high and become the lady of my own home, stop chasing after dreams.”

“Was Hettie a sla- ow, Nell! Was she, uh, a local?”

“Yes. Our family moved here when Mama was pregnant with me, and brought on Hettie when I was born, as she was too tired to run the house on her own. I did not know life without Hettie.”

“Do you miss Hettie?”

“I do. She passed from this world a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Her daughters left magnolia blossoms on the river for me when they told me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry Miss Fontenot, I don’t understand, when they told you what?”

“That Hettie had died. They came to this river after her funeral and laid magnolias from her grave in the water so I would know. Kind girls, like their mother. Mr. River, I understand well that you, your lady, and I are of the same world yet not the same veil.”

“I didn’t realize you understood your… status. Not everyone does.”

“We all do, Mr. River. It is simply a matter of denial or acceptance.”

“And are you in denial?”

“Occasionally.”

“I see. So you mentioned Hettie tried to get you to marry a highborn gentleman? Did she have anyone in particular in mind?”

“She and my mother were in agreement that any of the local financiers or well-do merchants moving in would be practical choices, as the world was changing.”

“What was changing?”

“The war was starting, Mr. River. A smart girl married a man too wealthy to serve, but not so wealthy his land could be conscripted for the military.”

“That… does sound smart.”

“It did not keep my sisters and I from dancing with the officers at every ball. I wish it had.”

“Please, tell us why.”

“It did not take many rounds of the ballroom before I fell in love with Officer Hebert. He had steel eyes and a wide smile that made me breathless. But he did not fall in love with me.”

Another silence stretches across the lapping of the river.

“Miss Fon-“

“You see, Mr. River. Men can have what women cannot- and that is everything. A man can choose his wife yet not be limited to her. Should a woman do so, her reputation would become unsalvageable. Officer Hebert led many a lady to believe we were his choice. One hot evening, he led me out of the boiling ballroom of the Bordeaux manner, into the gardens for fresh air. Once among the topiaries, he kissed me until my heart thundered. I spent all night regaling my sisters with the taste of him and his promises of our future. The next morning he announced his engagement to Clara LeBlanc, whose father owned fifteen hundred acres.”

“I’m so sorry,” Nell’s voice cooed softly on the recording, “that must have been heartbreaking.”

“Oh I was young, so heartbreak came with more anger than my body could hold. I asked him to meet me here that very evening.”

“Here? Sorry ma’am, if you back away like that we won’t be able to record your voice so well, let me just-“

“Yes, sweet cheri. Come and hear me. I told him to meet me along this river, so I may taste his lips once more before he forever belonged to Clara. And he met me, because men are fools. He did not know I had arrived here earlier to throw chicken bones in the river, drawing the creatures near. He kissed me and I kissed him, and for just a moment I thought about simply staying there in his embrace. But I remembered his engagement and with all my fury and might, I rocked us both into the water! Oh how the caimans rushed on us, desperate for our fresh flesh! He screamed but I only laughed as they tore us apart, just as he had my heart! He wanted everything so I TOOK. EVERYTHING!”

“River- you’re too close to- RIVER!”

A splash, then several loud boney snaps resound as wicked laughter booms.

“Nell get away from the- Nell, go!”

“River, take my hand!”

“Grab the recorder!”

“RIVER! MOVE!”

The laughter fades as heavy breathing echoes over crunching leaves.

A loud gong rings out followed by wind chimes.

“Phew, how about that one, folks? I kept the last bit in so y’all remember- don’t try this at home! Not every subject is uh, polite, shall we say? Lucky for me, Nell was fast whipping that beer bottle at the first gator, stunned him enough for us to get back up the embankment. We hadn’t even realized we’d gotten so close to the water! Tricky little lady, that Louisa Fontenot. Once we got to the car, we ate the whole bag of pralines and a second one we’d meant to bring my in-laws, to settle the jitters.

“I do wish the interview hadn’t been cut short, we rarely get to talk to someone from so far back. Nell chided me for taking the bait about the officers when we could have asked about the start of the war, eased into her perspective on slavery from a French-leaning household, just gotten a bit more out of her maybe, before she set her water dogs on us! There are lot of potential interviewees in that area but not all of them want to relive what they already dealt with. We may travel there again but we may just leave them in peace.

“Still, I thought it was a good one to start the season with- get our heartbeats going! Join us next time where we talk with a gentleman who lived, or rather didn’t, through the Galveston hurricane and has some seriously stormy thoughts on it.

“Is there a spooky someone near you that you’d like us to interview? Remember to send in suggestions to deadtalkwithriver@podmail.com and we might just come see what they have to say! Thanks for listening, this has been Dead Talk! Goodnight!”

The Word

Consult: (verb) Seek information or advice from, generally someone with expertise in a particular area. (noun) An act of consulting a professional; a consultation.

After Today I am Devotion, I thought it would be interesting to see what other forms of media I could use for storytelling. Podcasts are a natural choice, as I think at this point we’ve all heard a couple or are regular subscribers. It’s also a good way for me to practice dialogue, as anyone who has been here a hot minute knows that’s something I’m working on. But it was a little difficult to decide how to write out the background sounds. I peeked around at a few other stories, in which authors had radio shows or podcasts or phone calls that made up the entirety to see how they did those little sounds. It seems there isn’t necessarily a standard but I do like some more than others. Do you have a favorite style? I think River Morgan and his Dead Talk will be a good one to come back to occasionally, find other subjects to chat with, and find out what best suits for me.

I also really like the word consult for this. It’s one I’ve had in my word-bank for a while and while there were other stories I thought maybe it would work for, I kept going back to an ancestral idea. What if we could consult someone who has already seen it all? What if we could have a therapist who has already lived their entire life and could give advice from that perspective? Pulling that thread led me to Dead Talk, where consults/interviews don’t always go as planned!

Hope you enjoyed our step into the spooky, happy reading!

–

P.S. Did you catch the easter egg from one of our other characters? 😉

Today I am Radiance

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

“BURN THE WITCH!”

“SEND HER BACK TO HER DEVIL MASTER!”

“HELLISH SIREN!”

“CLEANSE HER SOUL!”

Ropes dug mercilessly into her wrists. The spare lumber she’d been pinned to scraped painfully on her raw back. Welts formed across the glistening lines a whip had mapped from her shoulder to her hip. They caused such a swelling ache to rise in her neck, she did not dare look at her feet to see the fire’s progress. Her chin to the air, she was pleased it would look like bravery in the face of death and not that it simply hurt to hold her head any other way.

Her mother would be proud had she not gone to eternal rest many moons ago.

Many moons. It was these sort of phrases instead of ‘yesteryear’ that her neighbors claimed proved her deep unholiness.

But she could not help speaking as her mother did. Don’t all children do the same? No more than she could change the bright streaks that appeared in her hair under the summer sun or the many freckles across her skin that accompanied them.

Constellations, her mother had called the tiny spots. Witch marks, the priest had screamed.

It was not lost on Margaret that such devilish signs of her evil ways had been so graciously ignored by the entire village until she had refused to marry the mayor’s gangly nephew.

Oh, to have her mother here now. Perhaps she could not have saved Margaret, as the older woman had been quite frail with illness in her last years, but she would have cooed softly from the edge of the wood pile. She would have told Margaret her favorite tales passed from her own mother, just as she did when Margaret was a child refusing to sleep. A sadness settled deep in her chest knowing that this time she must go into the dark without her mother’s voice.

She closed her eyes. There was no reason to look upon any of these people for longer. Friends had turned fools and acquaintances turned accusers. Instead she conjured a vision of her mother, when health still glowed in her sun-wrinkled face.

Tell me a story, Mother. I cannot sleep.

Silent words raced through her mind as memory pulled from distance. A dangerous warmth seeped into her ankles but she dove within herself.

“You must not repeat this, dear. Your grandmother told me and now I tell you: A story from the valleys of the old country…

…

Once there was a goddess. There are people who called her Diana or Selene and believed her to be the goddess of the moon. But these were warring men who do not know women. She was Fealuna, goddess of all the stars. The stars worshipped her with their shine and in return she guided lost wanderers and souls through the darkness. She and her bright warriors fought against all the evils that tried to lurk in the shadows. That’s why when you get lost in the woods, you follow the stars out before a bear eats you.

Here, Mother always pinched Margaret’s nose.

Her most dedicated soldier was Solghid, so bright a star and fierce in battle that she set him close to the earth to protect and warm the world.

And here, Margaret always laughed and whispered, “The SUN, Momma?”

“The very same, love. Now shhhhh…”

Fealuna and Solghid rode into battles against the darkness many times, and were held in high esteem by the other deities. But Fealuna was also beautiful, which for a lady can be both a blessing and a curse. Many of the gods wanted to take her for their wife. They argued viciously over who deserved her hand in marriage and they did not even bother to ask Fealuna who she would prefer!

If they had, she would have told them her heart belonged to Solghid. He was but a solider and yet she loved him almost as much as he loved her.

“As much as Father loved you?”

“Almost as much as he loved us.” And here, Mother would touch the cord around her wrist and be quiet a moment before she continued.

The gods’ quarreling turned to fighting and the great Aegreus, god of violent storms and deep seas, won out. Fealuna tried to protest but Aegreus in all his power was one of the god rulers and none dared oppose him. As he pulled her into the depths of his seas, she cried out for Solghid, who heard her and dipped low in the sky trying to reach her. But the other gods held him back so he would not scorch the earth. They chained him to the turning of the sky so he could not visit the night any longer. Fealuna was gone in the darkness.

The earth dimmed, as the other stars refused to leave the night searching for their goddess. Solghid wavered from furious to forlorn, searing the day or hiding behind the clouds to weep. The farmers and fishermen cried out to their own gods- the crops were dying, the animals of land and sea were confused and unruly, soon the people would be lost! The harvest goddess, for whom there are many names-

“Why does she have all the names?”

“Hush.”

-demanded the gods have her sister released back into her rightful place so the world could heal and the people could live. But the gods in their pride refused.

However. Women are clever, as we must be in this world, my love. There is always more than one way to complete a task.

So the harvest goddess whispered to the smaller spirits of the earth, her daughters- to those of the creek reeds and mud puddles, those of first blooms and saplings, of crystal stones and mountain shade. She asked them to save her sister anyway they could.

They knew they could not free Fealuna from the sea depths, but perhaps- they said- they could give her something that would help her survive in the darkness.

They gathered rocks and moss and crevasses, bits of last frost and firebug flight, slicking it together with the evening breeze and drops of morning dew, until they had a shield the size of ten villages! They lifted it into the night sky and called to Solghid. From his chained prison he heard them. A cry of hope for his love, which made him shine brighter than he had ever before. So bright was his light, that it sprang upon the shield and reflected on to all the earth, pulling back the sea so he could glimpse Fealuna in the depths. And Fealuna peered back at him. She saw his light on the great shield, saw her many stars. Overjoyed, she thanked her sister and the many spirits of the earth, bid the stars continue to protect the night, and made the great shield her sigil from there forward.

“Was it the moon, Momma?”

“Yes, it was the moon, smart girl. So each night when it is dark, Solghid’s light pulls back the sea to gaze on his love, and she smiles so tenderly up at him that the stars glitter with rejoicing. When their light is shining, you need not be afraid of the dark.”

And Margaret was not afraid of the dark.

The smoke began to billow and blocked out the sun, casting shifting shadows over her closed eyes. The skin of her thighs sizzled and ripped. She was fading out of day. But she knew in the dark there was light as well. She smiled and gave in, to the night.

The Word

Radiance (noun): Light or heat as emitted or reflected by something.

This is one of those stories that started somewhere, and ended somewhere else. I had wanted to make Margaret a siren, and have her lover save her and blah blah blah. Honestly, could still be cool to dive into siren-lore as spooky season is almost upon us.

But then I got really into the love is love and love is powerful of it all and so instead you get a new myth! Two women thrust into darkness because of choices they didn’t make (sounding too familiar, current world climate?). And our hero doesn’t always win. We don’t always get to escape. But we can survive, in whatever way we mean the word.

And yes yes, those of you who paid attention in History or English or watched any media in the past century know that I butchered some god and goddess names to create my own for what I wanted. But the Romans did it, why can’t I?

Happy reading!

Today I am Lament

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

I take a deep breath, feeling my shoulders go up. I take another one, forcing my shoulders to retreat back down.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, I want to give a longwinded shoutout to my man, Mercutio.”

There are several snaps muffled through the crowd. A little “Woot!” is called from the left of the stage.

“ahem…

Could steal your girl

But he doesn’t want her,

Tarnish his honor

But don’t squander the love scholar.

The original bad bitch

A casual curse witch.

He’s the Greek chorus, does more for us

Than a priest could

And you’re down good

With a princehood.

If master M approves of you

Grooves with you

Chooses you

Makes rough good with you

Makes you what thou art,

Art,

to Mercutio’s tongue,

by his tongue,

Placed a curse

So I place a verse

And I hope it hurts

Less than a mistook

Across a sleeping soldier’s neck.

Lie back maiden,

Stay on track maiden.

There’s an opal, a diamond, a crack, maiden.

The horse jolted

The fool’s bolted

And I’m here with

my heart in my hand

blood on my man

your heart in my hand,

and it starts to fleet,

I can’t complete

a lack of heat

and silence.

The bard’s gone

It’s near dawn

And I’m lost

in a wilted rose garden

tilted too far then,

off the edge of the map

There’s monsters here

and I’m monstrous there,

Begging thin wings to hide me

fly me

Up to the silver lining

of the devil between us

of the heaven between us

came life between us

Came death.”

A round of polite clapping joined more snaps and a smattering of “here, here”s with a rare “yeaaaah.“

I nod appreciatively and make my way off the small platform, rounding the seated crowd towards the back.

Leaning against the scuffed pine bar, my long necklace tap-tapped against it, shooting a kaleidoscope across the ground as the soft overhead globes hit its sparkled spinning.

The poet who took my place on the stage has begun. Some sonnet about growth. Ugh.

I raise a few fingers in a greeting, but the bartender is already coming my way. He’s grinning into his dimples and flicking dark chocolate bangs out of his eyes. A silver shaker rocking madly in one hand, he sets the other one on the bar so I can fully appreciate his tanned muscles. Painfully beautiful. When I stare into his gray eyes, I feel like I’m staring into another’s from too long ago.

He comes in close, almost whispering, “What’ll it be, my rhyming mademoiselle?”

I grimace at the bad come-on but try to morph it quickly into an interested smirk. He is just doing his job.

“A friend of mine recommended something, but I can’t quite remember the name,” I purr, leaning in more than necessary, “it’s a bubbly one, with a country in it.”

“A whole country? I don’t know if I can fit that in a glass,” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

I afford him a small chuckle. He’s trying.

He finishes his shaking and pours something orange into a tall glass, sliding it out to an awaiting hand, “You’re looking for a French 75, I believe.”

“Yes! That’s the one.”

“Coming right up,” he winks at me, apparently unable to help himself.

There was a time when I would have just gobbled up one like that. He’s playing the heartbreaker well, but I know an eager dreamer when I see one. Can practically feel their heartbeats under my own skin.

Alas, it has been quite some time since I played my old part. It’s just not the same these days. And my own heart aches- some days less, some days more.

A tall glass is placed before me, golden bubbles racing towards the top to kiss a dainty lemon peel.

“There you go,” he pushes a black napkin towards me as well, “I’ll be back to hear how perfect it is,” he smirks again and saunters to the other end of the bar to make a group of heavy-eyed girls giggle.

They will all think of him later tonight. I am sure of it.

My first sip of the spritely concoction stuns me. It’s refreshing in an almost aggressive way. Perhaps I should have asked for something simpler, something dryer. I didn’t need to be making a fool of myself and everyone else in the room tonight.

My second, third, fourth sip convince me that it is indeed, delicious. And that I’ve always really loved fools. Wasn’t that part of my problem in the first place?

I turn to watch the intent crowd, leaning back against the cool, sticky bar.

There are several couples pulled close together at small tables- peering at each other over a fake candle, believing each verse their love song.

A few patrons sit alone, nodding their heads to the spoken verse or tapping a pen to half-filled notebooks. Those are some of my favorites. Are they artists searching for inspiration? Detectives on the hunt? Did they plan their whole day around sitting by themselves in a hazy bar or did they find their feet wandering in from the street without a care?

The groups of three or more are few, but present. These are the scholars on assignment, or students on a dare. These are the “we said we would go out more!” friendships, each pondering if they should have just stayed home.

So much potential. And I drink it in along with several more bubbles.

“You’re becoming a bit of regular,” He is near me again, and I turn to watch those dimples dance, “I can add you to the locals’ tab list if you’d like. Gets you a 10% off on Thursdays.”

The nerves finally show in his pale eyes as he waits for my answer. So much potential indeed.

I shrug as nonchalantly as possible. A local? Ha. But I do wander here from time to time, to shake out everything swirling in my mind. To give him my name though… well, what’s in a name?

“Sure, put me in there, big guy.”

His smile springs with his relief, “Lucky for us! And what’s the pretty name of the pretty lady?”

I answer just as the performer behind me yodels into a limerick.

“Mag?” He begs, tilting an ear towards me, “as in, Maggie?”

“Mab. As in Queen.”

The Word

Lament: (noun) A passionate expression of grief or sorrow. (verb) Mourn, esp. a person’s loss or death.

From when I was first forced to read Romeo and Juliet as a dispassionate middle schooler, to when I was hungrily pouring over it in my theater studies at college, I have always thought Mercutio was the best part.

Sure, I can get on my soapbox about how Juliet was both a victim and the main character (and have… probably too many times), but Mercutio is the man! He looms so large that plays, movies, re-tellings have given him a huge spectrum of personality. He is the ladies man, able to use that twisting tongue of his to lure innocent maidens! No, he is the goof of the group, trying to lighten a mood! No no, he has he seen things the others haven’t (as he is a tad older and the prince’s relation, so would have been required to lead men into battle). None of that, he’s a spoiled kid doing spoiled kid things like spoiling a party!

Shakespeare gives us hints here and there, but for much it he leaves it to interpretation (which is distinctly unusual for him when he usually takes multiple paragraphs to slap the audience in the face with his point). I very much wonder how the Mercutio actor would have been directed in the first rounds at The Rose. I myself have always followed the theory that Mercutio is a very complicated person. That Shakespeare slips a full grown being into what could easily be dismissed as a sidekick. And so what does that make of his strange fairy poem?

I have no idea. You could find hundreds, if not thousands, of multiple different interpretations: She’s a metaphor for seduction, she’s a real belief in an unworldly world, she’s Mercutio mocking Romeo for his yearnings, she’s just Mercutio’s fourth glass of good wine.

Then comes all the dying. The Bard always likes to make a point that when there is love- there’s also either fools or death, and probably both.

But what I ponder on myself is- what happens to such a legend as the fairies’ famous midwife when there is no bard left to sing of her deeds? Do myths still mystery when no one is pondering them? What is a queen whose favorite fool has been killed? Thus, what led me to play in today’s story.

Also it’s poem weather. Happy reading!