Bard’s Escape
This is a little weird... I'm in the middle of working with this one and I haven't quite gotten everything worked out with just how I want to put it. This is going to be a long one, folks. Might even turn into a novel (novella perhaps?). So until then, bear with me.
Attempt 1
In the park was this girl. She was… impossible. Incredible. Like she did not really belong on this Earth. She dressed like an urban gypsy: all worn, faded blue jeans, loose-sleeved bright blouses, brilliant silk scarves, long flying hair the color of autumn. Even though she wasn’t moving, she still seemed to dance. She was sitting on a rock in Central Park, one of the huge ones that looked like it was a chunk carved out of a mountain, surrounded by little children and none too few adults. Tucked between her crossed feet was a battered top hat with a small sign in purple ink: “Preserve the ancient art of storytelling. Support your local bard.” It was early yet; she had a few crumpled dollars and some change in the hat. “And so,” Her voice was strong and velvet-deep, touched with a vague accent that he had never been able to place. For almost every afternoon in the Summer, she could be found in the park, telling stories. Sometimes they were read from tattered spirals, other times they were straight from her head. “Angelina and the NewDawn struck a blow against all that is nasty, un-righteous and bad. And the world was a better place for it.” At Summer’s end, she disappeared along with the birds. She never said where she went, but each year for the last three, she showed up just when the temperature got above 60.
She called herself Rune, when she called herself anything at all. Whenever he asked about her name, where she was from, where she was going, she always had this way of whisking around the subject, catching his eye and mind with some other pretty bauble of sparkly, but otherwise uninformative information. “You know, once I was in Louisiana, one of those little bayou towns and I met this guy who saw ghosts…” “Did I tell you about that time in SanFran? There were these college students…” After awhile, he just learned not to ask. Let the past stay the past.
Sometimes in the evenings, when the children were gone from the park and the clientele there turned a bit less innocent, she could be found in the village, frequenting the myriad coffee houses where the drinks were strong and the company was always open for a new tale. Sometimes she would read poems and quick short stories on open mike nights, always with the soft velvet voice. That was the first time he really talked to her. She recognized him from the park, smiled brightly at him across the café. She was dressed gypsy fine; jeans and deep blue shirt, blue and gold scarf tied around her waist, another around the base of her hat.
Attempt 2
You see, there was a time once when every tale started with ‘Once upon a time’ and magic was everywhere. It was like leaves on trees, as fruit on the vine. You could reach out and pick it from the air. In fact, it was the very air for the faeries, the elves, the witches and unicorns. It was their heart’s blood, the essence of their being. But the world grew older, the humans stated to seek out the secrets of the universe and people stopped believing. Stopped believing in spells and unicorns, in faeries and dreaming. They stopped believing in magic. As they stopped believing, it started to disappear. The world became a sad and unmystic place. The elves and faeries hid themselves in the earth, sleeping and waiting for the day when magic would be strong again. They are still sleeping today.
“Yes, very sad, I know. But remember, there is always, always hope. Even now, in this very place. In every part of the world, there are people born with magic in their souls so strong that not even a world-full of disbelief can kill it. The magic lives on in them. And,” the girl paused, let her gaze sweep across her small audience, connecting with each child. Deep down, she knew they were the keys to everything. “It lives in each and every one of you.”
Once upon a time, as all good stories begin, there was a girl who told tales. She sat in Central Park in her tattered jeans and boots, with all her worldly goods in a backpack hooked around her shoulder and a battered top hat cradled in her lap, weaving tales from air. Every morning, every afternoon she could be found in the park telling stories to anyone who would listen. Her stories, one person had told her once, were better than the movies, and she didn’t even charge. There was a tiny sign in front of her hat though, with the words “Preserve the ancient art of storytelling, support your local bard.” It was early yet, but already there were several bills, a couple of pockets worth of change and – her eyes darted down into the hat – a handful of peppermints.
Sometimes she really loved children. They were sweet and innocent and believed so many things. She remembered the days when she thought candy was just as good as money.
To Be Continued...really...
