Out of the Woods

The last Grimm for a while--packing up the HBs and heading to warmer climes. And while I'm still bound to take the long route 'round Olympus, the olive groves of Aesop are looking tempting. And perfect opportunity to rub some yellows together in an attempt at some rank sulfurous pieces.

Of the Golden Arrows

More Snow White. More botched Snow White, is more like. I was all set to launch into a shaky sermon setting her up as a "modern" day Artemis. Quite a few elements are there. She's got the looks (pale, virginal). She's got the color scheme (red, black, white and their corresponding moon-phases). There's the innocent mother (Leto), the hunt by a jealous step-mother (Hera), the absentee papa (Zeus). She roams the woods, has the adoration of beasts, the god-worship of huntsmen (don't tell me that dude didn't end served up on some cranky bitch's sacrificial plate, or cast to the metaphorical stars), sets up shop in some shady grot. Even her dwarves find themselves appropriate occupations as hoary little handmaidens. *

But it turns out strongwilled, haughty goddess types (even ones that "range...over hills and windy heights, rejoicing in the chase"*) don't play well with the fairy tale format. My tablet wants its heroines shrinking and cowed and it will buckle and warp to get its way. And this little lady, closer to reality, but falling wide of the creative mark*, goes unfinished under the blade.

*Homeric Hymn to Artemis

*I was even going to aim for an Atalanta as Artemis argument and drag in the famous Apple

*Archery-based punning completely intentional

Trapdoors that you can't come back from.

Gravid women at windows. It's a Grimm specialty. Rapunzel's mother. Rapunzel herself, if you want to get squeamishly literal. Snow White's mother. There's something in the image. Women being consumed from within, battered from without. Not technically indoors, not technically out-of. And not at all in possession of themselves while they stand between the two. Shades at doorways. Or doorways themselves.

The End.

Because Smokey's got nothing better to do than watch an empty coffin.

Not fair.

Brutal honesty is what you get when you don't feed your mirrorgod.

Do-ray-me-fa-so-la-Heigh-Ho.

Little known truth that dwarves are master singers. Of course, it would be silly romanticism to assume that the song is the product of joyous spirits--they're a stony-faced, hardhearted bunch and that is well documented. Fact is, it has everything to do with stones. Turns out that the rare gems have an affinity for music. A well-tuned song will work its way into the inner lattices of a stone and set its crystal structure to vibrating. A few taps on a surfaced vein to establish pitch and the worker can hum-hum his way along all the truest faultlines of the mineral--singing while hammering out the finest, most unblemished product. Harmonic mining. And dwarves--with their bellow lungs and their mobile mouths and their unmatched perfectionism--are the best. A practiced miner can winnow out his quarry--while aboveground--simply by emitting a series of sweet, high-pitched shrills*. A stone will practically dance from its mooring at the sound of dwarfsong. Which in actuality, is all very romantic, and the closest to a love affair that these small, grim men can get.

*Gives a whole new meaning to "whistle while you work".

Sacrificing quality for speed.

Not a swift wit, Snow White, but someone should have advised her to look down. The shoes make the man. No common peddlar woman would have the funds for Seven League Boots. And no sorceress worth her salt would travel without them.

Heartless.

Disney pretties things up, but it was actually the liver and lungs of Snow White that the witch demands, pickles, fries, and consumes. Provided instead by an obliging fawn.

There will be blood.

Really, this time.

A little Daniel for your Day. Maybe it's the rise of the mustachioed man that led me to it. Or maybe years later I'm still smarting over the gross miscast of a role that should have been Lewis's. Either way, it seems he's my hunter of choice.

Where the Laboratory meets the Vanity.

Something from Snow White. Don't know why it never occurred to me that the Mirror-Mirror might be less looking glass and more scrying glass. My horizons needs broadening--quite literally. I suppose that's the risk you run when operating constantly on the verticle. Turn the paper ninety degrees and utility takes on a different meaning