Fluent Essays

Write a short fictional story utilizing the Fairytale genre. To name a few possibilities, you could come up with your own origin/creation story, myth, proverb, or horrific fairytale. You must include a 300-word introduction explaining the genre. You need to write what conventions of the genre you are pulling from and using. In doing this, you will provide specific examples from your own story and information from the lecture that went with the genre you choose. This intro should be on a separate page from the short story.  Format: at least 3 pages (single-spaced), Times New Roman, 12 point font, one-inch margins all the way around. *The intro is not included in this length requirement Please Note: The short story needs to be a piece of fiction. You can incorporate details from your life, but the story needs to be fictional. Need Plagiarism Report Too!!! I have attached two example stories and the lecture note.Angela Carter, “The Tiger’s Bride” Published in The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories (1979). The footnotes are not part of Carter’s text; they have been added to this version for classroom use. My father lost me to The Beast at cards. Theres a special madness strikes travellers from the North when they reach the lovely land where the lemon trees grow. We come from countries of cold weather; at home, we are at war with nature but here, ah! you think youve come to the blessed plot where the lion lies down with the lamb.1 Everything flowers; no harsh wind stirs the voluptuous air. The sun spills fruit for you. And the deathly, sensual lethargy of the sweet South infects the starved brain; it gasps: Luxury! more luxury! But then the snow comes, you cannot escape it, it followed us from Russia as if it ran behind our carriage, and in this dark, bitter city has caught up with us at last, flocking against the windowpanes to mock my fathers expectations of perpetual pleasure as the veins in his forehead stand out and throb, his hands shake as he deals the Devils picture books.2 The candles dropped hot, acrid gouts of wax on my bare shoulders. I watched with the furious cynicism peculiar to women whom circumstances force mutely to witness folly, while my father, fired in his desperation by more and yet more draughts of the firewater they call grappa,3 rids himself of the last scraps of my inheritance. When we left Russia, we owned black earth, blue forest with bear and wild boar, serfs, cornfields, farmyards, my beloved horses, white nights of cool summer, the fireworks of the northern lights. What a burden all those possessions must have been to him, because he laughs as if with glee as he beggars himself; he is in such a passion to donate all to The Beast. Everyone who comes to this city must play a hand with the grand seigneur; few come. They did not warn us at Milan, or, if they did, we did not understand them - my limping Italian, the bewildering dialect of the region. Indeed, I myself spoke up in favour of this remote, provincial place, out of fashion two hundred years, because, oh irony, it boasted no casino. I did not know that the price of a stay in its Decembral solitude was a game with Milord. The hour was late. The chill damp of this place creeps into the stones, into your bones, into the spongy pith of the lungs; it insinuated itself with a shiver into our parlour, where Milord came to play in the privacy essential to him. Who could refuse the invitation his valet brought to our lodging? Not my profligate father, certainly; the mirror above the table gave me back his frenzy, my impassivity, the withering candles, the emptying bottles, the coloured tide of the cards as they rose and fell, the still mask that concealed all the features of The Beast but for the yellow eyes that strayed, now and then, from his unfurled hand towards myself. ‘La Bestia! said our landlady, gingerly fingering an Stories of Magic and Transformation Some Notes on Fairy Tales What is a fairy tale? What if I told you that there was no such thing as a “fairy tale?” That there are only “tales,” narrative stories that are set in a world that is clearly not our own, that have magic and talking animals. Sometimes we call them wonder tales, or magic tales, or just stories. There is no one definition of a fairy tale, because there cannot be - these stories go by different names in different cultures, and they have so many different characters that to try to codify them all into a specific list of traits would be impossible. There are only tales, tales that tell stories of the fantastic that we don’t really believe. And yet, if I were to ask you to define a fairy tale, I bet you could. You could offer a pretty clear definition, and I bet that there would be a lot of similarity between your and your classmates’ definitions. Despite our emphasis on belief and narrative, thematic conventions have come to exist as markers of genre. It is difficult to tell a fairy tale in our culture that is recognizable as a fairy tale without a “once upon a time,” a damsel in distress, or a troll under a bridge. That is because folk narratives are communally interactive and reactive. Once the idea of a fairy tale came into existence, so did the naming of them as fairy tales. So this is what we talk about when we talk about fairy tales. There are folk tales that exist(ed) in the oral tradition before they were collected, transcribed, and edited by folks like Charles Perrault and Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm. These tales have existed long before they were in print, and there are innumerable variants. Then there are literary tales that were inspired by or created to resemble, at least in terms of plot and character type, tales told in folk tradition. Sometimes, these literary tales so captured the public’s attention that they entered into oral tradition. I know I said that to codify fairy tales would be impossible, and it is, but as long as you know that this list is incomplete, debatable, and only true for a limited group of tales - those which you would recognize, perhaps, as a fairy tale, even if you’d never heard the story before. These stories speak to readers of every place and time. We will do well to listen seriously to what they tell us about the real world we live in. They present experiences in vivid symbolic form. Sometimes we need to the truth to be exaggerated and made more dramatic, even fantastic, in order to comprehend it. The fairy tale has undergone a process of textual and social alteration in the course of the centuries. The fairy tale relies on various forms of cultural transmission and ever-changing ideological configuration for its very existence. Fairy tales, in particular, as part of contemporary culture, are constantly refashioned, restructured, and defamiliarized in modern times. Rewritings for both children aPrevious Post Girl on Divan — Berthe Morisot Next Post Seated Figure of Summer — Giuseppe Arcimboldo June 28, 2013 Reply ! Such beautiful writing. ! April 16, 2014 Reply ! Yes absolutely, It sounds of the most beautiful poetry. ! April 27, 2014 Reply ! Thanks for posting this . I have done a super short analysis of this fascinating story on my blog, check it out if you have time! http://thecandleindoors.wordpress.com/2014/04/27/the-bloody- chamber/#more-152 June 17, 2014 Reply ! This is creepy as fuck! How can a man rape a dead child made out of snow in f ront of her fucking wife!?!? ! ! ! ! ! ! “The Snow Child” — Angela Carter Posted on June 21, 2013 by Biblioklept “The Snow Child” by Angela Carter Midwinter — invincible, immaculate. The Count and his wife go riding, he on a grey mare and she on a black one, she wrapped in the glittering pelts of black foxes; and she wore high, black, shining boots with scarlet heels, and spurs. Fresh snow fell on snow already fallen; when it ceased, the whole world was white. “I wish I had a girl as white as snow,” says the Count. They ride on. They come to a hole in the snow; this hole is filled with blood. He says: “I wish I had a girl as red as blood.” So they ride on again; here is a raven, perched on a bare bough. “I wish I had a girl as black as that bird’s feathers.” As soon as he completed her description, there she stood, beside the road, white skin, red mouth, black hair and stark naked; she was the child of his desire and the Countess hated her. The Count lifted her up and sat her in f ront of him on his saddle but the Countess had only one thought:how shall I be rid of her? The Countess dropped her glove in the snow and told the girl to get down to look for it; she meant to gallop off and leave her there but the Count said: “I’ll buy you new gloves.” At that, the furs sprang off the Countess’s shoulders and twined round the naked girl. Then the Countess threw her diamond brooch through the ice of a f rozen pond: “Dive in and fetch it for me,” she said; she thought the girl would drown. But the Count said: “Is she a fish to swim in such cold weather?” Then her boots leapt off the Countess’s feet and on to the girl’s legs. Now the Countess was bare as a bone and the girl furred and booted; the Count felt sorry for his wife. They came to a bush of roses, all in flower. “Pick me one,” said the Countess to the girl. “I can’t deny you that,” said the Count. So the girl picks a rose; pricks her finger on the thorn; bleeds; screams; falls. Weeping, the Count got off his horse, unfastened his breeches and thrust his virile member into the dead girl. The Countess reined in her stamping mare and watched him narrowly; he was soon finished. Then the girl began to melt. Soon there was nothing left of her but a feather a bird might have dropped; a blood stain, like the trace of a fox’s kill on the snow; and the rose she had pulled off the bush. Now the Coun