thepostmodernpottercompendium
thepostmodernpottercompendium:

Run. Run as fast as you can.
They were once people from her stories. Evil stepmothers. Wicked queens. Werewolves. Ogres. Vampires. Sorcerers.
Villains.
But they were not lies as she once supposed. Not merely lessons to teach her, the daughter of her Fatherland, what it meant to be a good citizen. What the price and consequence of evil and magic were.
Where then was her noble woodcutter? Where was her prince charming, riding on a white steed? Where was her knight in shining armour? She was good. She was good. She obeyed them, she kept their rules - where was her promised salvation?
Those were stories and the stories were only stories until they came true and then, then they were nothing like the stories at all.
Run. Run as fast as you can.
There is no story that tells the tale of a little girl who stumbles and falls. Upon whom the wolves leap. Who is torn to shreds and then left, nothing more than a disfigured memory of what once was. There is no fairytale that tells the tale of these children - the ones the sorcerers and evil crones kill.
But she knows. Now. And as her foot twists and she falls, a single tear rolls down her cheek. This was not what she was promised, but she must accept it whether she likes it or not.
Death, when it comes, is swift and painless and complete.
(Another lie from the stories.)

thepostmodernpottercompendium:

Run. Run as fast as you can.

They were once people from her stories. Evil stepmothers. Wicked queens. Werewolves. Ogres. Vampires. Sorcerers.

Villains.

But they were not lies as she once supposed. Not merely lessons to teach her, the daughter of her Fatherland, what it meant to be a good citizen. What the price and consequence of evil and magic were.

Where then was her noble woodcutter? Where was her prince charming, riding on a white steed? Where was her knight in shining armour? She was good. She was good. She obeyed them, she kept their rules - where was her promised salvation?

Those were stories and the stories were only stories until they came true and then, then they were nothing like the stories at all.

Run. Run as fast as you can.

There is no story that tells the tale of a little girl who stumbles and falls. Upon whom the wolves leap. Who is torn to shreds and then left, nothing more than a disfigured memory of what once was. There is no fairytale that tells the tale of these children - the ones the sorcerers and evil crones kill.

But she knows. Now. And as her foot twists and she falls, a single tear rolls down her cheek. This was not what she was promised, but she must accept it whether she likes it or not.

Death, when it comes, is swift and painless and complete.

(Another lie from the stories.)