Rapunzel, Rapunzel Read online

  Contents

  Pattern the First

  Pattern the Second

  Pattern the Third

  Pattern the Fourth

  Pattern the Fifth

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Sample: Sea Foam and Silence

  Thank you for reading!

  Love, always.

  Once upon a time there was

  Once there was

  Once.

  Once upon a time there was

  A little girl who loved stories.

  Did she die?

  Do little girls hibernate?

  What happened?

  Once upon a time there was

  A little girl who told stories

  And all who heard her stopped

  And told her how good and brave

  And clever and imaginative her stories were.

  Once upon a time.

  Once upon a time?

  Once upon a time.

  Once.

  It was a long time ago.

  A long, long time ago

  In a kingdom far away

  As far away as imagination can take you.

  But also next door.

  In your classroom.

  In your heart.

  Once upon a time there was

  A little girl who could be anything

  Anything at all.

  And one day

  She would grow up.

  Once upon a time there was

  Once there was

  Once.

  Once upon a time there was

  A little boy who didn’t like stories.

  Who doesn’t like stories?

  What happened?

  Once upon a time there was

  A little boy who heard stories

  And he didn’t like them at all.

  Perhaps he just didn’t like that

  People listened to little girls.

  Once upon a time.

  Once upon a time?

  Once upon a time.

  Once.

  It was a long time ago.

  A long, long time ago

  In a house near you

  As close as you can bring yourself to get.

  But also far away.

  Next door.

  A different country.

  Once upon a time there was

  A little boy who could be anything

  Anything at all.

  And one day

  He would grow up.

  The little boy is a bit part in our story.

  He sweeps in.

  Has a line or two.

  He sweeps out.

  Destruction follows in his wake.

  Destruction is his legacy.

  At least when he as a boy.

  Who knows about the man.

  Who knows…

  Who knows…

  Who knows…

  Our protagonist:

  A little girl.

  Three, four years old.

  So young.

  She meets the boy.

  The boy meets her.

  They meet each other.

  No. Back. Begin again.

  That’s not where our story starts.

  Our protagonist:

  A little girl.

  Three, four years old.

  Picture her.

  The platinum blonde of white childhood

  Tied up in a high ponytail that sways as she moves.

  Pink frills everywhere. Pink bow.

  Pink sweater. Pink shirt.

  Pink skin. Pink as far as your eye can see.

  So much pink.

  Bright pink. Notice-me-pink.

  She loves pink.

  (She also loves blue,

  But blue does not say ‘girl’.)

  She enjoys telling stories.

  Her hands sketch a tale.

  Here a horse; there a cloud.

  Look! It’s a ghost!

  Is it looking for ice cream?

  She’s only four.

  Her stories aren’t confined

  To adult logic and adult rules.

  Picture her.

  I see her.

  She’ll go far one day.

  (Will she?)

  This is our protagonist.

  She picked her own clothes,

  You know.

  She’s proud of being a girl.

  She loves being her.

  She takes dancing lessons.

  She plays the piano.

  (Badly.)

  She sings.

  (Not as badly.)

  She makes sculptures.

  She paints.

  She writes stories

  And poetry.

  Basically, if it’s art she has access to,

  She’ll be doing it because she loves it.

  Her dream is to be an artist.

  (Today a writer.

  Tomorrow an actress.

  The day after a ballerina.

  Once she wants to be a world leader,

  But only so she can be the first girl.)

  Being a girl is important to her.

  Maybe it’s the time she cut her hair

  With scissors that were never supposed to cut hair

  And a boy’s cut is the only option.

  Does it matter?

  I suppose it doesn’t matter.

  But this is our protagonist.

  Remember that.

  Let’s give our little girl a name.

  We can’t keep calling her ‘the girl’ forever.

  (For one, she grows up.)

  Something cheerful,

  Something bright.

  Esther.

  Hmm… A starry name to suit her…

  Perhaps.

  (Please, no.)

  But we need something else.

  Something that suits better.

  Phoebe, perhaps.

  Let’s go with Phoebe.

  Every week, Phoebe tells a story.

  It’s supposed to be a true story,

  But it never is and people like

  Her stories too much to tell her

  That she has to do it differently.

  Every week, people listen to her.

  Imagine that.

  They listen to her.

  Little slip of a girl,

  Picture of what society says

  It wants girls to be,

  And everyone listens.

  (Don’t tell her.

  She won’t remember anyway.)

  Every week a new story.

  She must have a lot of stories.

  Hundreds of stories,

  Thousands of stories.

  Some weeks I’m sure

  That she tells more than one.

  She’s generous with her stories,

  With herself.

  (Why wouldn’t she be?)

  We return,

  Then,

  To the little boy.

  Where he comes from

  Nobody knows.

  Where he’s going next

  Nobody knows.

  What do we know?

  What do you know?

  He didn’t like the little girl.

  Perhaps he hated pink.

  He didn’t like the girl’s stories.

  Perhaps he hated dream-logic.

  He was a bully.

  (And that’s all she remembers.)

  Did he see her as a threat?

  Nobody knows

  Except the boy.

  He’s disappeared from this story.

  (Just a bit part.)

  Maybe the little boy

  Just needed to be strong.

  (Bullying is not strength.

  It’s weakness.)

  Maybe t
he little boy

  Just needed to feel big.

  (She certainly made

  A good target.)

  Assume the boy became a man,

  Does he remember what he started?

  The boy disappears from our story now.

  (Still a bit part.)

  Sometimes stories don’t

  Tie things up neat and tidy.

  The boy disappears,

  But the havoc stays.

  Phoebe is a sweet little girl.

  She is generous with her stories,

  Generous with her heart.

  Crowds make her tired and cross.

  She’s only young.

  She likes helping people.

  She likes making people smile.

  Well. Most of the time.

  There is no one more cruel

  Than a child.

  Phoebe is a child.

  Every week, Phoebe tells no stories.

  She’s learned to tell true stories now.

  She’s older.

  Imagine that.

  The pink is leaving her wardrobe,

  One shade at the time.

  Bright pink becomes soft rose.

  Soft rose becomes pale blue.

  Fuchsia is replaced

  With brown and grey and black.

  Imagine that.

  Animated hands grow still.

  Quiet.

  (Little mouse

  Little corner

  Little space

  Disappear

  Vanish

  Hide)

  This is our Phoebe.

  Doesn’t she shine so bright?

  Inside Phoebe, stories live.

  Poems rhyme themselves into existence.

  No one hears them.

  (Only Phoebe.

  Phoebe alone.)

  The ballet stops.

  The music has stopped.

  The sketches are stopping.

  The fairy tales will stop.

  (What’s the point anyway?)

  Everything stops.

  Shell-girl.

  Dull and cracked.

  There is no phoenix

  Inside this shell.

  (Why would there be?

  There’s no such thing as magic.)

  Memory’s a tricky thing.

  A slippery thing.

  Smooth.

  Air.

  Me.

  Dulled.

  Shrouded.

  Always in hiding.

  What do I remember?

  Card games.

  I remember hating card games.

  I remember hating maths.

  And numbers.

  I remember the library,

  A refuge amid pages.

  All the stories I could wish

  To drown out my own.

  No one wants them anyway.

  I remember boredom.

  I remember doodles.

  I remember fear.

  This is a presentation:

  Stomach flutters.

  Perform.

  Tremble.

  Sit.

  It is over.

  That wasn’t so bad, was it?

  It gets worse.

  The stomach flutters longer.

  Perform.

  The trembling is everywhere.

  Sit.

  Breathe.

  I’ve survived this.

  The worst is over.

  The worst isn’t over.

  One presentation

  My teacher sends me out of the classroom.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  Drink some water.

  Calm down a little.

  Do it anyway.

  Again

  And

  Again

  And

  Again

  And

  Again

  And

  Forever.

  This is a presentation at uni:

  Nausea.

  Stomach flutters.

  Sweat.

  Tears.

  Stiffness.

  I can’t even tell the professor

  That I’m a mess.

  The kindness of friends.

  Is what saves me.

  I have the best of friends.

  The stories are still there,

  Don’t worry.

  The stories slumbered,

  But they trickle back.

  Phoebe tells a story.

  Every so often

  Someone might even hear.

  Those who listen enjoy it.

  (She can’t hear it yet.

  Say it loud.

  Say it often.

  Just say it at all.)

  Phoebe peeks out of hiding.

  (Can you hide the brightness?

  Not from everyone.)

  Terrified

  She scurries back

  Into her safety.

  She isn’t used to so much light.

  And then you.

  Me?

  You. Him. Her. Them. You.

  Just you.

  Or not,

  So it please you.

  (Who said it had to make sense?)

  Then you.

  You can’t hide from everyone.

  You can’t hide forever.

  (Says who?)

  Sooner or later,

  The world catches up with you.

  You didn’t see the pieces.

  You didn’t see the dust.

  You didn’t see the darkness.

  You didn’t see the grime.

  All you saw was brightness,

  Long forgotten.

  (Didn’t you?)

  You showed me where to start

  Putting the pieces back together.

  (I found the piece for love.

  Too small, too late.)

  This is anxiety:

  Throwing up bile.

  Sweating.

  Trembling.

  Breath so shallow there is darkness.

  Tension. So much tension it hurts.

  Perform.

  Collapse.

  More trembling.

  Freezing cold.

  Tears.

  At least water doesn’t make you

  Throw up anymore.

  This is anxiety:

  Good job!

  No one would know you were nervous!

  Because it’s ‘just nerves’

  When you succeed.

  Nothing serious.

  You’re so awesome!

  That’s great.

  Did you notice my stutter?

  The umming, the ahhing?

  I noticed.

  I can’t stop thinking about

  The things I forgot to say.

  That is anxiety:

  Sick to the marrow,

  Unable to sleep,

  Get told you’re being silly.

  This is anxiety:

  A layer

  Of

  Masks

  For

  All things.

  This is me:

  Layer upon layer upon layer.

  Mask after mask after mask.

  Phoebe gone into hiding.

  Am I still Phoebe then?

  A tower reaching for the heavens,

  Firm on its foundations.

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

  Let down your hair.

  (And get hurt?)

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

  Let down your hair.

  (Can I trust you?)

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

  Let down your hair.

  It isn’t anywhere near

  Long enough to reach

  Where you’re standing.

  (Will you fetch a ladder?)

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel.

  (Can you even hear me down there?)

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel.

  Rapunzel’s in her tower.

  I guess you didn’t find that ladder.

  There’s a secret.

  There’s a secret.

  Rapunz
el’s in her tower.

  You thought you were rescuing me.

  (Didn’t you?)

  You thought I needed saving.

  (Didn’t you?)

  You always thought I needed saving

  From the evil that built my tower.

  If I had wings to fly away

  I could be free from that tower.

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel.

  Did you know I didn’t need to learn

  How to weave and braid?

  You hated my tower,

  The place that kept me safe

  For as long as I can remember.

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel.

  Come down from your tower.

  And will you catch me

  When I fall?

  It’s not the tower.

  It’s the wolves in the wood.

  Little Red Riding-Hood

  Couldn’t learn her lesson.

  Little Red Riding-Hood

  Dancing in the meadow.

  Little Red Riding-Hood,

  Rose-Red her name,

  Helped a bear out in the woods.

  The bear wasn’t friendly.

  (You must have seen that coming.)

  Little Red Riding-Hood

  Fled to a clearing.

  (Guess what was in the clearing.)

  Little Red Riding-Hood

  Climbed a thousand steps.

  (You know I love my fairy tales.)

  Little Red Riding-Hood

  Settled in her tower.

  The tower is magic.

  (There’s no such thing.)

  The tower is magic.

  Slowly shrinking,

  Inch by inch.

  You can’t be Rapunzel forever.

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

  Let down your hair.

  You could use the door?

  I made it just for you.

  (There’s no such thing as magic.

  But love comes close.)

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

  Let down your hair.

  Look. A door.

  I suppose you can’t see me

  Pointing it out from here.

  (Distance is a terrible thing.)

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

  Let down your hair.

  If I jump instead, will you catch me?

  (Will you try?)

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel.

  I’ll put my heart in this basket

  And lower it to you.

  (It’s fragile,

  Be careful.)

  There’s a note about the door

  Written on it.

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel.

  Can you see it now?

  Can you read it?

  There’s the door.

  Door.

  There.

  There it is.

  Can’t you read it?

  Can’t you see it now?

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel!

  I don’t have another heart to give.

  (It was fragile.

  I warned you.)

  I watched you.

  I couldn’t hear you

  As you couldn’t hear me.

  I am saving myself.

  One strand at a time.

  But oh I wanted you

  To see that door

  And open it.

  One strand at a time,

  I am weaving my way home.

  No more hiding in towers,

  Rose Red.

  No more Rapunzel.

  The woods are dark

  And full of dangers.

  But I am Phoebe.

  I will shine.

  (Once I remember how.)