martinsmithstories

Image: “Rumpelstiltskin”, by Henry Justice Ford, from Andrew Lang’s Fairy Tales

‘Armed with my newly minted Diploma in Protagonism, I attended a writers festival. I sat up front each session as author after author droned on about how their book was going to change the world, and amidst the yawnfest, I batted my eyelashes and feigned bubbling enthusiasm to attract their attention. Later, at the book signings, I bought each of their tomes and had them signed as I laid on the flattery by the bucketload. I casually dropped into each conversation that I was looking for work as a protagonist and handed them my business card. Most binned my card. Some toyed with me, saying they might be able to work me into a fractured fairy tale and they’d get back to me when they had a vacancy. Others cut straight to the point and said that as a protagonist, I lacked verisimilitude and that I should focus on “being true to myself”.

‘I arrived at the last session, hauling a sackload of signed books and a peaking desperation. I’ll admit I’m ashamed of what happened next. I sat through twenty minutes of absolute drivel by a purveyor of a flowery fiction laced with an abundance of adverbs and sentence fragments. For dramatic effect. After, at her book signing queue, I stepped up to her desk, flung my arms around her ankles and begged her to use me however she pleased. As she banged me on the head with one of her unsigned books, I told her I’d play a flat character, a stock character, even an elliptical character, just as long as she didn’t cast me as an antagonist.

‘She paused with a book raised above her head and said, “How much?”

‘I said, “Nothing. I’m happy to do it for free.”

‘She said, “No, not you. How much will you pay me?”

‘I said, “What? You want me to pay you to write me into one of your bombastic little tales? You’re joking, right?”

‘She gave me a smug look and said, “Hey, pal, you’re the one begging for the walk-on role. Look, I’ve got an entire chorus line of protagonists lined up in my prefrontal cortex, waiting to dance on the big stage. Either you shell out or ship out.”

‘And that’s when I did it. I pimped my character, with a hefty bag of gold coins thrown in, to the lowest bidder. To the only bidder. To a two-bit, penny dreadful of a Faustus called J.K. Harvey. All in the hope that she would fulfil my wish to become a protagonist.

‘I went to hand her a bag of gold coins. She covered my hands and looked about and whispered, “Not here. I’ve got my reputation to think about. Let’s go back to my place. Get comfy, have a few drinks, get to know each other, and then we can get to the serious stuff.”

‘So we bundled into a cab and ended up in the dodgy end of the seedy side of Shitville, in a dump of a bedsit with a kitchenette filled with empty wine bottles and mouldy plates. A ragged, stained curtain separated a bed from the rest of the squat, and a typewriter and shredder sat upon a trestle table, which stood beside a couch covered in crumpled paper balls.

‘J.K. said, “Right. Have you got the cash?” I handed her the bag of gold coins. She slipped behind the curtain and called out, “I’ll just slip into something more comfortable.”

‘As I sat on the couch amidst a ream of crumpled paper, whisperings came from behind the curtain, followed by J.K.’s raised voice saying, “No! Behave!” As I waited, I picked up some of the paper balls and uncrumpled them, only to find Ms Harvey’s flowery prose festooned over all sorts of crap: flash fiction, drabbles, feghoots, vignettes, even a shopping list.

‘The curtain parted, and J.K. stood before me and said, “That’s better.” She’d dressed to impress: fluffy slippers, grey tracksuit pants, flannelette shirt, hair swept into a messy bun held in place by a pencil and black, thick-rimmed glasses that dwarfed her face. My heartbeat quickened, and my spine tingled in anticipation of what lay ahead.

‘A fart sounded from behind the curtain, followed by a frail voice whispering, “Pardon me.”

‘I said to J.K., “Who’s that behind the curtain?”

‘She said, “Mum.”

‘I said, “What? Your mum? Look, I’m not all that comfortable with your mum listening in on the other side of the curtain.”

‘But J.K. said, “Don’t worry, she’s deaf. And she’s not actually my mum. She’s a stepmother. I picked her up when doing a retelling of Cinderella a while ago. I can’t get rid of her. She’s promised to leave us in peace. Right. How about a drink?”

‘Two bottles of wine later, J.K. was all over me: stroking my fragile self-esteem, whispering sweet nothings in my ear and caressing my hump.

‘She paused and said, “Do you want it, Big Boy?”

‘I trembled and said, “Yes.”

‘She pouted and said, “Do you want it now?”

‘I quivered and said, “Yes, yes.”

‘She purred and said, “And you’ll let me use you any way I want?”

‘I slumped to my knees and said, “Oh God, yes.”

‘She stood and said breathlessly, “I want you. Now!”

‘She sat at her typewriter and fed a clean sheet of paper through the roller. And as the click-clack of keys began, I lay back, closed my eyes and thought of Woodland.

‘By midnight I’d made the first draft, and I fell asleep, content my dream was about to be realised. But I woke at dawn in agony. J.K. stood over me and slashed at me with a red pencil. It was a structural editing frenzy, and I was the victim of a bloody character assassination. When she ceased slashing, she stood breathless, having cut me out of the story.

‘Shattered I had been neither copy edited nor proofread, I said, “Hey, I want my money back.”

‘She said, “Tough titties, Romeo. You got what you paid for. A quickie. If you’re looking for love, join an anthology.”

‘I said, “I thought you were a professional.”

‘She released a snort of laughter and said, “Not me, Lover Boy. I’m just a literary wannabe who hangs out at writers festivals, hoping a sucker like you will not only pay my next week’s rent but also help me break out of my writer’s block.”

‘I glanced at the sheets of paper in her hand and said, “Can … can I keep the first draft?”

‘She said, “No way. It’s absolute crap.” And she fed the sheets through the shredder. I rushed forward to save the last sheet, but all I got was a handful of black ink.

‘As I walked out her front door, my hands trembled as I zipped my zip to the top. I felt so violated. After all I’d given her, all the trust I’d placed in her, there’d be no protagonism nor eternal reverence in the folklore Canon for me. Just a cheap, forgettable one-night stand in a sleazy bedsitter with a talentless hack, before being shredded to oblivion. I’d been used. Used and, now, the next morning, not respected.

‘As I walked back to the forest—with my eyes blackened by tears wiped by an inked hand and my face smudged red by a frenzied editing pencil and my back doubled over carrying a bountiful sack of signed books—protagonism seemed in a tale too far, far away.

‘When I arrived back home at Woodland, I immediately contacted Doc Dumptee’s office. I told the receptionist I needed to make an urgent appointment as I was in a bad way. She told me that there had been a late cancellation for the next day and could schedule me in if I was happy to come to the Doc’s consultancy rooms up at the palace.

‘I arrived to bedlam in the Doc’s rooms. The waiting room was full of shouting knights and snorting horses, all rushing about in different directions, pushing and shoving and tripping over each other. In the middle of the mayhem lay the Doc, shattered into a dozen pieces and oozing yellow yolk. A knight stopped and stood over the Doc and said, “Oh God! What a mess! I warned him about sitting on that wall. I said he’d have a great fall. But do you think he’d listen to me? It’s a tragedy. What a loss! To the palace. To all the king’s horses. And to all the king’s men. But what to do? Does anyone here know how to put the pieces together again?” All the king’s men scratched their heads and avoided eye contact with each other, and all the king’s horses flicked their manes and swished their tails.

‘I rushed to the Doc’s side and said to the king’s man who’d spoken, “Quick! Call his receptionist. She knows what to do.” The king’s man called out, and the Doc’s receptionist burst into the room, carrying a frying pan. She raised the pan to an intimidating height above her head and shouted, “Out! All of you!” The waiting room cleared quick smart, accompanied by mumbled apologies and neighing and sword clinking and hoof clopping. The king’s standard-bearer muttered about it being the third time he’d had to reschedule his appointment, and if the Doc didn’t get a safety net, he’d take his money and his screwed-up life elsewhere. The receptionist gave him a death stare, and he retreated with his flagpole between his legs.

‘Once the Doc had been pieced back together again, I rebooked my appointment and left. I soon became lost in the palace and passed many stairs, doors and signs pointing everywhere but the exit. I ended up climbing a narrow set of steps and walking along a dark corridor, guided by a golden light emitted from an open doorway at the end. As I approached the doorway, the murmurings of a woman’s voice came from within the room.

‘The voice said, “You must make haste, Koboldsohn, else he will be displeased.”

‘That voice? I thought. It sounded familiar.

‘Another voice, younger and sweeter, said, “Oh, how my hands sting.”

‘And the older voice said, “You’ve almost finished, my little one, but, please, make haste. He wants it completed by sunset. All of it. Else he shall disown us.”

‘No, it couldn’t be? I thought.

‘The younger voice said, “Oh, how my back aches.”

‘And the older voice said, “I promise this will be the last time. Then we shall have peace and happiness.”

‘Surely not? I thought.

‘The younger voice said, “Oh, how my heart yearns for my father’s love.”

‘The older voice said, “And so he will, my little one, once he sees what we have done.”

‘When I reached the doorway, I peeked in and, lo and behold, it was her. The queen. Sitting on a stool. And before her, on a smaller stool, hunched an infant spinning straw through a great wheel.

‘In an instant, the sight of the queen laid to waste all my hard work in reinventing myself. Neither therapy nor a name change nor a career change nor retraining could suppress the anger I felt towards her as she sat before me. I was having none of this. Here, hunched before me, was another poor soul, just an infant, slaving away doing her dirty work.

‘I rushed forward and took the child in my arms.

‘Startled, the queen said, “You! What waa you doing in the palace?”

‘I said, “Saving this child. I’ll not see you destroy another life with your wanton laziness and lack of skill.”

‘The queen stood and grasped the child’s legs and said, “But he must stay and finish what we have begun.”

‘Sneering at the queen, I said, “Finish your own dirty work, sweetheart. This poor child shall not spin another stalk of straw into gold for you or anyone else.” And I firmed my grip on the child and pulled.

‘The queen pulled and said, “But he must.”

‘I pulled harder and said, “No, he shall not. I’m taking him with me.”

‘And the queen pulled harder and said, “I will not let you take him. He is a queen’s son.”

‘I said, “Your son?” I glanced at the child in my arms. I firmed my resolve and said, “That’s even worse. No parent would treat their child so disdainfully.” And I tightened my grip and took a step back as the queen’s grasp weakened.

‘Tears flowed down the queen’s flushed cheeks as her bottom lip trembled. Here we go again, I thought, the old girl up to her tricks, playing the good old emotional blackmail card. She released a sob and said, “Let go or you will huwt him. If only you knew, you would desist.”

‘I said, “Knew what?”

‘And she said, “That he … he … he is ouw son!”

‘I said, “My son?” And then it twigged. For three nights I’d toiled for her gain. For three nights I’d spun gold until no straw remained. And for three nights I’d collapsed and laid my exhausted, hand-sore self upon the cobbled dungeon floor and slept. And it was then, as I slumbered, that she, the queen-to-be, had jumped me and had her carnal way with me. And now, in my arms, I held the fruit of her lust that I had seeded.

‘My anger strengthened my resolve, and I pulled harder. And the queen pulled harder. A prolonged tear came from what I thought was my zip, but a child’s scream filled the room, and I looked down and saw my boy ripping in half.

‘But still I pulled. Let him tear in half, I thought. Let me take a half-son back to Woodland. And let his half-brother rot under the pampered care of the palace. Yes, better a half-son than no son at all. And the boy’s tear grew in size, and his screams grew louder.

‘Then the queen played her trump card. She said, “Oh, by the gwace of God, welease him. Please! Don’t you see? If you take him, you’ll doom his destiny. Stay and he will inhewit a kingdom, but take him, even a half-him, and you’ll condemn him to life as an antagonist.”

‘I looked into the queen’s face and saw her fear. I looked into my son’s face and saw his fear, and that’s when I did it. I let go. I just couldn’t do it. Not to my flesh and blood. How could I wish anyone, let alone my child, my boy, the agony of a life as an antagonist? The boy slipped from my grasp, and the queen and our child fell backwards and landed on a mound of straw, and I staggered backwards until, with one last look at my son, I fell from an open window into the moat below. All the king’s men surrounded me, and astride all the king’s horses, they escorted me from the kingdom.

‘Now I’m a recluse in exile, although I do sneak into the realm for my weekly session with Doc Dumptee. It was his idea I attend these AA meetings. And that’s my story.’

‘Thanks for sharing, Andy. I would like to think that by sharing your story, today, you’ve made a massive leap towards becoming a protagonist. Right. Is there anyone else who would like to share?’

‘H … H … Hello. My name is Big Bad Wolfe—’

‘No surnames, Big.’

‘Sorry. My name is BB, and I’m an antagonist.’

‘Hi, BB.’