canaryalpaca

Hello, I am Poetry. (please follow @Naripalca, it's me but slightly more active)

69 posts

The Cindy Masterpost

I’ll edit and reblog this with updates as I post new bits of the Cinderella story I’m working on, but for now, here are all the current chapters out:

Part One (In Which Things Would Be Simpler If The Prince Was A Horny Piece of Shit)

Part Two (In Which No Rats Were Harmed In The Making Of These Horses)

Part Three (The OG post which technically is kind of told out of order because there’s a reblog and like, look, I could see this was becoming a thing, but I didn’t think it would be a thing-thing but now it’s a thing-thing and I have to deal with it. I mean I’m writing a masterpost for cryin’ out loud)

Part Four (In Which Cindy and the Fairy Godmother Run from the Cops)

Part Five (In Which The Prince Begins His Investigation While The Narrator yells About Foot Fetishes Because look I’m sick of that joke I’m SO FUCKING SICK of that joke it’s so fucking unoriginal.)

Part Six (In which we meet The Queen because fuck you she was alive in the Rogers and Hammerstein version)

Part Seven (In which news of the slipper is spread throughout the kingdom and the narrator talks about this one time when they passed out at a Dickens fair and that’s totally definitely relevant.)

Part Eight (In Which the narrator wants to include more slapstick but is also wary about all the implications with regards to class differences and also the slipper is a non-euclidean object which defies all rules of mass and physics.)

Part Nine (In which Cindy is every drunk girl who has ever comforted you in a bar or club bathroom)

Part Ten (In which Cindy has no interest in being that wife chained up in the attic in Jane Eyre)

Part Eleven (In which tasty pies are consumed and also maybe the slipper fits someone or whatever)

More Posts from Canaryalpaca

canaryalpaca

3 years ago

Mom whispered to me while she was asleep today:

"Joe has no words,"

A giggle, then two.

"Joe has no words!"

Tags :

poetry maybe dream dreams sleep talk sleep talking

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canaryalpaca

3 years ago

“There comes a time when the world gets quiet and the only thing left is your own heart. So you’d better learn the sound of it. Otherwise you’ll never understand what it’s saying.”

— Sarah Dessen

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canaryalpaca

3 years ago

arabic poetry is so beautifully yet painfully romantic, i mean “they asked “do you love her to death?” i said “speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life" and “because my love for you is higher than words, i've decided to fall silent" and "it is not enough to say love in Arabic, you must say 'be the thing that buries me'" could have got jane austen crying and shaking

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canaryalpaca

3 years ago

grocery list at 11:30 PM and also i’m broke by a.dp

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canaryalpaca

3 years ago

Margaret’s last day had been sensible as ever; she allowed Tatum to pester her into eating half a bowl of porridge and a whole cup of tea. She told Tatum the number of a good big animal veterinarian, in case Tatum should decide to adopt any livestock. She rattled off another list of things Tatum might want to sell, and the appropriate prices she should charge for them. She emphasized though that Tatum should keep the thick patchwork quilt on her bed, which had been made hardily by a great-aunt and would likely last another century. Then she folded her hands on said quilt, looked her daughter in the eye, and said “I have never had any doubts about you. I always knew you would be the person you are, which is all a parent can ever ask of their child. You have never been the silly kind of person who cries over old ladies dying in their sleep, and I don’t want that to change just because this old lady is your mother. And I love you very much.”

Margaret had never been given to wordiness or displays of affection. She found such things trite and unnecessary. But she did believe in saying what needed saying, and a child always needed to be told they were loved, and they were good, no matter how old they were. Margaret had been told such by her mother, and her mother by hers. Death had never been something to fear in their family, but simply another season, bringing a new turn to the earth. Things died and things were born, in that order, and sometimes, if you were very lucky, you might see them flourish in between.

From Tenderhooks by Joan Tierney

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