Once upon a time

Margaret are you grieving,
Over golden grove unleaving?

Ah, as the heart grows older,

It will come to such sights colder.

-Gerald M Hopkins

It was the perfect day to write a story. And that’s what she decided to do. She crouched in the corner of her first floor veranda and sharpened her pencil. The wind mocked her, rustling the sheets of paper. White paper with red margins and blue lines. From his perch on the tree above, the crow watched her, without curiosity, the way only crows can do. As she prepared to write her first words, the world took a breath and waited. The clouds stopped moving, the wind died down, and the crow… it just watched the way only crows can do.
And she wrote: Once upon a time…
She looked at it, turned the paper upside down and looked at it again. That didn’t look right. Once upon a time was so boring. She scratched it out, again and again and again. Three horizontal lines scratched out the words – Once upon a time. And the world did not like it. The powers that be trembled with anger.
“Traitor,” screeched the crow, the way only crows can screech.
”Et tu, little one,” howled the wind. And the world revolted.
She looked up in surprise: “But at least wait till I finish,” she said. “I haven’t even begun.”
But she had been judged. The sky darkened in fury and the crow cawed out in triumph, “I knew she’d do away with Once upon a time.”
And she found herself in a courtroom. [Don’t ask me how, she just did]. Her hands were shackled in chains. The courtroom was more a dungeon, packed with people booing her. The crow was perched on the shoulder of an old man. His wrinkled face was marred by three scars – two on one cheek, one on the other. The bags around his eyes were black, and his white hair hung on his shoulder – rat-tailed and unkempt. He pointed a manicured finger at her. “Murderer,” he hissed. “You scratched me out. This is premeditated murder.”
The crowd hissed at her, the crow cawed in glee and she stood in the dungeon, her arms bound in iron. “But it’s my story,” she said. “And it has to be different. There is no rule that I have to begin with Once upon a time.”
“I am the Alpha,” said the old man. “Omega is dying.”
He pointed his manicured finger to the far corner of the dungeon. A woman was lying etherised on an operating table. Ten tubes were feeding words into her wasted body. Tears were flowing from her eyes. But her face was scarred beyond recognition. The people in white coats muttered amongst themselves.
“Happily ever after is dying.” The three scars on Once upon a time’s face glowed red. “Once we were the beginning and the end. I was the beginning, she was the happiness, but no you writers were not happy to let things be.”
“But how can there be a happily ever after?” she asked. “How can I write a Happily ever after, when I know that there isn’t one. Everything changes. I want a happily ever after, but there isn’t one anymore. I’ve looked and I’ve looked, and I can’t find it.”
The crowd hissed, the crow cawed, and the girl began to cry. She mourned the dying of Happily ever after, and felt guilty scratching out Once upon her time. But her experiences had shown her that the two did not have a place in her story. They had no place in any new story.
The old man rose and gave the verdict. His voice was gentle, like a grandfather narrating a fairytale. “Little girl, you are guilty of attempting to murder my wife and me. The words will fail you when you need them the most. Without us there can never be a good story, and you will roam in the Wasteland for ever.”
The dungeon dissolved, and she found herself crouched in the veranda. It was a good day to tell a story. But the words did not come. She had no story to tell. The wind mocked her, and the crow watched, the way only crows can do.