Writing Without the Me #1

I said I wasn’t going to do these exercises in the order they’re listed in the book (along with a lot of other stuff, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t start with number one. After entirely too much thinking about it, I decided to put further info about the prompt at the end of this very short piece:

I have bears inside of me. Not all the time, but often enough for me to smell like honey and fur and earthy things. It is. . .  unpleasant. And they don’t care. Sure they’re particular about some things, but not about how they or the place where they live smells. To be honest I don’t even understand why they took up residence inside of me. Who’s even heard of a bear living in a cottage? Let alone three of them? Like they’re fucking people? The nerve.

Thankfully they still shit in the woods. I think the toilet scares them. Fine by me. Or maybe they just can’t share the damn thing. Wouldn’t surprise me. They can’t share anything else. Bowls? Chairs? Beds? They each have their own and no one else can use it. Selfish. Weird and selfish. The whole thing. Who even sold me to a family of bears? Or was I simply abandoned? Forgotten and left to succumb to the whims of nature. Demeaned by beasts in a cruel twist of ursine fate

Who would not forgive me for tempting yet another plain butter-headed girl into me? The moment I get whiff that these bears are headed out for their evening constitutional I let waft from me the most enticing smells I can muster: fresh porridge, a cozy fireside bed, and, yes, honey. Safety with a hint of excitement I heard this one talking to herself from the distant lands just past the field. 

I love all people, of course. They made me and so are like gods to me. And yet. And yet based solely on what I heard (and though I hate to eavesdrop) I admit to you here and now and in the strictest of confidence that she wasn’t the “pinkest salmon in the stream,” as my current occupants are fond of saying. Some of them display their mental acuity by making a majestic domicile such as myself while others of their kind are content to explain loudly to flowers whether they are too fragrant, not fragrant enough, or “just right.”

But never mind her intellect, for she certainly does not and neither do I. I simply need her to perform a service. A function. To frighten the bears away, and keep the wild things at bay.

And so I draw her to me. And she comes. Like a moth to a flame. . .  if the flame was contaminated with moth-adverse bears. . . and fires did not hurt moths but instead welcomed them with doors wide open. . . 

If I seem at odds with my words I can only apologize. It is merely a result of how distraught I’ve become. The bears are surely only the beginning. Soon, more and more of these wild things will find their way into me. Savage and awful things will eventually take me over. My only hope for survival is to entice these young civilized things into me. I need them to stay and settle me. I need to find those who won’t be scared off by the brutes of the world. I need to find these innocent things and entice them into staying long enough for others to join them. I need peace. I need quiet. I need calming order. I need to be gentlefied. And this golden-locked girl just might be the key. Shh! Here she comes.

This exercise was called “Retelling A Tale” and to avoid getting bogged in indecision, not only did I choose to retell the story she gives as an example “Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” but I also changed it with the first suggestion (pov of the Cottage) she gave.