8,518/1,000,000 (0.8518%)

I've been playing some tabletop RPGs (role playing games) recently, including a campaign set a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. I had fun writing up my character background, and I've written up the first few game sessions we've had so that I (and my friends, if they choose to read the log) can keep track of what has happened so far in the game. I'll be editing these and posting them here, because it's words and it's about time I hit 1%. Stay tuned.

Stepdaughter (1611)

            She was a spoiled brat, and that’s the truth of it. I met her father a year after I lost my husband. I was working as a seamstress to support myself and my two daughters, but I was having trouble finding clients. I knew we needed a man to support the family. His wife had died in childbirth, and he was looking for someone to help raise his nearly-grown daughter. He was a charming man, and we took to each other at once. We married quietly.

            I soon realized that the man doted upon his daughter excessively. To her credit, she adored him, but she was pampered to no end. The first night, after supper, my girls began to clear the dishes, and I asked her to help them. She looked at me like I was mad and said, “I don’t clean.”

I furrowed my brow and looked to her father, but he flushed and refused to meet my gaze, so I asked her, “And why is that?”

She folded her hands in her lap. “I have better things to do.”

My daughters stopped in their tracks and stared at this girl, barely younger than themselves, who believed she had something more important to do than help out the family in such a simple way.

Her “ugly stepsisters,” she called them. She told her father that she “simply could not live with their big, stupid eyes staring at her.” She complained to her father every night after he had returned from his work, but she must not have realized that I could hear her, since she threw in a few jabs at her “evil stepmother” as well. “She makes me scrub the floors all day long and clean the pots while her lazy daughters just sit there and laugh at me!” she cried.

He did his best to placate her, suggesting that she “give them a chance.” He told me the same, hoping that that once we had “warmed to each other,” it would get better. Unfortunately for all of us, the worst was yet to come.

The chimney was swept and the fireplace was scrubbed each month. We set up a rotation, so each of the girls would do one of the chores once every three months. My daughters could finish either task in an hour of hard work. His daughter took the entire day. She worked hard, too—whining, complaining, drawing pictures in the soot, and smearing ash all over her face and clothing to look more pitiful. She even made up some sort of name for herself, sitting in the fireplace. Ashlette? Sootina? I can’t recall. In any case, she still hadn’t completed her half of the chore by suppertime. Our rule was that chores must be finished before then, so I sent her to bed hungry. I never could have imagined the ruckus she made. Her father refused his food as well, stressed at work and now more than ever at home as well.

“She’s not used to it,” he told me, as some sort of excuse. “Maybe go easy on her?”

“She has as many as chores as either of my own daughters. If I let her do less, what does that tell my girls?” I asked him, but he could offer no reply.

I tried to help her, but she wouldn’t let me. I was “evil” and not to be trusted, I suppose. And then my husband caught some sickness. Overwhelmed with stress, he could not fight it off, and he died within the fortnight. I was crushed. Ours might not have been a fairytale match, but we were happy enough. To look at his daughter, though, you’d think I had merely stubbed my toe for all the pain his passing had caused me. She was distraught, lying abed all day and refusing meals.

            He left us enough to live comfortably, if not lavishly. I returned to being a seamstress and a widow, and life continued. Still, two months out of three, we faced the beast of what’s-her-name, covered in ash and refusing to clean.

            At some point, the king and queen of the realm decided that their son was quite grown up now, and needed a bride to keep him out of the brothels he frequented. Ours is a small kingdom, but apparently the prince’s reputation was quite a bit larger, and no foreign lands were willing to make a match to the lad. As such, the palace threw a ball for all the young, eligible women of the realm to be presented to him.

            I intended to bring all three girls to the event. Unfortunately for my husband’s daughter, it was held on fireplace day, and it was her turn to scrub. My eldest was on chimney sweep duty, and she finished her task early in the morning in order to spend the day preparing for the festivities.

            The girl ignored the chore, even when I sent her back to it time and again. I was furious that she would try to avoid her work, and she was convinced that I was keeping her away from the ball on purpose. I refused to cave in to this child, so I told her that she would not leave the house until she had finished cleaning the fireplace.

            I left with my two daughters, caught a carriage to the ball, and had a grand time. That is, until I saw a familiar dress at the top of the stairs. I had made her a dress specifically for the event—I am a seamstress, after all—but the dress she wore was not one of hers. It was my wedding dress! From my first wedding, no less, when I still wore white and it was a grand affair. I admit, I can no longer fit into that dress, but it rankled that she would take something so dear to me.

            They introduced her by her made-up name and she was stunning, even with a mask across her face (as if that would keep me from recognizing my own dress!). The prince was hooked and danced with her all night. I couldn’t get near enough to tell her off—she was constantly running away from me, and the prince followed her everywhere.

            By the time the clock struck midnight, I had had enough. I found my girls, and we left. When she saw our carriage pull up, she fled, tripping over her shoes and leaving one upon the stair.

            She must’ve known a shortcut, because she beat us home. She had changed out of my gown into the simple shift that she reserved for fireplace days, and was curled up in the ashes feigning sleep. I found my gown hanging in my closet where it belonged. I checked it carefully, but not a single button was missing, nor any seam torn. Below it was a single shoe; the other was nowhere in sight.

            I sat on my bed, exhausted. What was I to do with this child? I could not prove that she was there, and she had not harmed my dress. I could not even make her do her assigned chores—how would I punish her? I feel asleep that night with tears on my cheeks.

            The following morning, she was still on the hearth. Perhaps she decided that she could simply absorb the ash instead of scrubbing it. A carriage pulled down the street, and a herald shouted above the hoof beats, “Make way for the crown prince!”

            From the windows, we could see that the prince was entering houses all along the street. He was accompanied by a servant who held my shoe on a pillow before him. We all rushed to make ourselves presentable, all, that is, except her. She merely sat in the ashes and rubbed darker spots into her skirts. I rolled my eyes. “I will not have the prince seeing a member of my household like this. Go get cleaned up!” When she refused to move, I scowled at her. “If you remain covered in ash, you will stay in here, where he will not see you. Make your choice.” She didn’t budge, so I left, slamming the kitchen door behind me.

            The prince made his way to our house shortly thereafter. We welcomed him inside, and he proceeded to bid his servant to try the shoe on the foot of each of my daughters. He didn’t even glance at me, although I could have brought him the match to the one he held. Apparently the prince was not interested in ladies old enough to be his mother.

            He was set to leave when the girl started singing from the kitchen. “I thought you said you had no more daughters…” He quirked an eyebrow in question.

            “I fear my late husband’s daughter is not presentable, my lord. She has taken his passing rather harshly.”

            “Nevertheless, I shall see her.” He threw open the door, and saw the girl spinning in ash-covered clothing, dancing as she sang. “The shoe?” His servant immediately knelt and slipped the shoe onto the girl’s foot.

            “It fits, sire.”

            The prince bowed deeply, taking her hand and kissing it. “Then I have found my bride.”

            She was quick to accuse me of using her as a slave, and I was firmly informed that I would see none of the power or money that my stepdaughter was soon to inherit. We were barred entrance to the wedding, but we had our own celebration at home, toasting to the last time we would ever have to deal with the brat known as—what was it? Ah, yes—“Cinderella.”

Camp NaNo Winner!

Look at those beautiful fireworks! I'm happy to report that I finished June's 50,000-words-in-thirty-days novel today, and this one (unlike last November) actually has a beginning, middle, and end. You might get to read it someday, but I make no promises.

Ira Glass on Storytelling

While procrastinating on my novel, I came across this awesome video. It pretty much sums up what I'm trying to do here with this blog, even though I'm terrible at actually sticking to deadlines. Enjoy, then go create!


Ira Glass on Storytelling from David Shiyang Liu on Vimeo.

Camp NaNo

I'm currently in the middle of Camp NaNoWriMo, so I am writing, and quite a bit, I'm just not posting. Anyhow, Camp NaNo is just like the November event, but occurs this year in June and August. I'm a little behind (supposed to pass 28,000 today; I'm at 22,500), but I'm feeling good going into the last two weeks.